up the workers

that's never gonna fit in there

2007-11-08T18:52:00.000Z

“Tell us where it is or we will cut something else off”

I glanced down at the bucket of water next to me on the floor. I knew what it was for. The sponge was dry. For now...

“Stop! Alright, alright I can't take anymore I’ll tell you. Just don’t do anything else, please”

Cleaners & these were the worst kind.

Sent to collect a debt at any cost. They always seemed to work in pairs. The skinny gaunt looking one did all the talking whilst the big hairy ape just tied me to the chair & grunted occasionally. My compliance was inevitable I knew that, they knew that but we had to go through the ritual first. A game of cat & mouse or snakes & ladders even. Except these snakes had left their ladders outside.The skinny one smirked at the ease with which I had capitulated as he folded away his knife & placed it back in his pocket.

They had caught me off guard as I answered the front door, bundled me into the front room & sat me down in a dining chair. Skinny one had then proceeded to cut strips off my wife’s best curtains & the big ape used them to tie me to the chair.

Oh the agony! When Mrs Peeler gets home & casts her winky over this mess I will be for it. With the curtains gone she will go bonkers at the thought of having to do her fitness video in the front room in full view of Pervy Pete our neighbour across the road.I can just picture the scenario. She will be jumping up & down to the instructions of the leotarded dolly bird on the telly. As she shimmy’s to the left she will catch a glimpse of the Perv Master himself peeping out of his bedroom window. Then she will shriek my name & I will have to march across the road, knock on his door & declare war.

Sigh! Eyes roll.

I recall the last time we fell out. That was the start of the Great Corset War. He was so miffed that I had stopped him cocking an eye over at Mr Peelers living room acrobatics that he made his wife parade around their bedroom in her corset with the lights on at bedtime. FOR A MONTH! Now that might cause one or two to raise an enthusiastic eyebrow but let me tell you, just one glimpse of her rippling flesh would turn even the most robust peeper to stone.

Glady’s I’m afraid was no oil painting & she would only make it into the glossy magazines in the before & after section as “a before” well to be perfectly blunt “a before, before”. I am not saying she was ugly but the local council had fired her from her job as a lollipop lady because none of the school kids would cross the road at her crossing point. She would in my opinion have been excellent at keeping young children away from the fireplace. I resolved to tell her husband this next time I was driving past him in the street.

I had once suggested to the love of my life that we invite her mother around in order to retaliate but I never heard the answer due to the ringing noise in my ears which had coincidently started at that very precise moment.

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of the door slamming shut. The cleaners had left. I was lucky to be alive & needed to get out of the chair before my beloved returned so I began to shuffle out of the front room down the hall & into the kitchen. If I could only open a drawer with my teeth & get hold of a knife or a pair of scissors even, then perhaps I could escape & clean up this mess.After an age I had managed to get one of the drawers open I gritted my teeth & bent my head in. I nosed around for a bit & managed to bite onto something.

A cheese grater. A f***ing cheese grater. Strooth.

Well beggars can’t be choosers & all that, I bent my head forward & eventually managed to un-grate myself just as Mrs Peeler came in the front door. I quickly glanced over at the book shelf & noticed that the tin had been opened. Damn! They had found it.

She glided into the kitchen & took one look at the mess.

“You didn’t pay the WINDOW CLEANER again did you?” She yodelled sweetly.

“They didn’t really do a very good job dearest” I replied manfully.

“It only costs four quid you tight fisted Muppet” she answered lovingly.

Pride (0) Smears On Glass (3)

ira bumfanackle

2007-10-14T13:32:00.000+01:00

Cousin Ira was a strong lad of few words. Ira Bumfanackle of One Eye Creek, Alabama. Yep cousin Ira was a bona fide Doodle Dandy. I first met him when I was a young man. Dad & I were on a tour of Barmerica & we stopped off in One Eye Creek to “Meet the folks” as dad put it. I must say I got to know Ira pretty well & we became very close in the thirty minutes I spent attempting to hide from him.

I’d only heard a handful of words utter forth from his lips as we stood outback in the dusty yard, “Varmint, Wrestle & Y’all look lark a pirdy gurl, eeh dog”, when I realised that was enough to confirm my suspicions that this tall, gangly, spotty, ginger haired relative of mine with one single eyebrow right across the front of his head was going to spoil my immediate sense of well being.

Naturally my only thoughts in response to the sheer terror of this situation was

a) Why is dad in the barn with Uncle Buford drinking that strange water from the thing that doesn’t move?

&

b) RUN.

I was running with my arms in the air screaming. Around in circles at first, screaming in my blind panic like a heart attack until I was kindly defribulated by Ira. Well clothes lined actually, his right arm gently caressed my exposed throat….. & down. I came around moments later, in the dust.

“Wrestle varmint” hollered Ira gently.

“Ain’t this fun pirdy gurl” whooped Ira as he ruffled my hair playfully & proceeded to flip me over on to my front in an instant. They say fortune favours the brave & I managed to gently tickle his rib cage with my elbow giving cousin Ira a moment to pause for thought.

Well what do you know I was off & running again, still with my hands in the air but not in circles this time. I would have to work on controlling those arms at a later stage, but for now I was just concentrating on the legs.

I saw what looked like an opening into some woods & went for it. All the while an image of one of those greased piglets kept popping into my head & a strange banjo like noise seemed to be plucking away in the distance.

“Run pirdy gurl, run” Whooped Ira as he gave chase. I was a little dismayed that my best attempt at breaking his ribcage into little pieces had failed somewhat. There was only one sensible thing left to do & that was to keep running. ‘For Gods sake keep running’ I thought to myself as I started to climb up the tallest tree I could find.

Why is it that when we make bad decisions fate can’t just leave it at that. No, it has to let us know whilst we are in the process of following our incorrect choice that we are wrong.

“You stuck now pirdy gurl” chirped Ira. “I’m a gunna shoot ya’ll rart darn offem thaart there tree, varmint.”

“Ha” I responded in a confident manner. “What with Ira Bumfanackle you don’t even have a gun.”

“You’re rart, pirdy gurl, I don’t have a gurn” agreed Ira. His obvious delusion had started to give me hope that I could out fox this backwater Doodle Dandy.

“HA HA Ira, what ya gonna shoot me with Ira? YA FINGAS?!, HAHAHAHAAA!” I reasoned politely from altitude.

“Yup!” replied the delusional doodle.

“Hahahahahaaaaah! Ira’s gonna shoot me with his fingers & I’m not gonna feel it, cause Ira is a loony”

It was at this moment I decided that a little showboating was in order & proceeded to stand up on my branch & shake my thang a little.

“Ira is a loony, Ira is a loony, he says he’s gonna shoot me, Ira is a loony” I sang whilst I danced.

Ira on the other hand wasn’t taking any notice of my rather excellent display of victory. He was to busy removing the catapult from his rear pocket & searching on the ground for a suitably sized rock.

The horror!

“Thart should just about do it” mumbled Ira.

AIM. STRETCH. THWACK. CRACK.

Right between my eyes. The pain would have started immediately if it wasn’t temporarily delayed by the sudden realisation that I was about to fall. It would appear that Ira realised at the same time as me that I was gonna fall. I could see elation in his face turn to terror as he realised that our game of wrestle the guest to the floor was in fact going to immediately resume. It’s a this point I always like to remember Ira fondly, for his act of unselfish bravery in the way in which he broke my fall, saving me from almost certain bruising.

Thud!

“Hrrumph!” went Ira’s breath as I bounced off him.

Up & running with hands on forehead this time rubbing the egg that had just hatched there. "If I ever see your ugly mug again Ira I'm gonna tie you up & shave off that ginger caterpillar on your face" I shouted over my shoulder. I was off again this time I managed to make it back the car where I could see dad stood talking to Uncle Buford.

“I hope you two boys have been enjoying yourselves” chimed Uncle Buford.

“We sure have Pa!” clucked Ira quickly catching up to me.

“Well come on son, it’s time we were off”, said dad getting in the car.

“See you soon liddle cousin” added Ira. ‘Not bloody likely’ I thought as I quickly jumped in next to dad.

With a quick wave we were off. My only regret from the visit being that I was unable to spend more time staring at Ira’s eyebrow.

“Don’t worry son, you will have plenty more time to get to know Ira”

“What do you mean dad?” I whispered.

“He’s coming over to Tingland to spend the summer holidays with us, won’t that be fun? ”

“Fan f**king tastic” said I.

CRACK.

"Language" said my dad.

Average Joe (0) Sinister Banjo’s (1)

randy hootler

2007-09-29T17:17:00.001+01:00

“Hitler had a twin brother?”

“Identical to be exact” replied Colonel Blimley head of the under arm surveillance wing.

Under arm surveillance was the very basic forerunner to today’s more sophisticated under cover surveillance branch. In the early days the surveillance unit was untrained & financially disadvantaged. Agents would follow targets & if the target became suspicious or paranoid & looked round, the agent would just quickly put his arm across his face & peep. Hence the name. Obviously there was a very low success rate & a lot of paranoid suspects. For years the government used propaganda to deflect public suspicion blaming this wave of paranoia on cannabis use...

..."Doctor I think I am being followed by government agents."

"Nonsense Mr Profumo. Now tell me have you ever smoked dope?"

“Hitler had an identical twin brother? I repeated in absolute amazement. “What was he called Sir?”

“Randolph.”

“Randolph Hitler!?” I could hardly believe my ears. “But what happened to him, how come no one has ever heard of him?”

“Peeler my boy” said the Colonel leaning back into his Chesterfield armchair in his favourite corner of the Gentlemen’s Club. “He wasn’t a soldier or a politician. He was nothing like his brother, quite the opposite in fact. He was a pastry chef of all things……”

So that’s when I first heard the story of Randolph Hitler, pastry chef & identical twin brother of old Adolf himself. Apparently towards the end of the war Randolph had realised that things weren’t going too well in Germany & had decided to see if he could get over to the Untied States of Barmerica to avoid any undue flack that might come his way. So legend has it that he approached the Barmericans & pleaded his case. The Barmerican Intelligence Service keen to get close to the enemy welcomed him with open arms.

Of course they insisted that he take on a new identity to help keep him secret, so they suggested he should change his name.

“What name did he choose Sir?”

“Hootler, he chose Hootler my boy.”

“Randolph Hootler Sir?!” I gasped trying to stifle a large guffaw. Easier said than done with big teeth.

“That’s correct Peeler, he ended up working in a diner in NewYodel. Although the Americans felt that he needed to go a little further with his identity change, so Randolph reluctantly agreed & further changed his name to Randy.”

“Randy Hootler!?” I blurted almost falling off my chair & spraying the Colonel with a mouthful of Earl Grey. “Strooth! Randy Hootler the identical twin of Adolf Hitler who would have thought it?”

“At first no one. They placed him in a safe house with a few other dodgy types one chap went by the name of Sumo Samovic ex Russian agent I think & the other was known as the Butcher of Birmingham”

Samovic earned his moniker Sumo due to his extreme paranoia, he thought that everyone was out to get or double cross him. He would wear his entire wardrobe at once when he went out so as not to leave anything behind that his house mates’ could steal & the result was he looked rather big. The Butcher of Birmingham on the other hand was in fact, a butcher, from Birmingham. He had also heard about the land of opportunity that was Barmerica & had set off to make his fortune there. All did not go to plan however. On his arrival the customs officials didn’t like the look of him & contacted the Barmerican Intelligence Service. They couldn’t understand his strong west midlands accent & didn’t like his large very hairy hands so they suspected he might be a spy. That’s how the trio came to live in the same safe house & become lifelong buddies.

Of the three Randy became quite successful. Whilst working at the diner he was able to keep his hand in as a pastry chef & was even credited with inventing the Surprise Birthday Cake. You have probably seen the giant cake which is wheeled into the room at parties & a scantily clad female jumps out surprising the guest of honour by shouting “Surprise!” or “Überraschung!” as Randy’s brother would probably have said on more than one occasion. In fact I suspect that Randy had picked up the whole Trojan Cake idea from Adolf & I strongly suspect that the dictators cake didn’t contain any scantily clad females either. In my minds eye I couldn’t help but picture a sinister uniformed figure with a little moustache jumping out of a German Überraschung Birthday Cake at some party or other und saying,

“Überraschung! Das party ist uber. Shtoppen sie laughing. Zis ist ein invasion”

Big surprise birthday cakes wasn’t Randy’s only success he went on to open a whole string of bars called “HOOTLERS” or some such name. I thing it had something to do with big birds. Probably Owls judging by the title. He never forgot his friends though I will give him that. He employed the Birmingham Butcher & Sumo Sam as doormen. Sumo’s larger than life appearance & the Butchers inaccurate reputation seemed to work out just fine. Indeed large clothing & dodgy reputations seemed to set a precedent for future doormen.

On the face of it Randy appeared to have adjusted well to life in Barmerica & became one of it’s success stories but despite all the cakes, bars & owls there was one thing that always seemed to bother him. It was what later became known in the nursery school world as “the evil twin syndrome.” Where ever he went people always seemed to stare despite all the effort he had gone to, in order to change his identity. He just couldn’t stand being compared to his murderous sibling & was really finding it hard with the ladies!

It was after closing time late one night that he confided his anguish to his two chums. All three were sat at the bar having a few beers when Randy started to bare his heart.

“I vish zey vud not stare at me so. How vill I ever find a vife if zey sink I am ze dictator. I haf changed mein name vat more can I do.”

“Da!” agreed Sumo “It is big problem, yes?” Followed by a sigh & a long silence before returning his gaze back to the large hairy hands of the butcher.

“You could always try shaving off your little square moustache?” offered the Butcher of Birmingham tactfully.

Mysteries Solved (1) Photographs Together (0)

hairy clowns

2007-08-27T09:05:00.000+01:00

Ankles Murphy wasn’t very good with heights. He earned the moniker Ankles after he broke both of his jumping from a ladies bedroom window after nearly getting caught by her soldier husband who had arrived home a little unexpected. Ankles hadn’t actually meant to jump so far but he had gotten so drunk that he thought he was in a bungalow.

It took him six hours to crawl back to his caravan. You see Ankles was a clown with Flopatino’s Travelling Circus. He had grown up in the circus, son of The Great Dangolini a legendary Italian trapeze artist from a long line of Italian trapeze artistes.

“Benda your kneesa boy, when a you land” his dad would shout during training in a strange accent that Ankles could never work out. You see Ankles’ dad was not really from the continent, no he was from Tingland. Northern Tingland to be precise.

“It’s a for a de showbiz” The Great Dangolini would say whenever his young son would enquire about his dads odd vernacular. “But no one is listening except me dad”.

“Pappa, I’m a your pappa. How many a times do I gotta tell ya”.

“But no one is listening except me pappa”.

“Dats notta di pointe sunny shiny, I hava di image to protecta. Ita paya de sponduli. Di circus wantsa di Italiano trapeze act. Di peoples wantsa di Italiano trapeze act. No Italiano, no jobba, capiche”

The Great Dangolini took pride in the fact that he was from a long line of Italian trapeze artists & in fact he was the only Italian in the Circus Flopatino except of course for Mancini the Magnificent who was the larger than life Italian lion tamer from a long line of Italian lion tamers.

Mancini the Magnificent was big in both height & girth, he wore a large black handle bar moustache & a corset to keep his belly in & chest out. Everybody new he wore a moustache because they could see it & everyone new he wore a corset because Mrs Stuppenfeltz the circus costume maker had told everyone except for The Great Dangalini. Mrs Stuppenfeltz was German you see & couldn’t understand fast Italian & every time she tried to speak with Dangalini he appeared to get angry & would speaka very fast in a di strange language and a wava di arms around like hot blooded continentals do. No it was best to avoid conversation with irritable hot heads.

Another person that never spoke with The Great Dangolini was Mancini the Magnificent. When one entered the big top the other would leave. The Great Dangolini had been avoiding Mancini the Magnificent for years. As we have established The Great Dangolini isn’t actually Italian & can’t speak a word of the language. So if he were to maintain the façade of being a legendary Italian trapeze artist Dangolini had to avoid getting caught in conversation with Mancini the Magnificent who spent most of his time taming the already tame lions. I mean lets face it you can only tame a lion once after that it's just petting.

On one occasion he had come very close to having to speak directly with Mancini. Dangolini was just finishing a practice session in the Big Top when Mancini accompanied by his tame lions entered the arena. Mancini looked up & gestured that Dangolini should vacate the ring so that Mancini could himself have a little practice. Not wishing to climb down the ladder & come face to face with Mancini, Dangolini gestured back that he would stay up on the trapeze & watch from above.

Obviously it wasn’t quite as simple as that, there brief & infrequent conversations never were. Mancini gestured up shouting something in fast Italian that Dangolini couldn’t understand & in turn Dangolini gestured down in very fast Italian something that Mancini couldn’t quite hear. Eventually Mancini lost patience & proceeded to tame the already tame lions. The other acts just assumed that the two never got on as they always appeared to shout at each other from distance & gesticulate excitedly towards each other which apparently was quite normal for hot blooded continentals. Rumour had it that it was down to an old family feud which had started back in the old country.

“I sink zey haf bad blood from ze old country” vispered Mrs Stuppenfeltz to Beryl the Bearded Lady von mornink.

This in turn played on Beryl’s mind for the rest of the day almost causing her to accidentally shave off half her moustache as her mind wandered whilst she tried to work out what the two angry Italians were feuding about and where in fact the old country was?

"Phew that was a close shave." said Beryl out loud. 'The Beardless Lady just didn’t have the same ring', she thought as she rinsed off the remainder of the shaving foam. ‘What self respecting man would want to marry an out of work circus performer.’

Dangolini didn’t care whether the lions were tame or not he wasn’t coming down. He didn’t like big lions or big Italian tame lion tamers so he just sat there swinging high in the air. After a few hours Mancini the Magnificent & his tamed lions which were now even tamer than they were before they started, left the ring allowing a now very sore Dangolini to slowly descend. He had never had such a painful derrière. He wondered what the Italian was for a pain in the backside but suspected it was probably very similar to the Tinglish version & involved lots of fast talking & gesticulating.

Ultimately it was their mutual avoidance of each other which lead to them becoming the best of friends. Late one night Dangolini & Ankles were quietly returning to their beds, slowly & quietly tippy toeing past Mancini’s caravan so as not to bump into him, when they heard a long moaning sigh come from within. Curious as to the source Dangolini carefully approached an open window & peeked through a gap in the curtains. To his utter amazement Mancini the Magnificent had just taken off his wig & was removing the corset from around his now expanding waistline.

“That bloody corset was killing me” muttered a relieved Mancini to himself in the broadest Tinglish accent that Dangolini hade ever heard.

“Bugger me” rasped a shocked Dangolini stepping back quickly onto his sons foot causing him to cry out in pain which in turn caused a corsetless tame lion tamer to pop his head out of the window.

“Whatsa all a da noisa” growled Mancini.

“Never mind whatsa the bloody noise” replied Dangolini “You are about as Italian as Pizza Hut”.

So that’s how they became known as the whispering Italians. None of the other acts liked them before because they always appeared to be arguing now they had made up it was even worse they just started to whisper to each other when anyone else came within earshot, so as not to give their shared secret away. Except for Beryl the almost Beardless Lady who was used to people whispering & didn't even notice it anymore.

Ankles put off by all the deception that was involved in flying the high trapeze & the fact that he didn't like heights or couldn't speak fast italian eventually became a clown from a long line of mime artistes, which made for a happy ending for a while at least. Well until Mr Flopatino decided to take the circus on a european tour anyway.

“Oi you two!” shouted Beryl one morning as she walked into the Big Top. “Mr Flopatino’s been looking for you.”

“Whatta da for, pretty liedee” crooned Mancini as he gracefully twisted the end of his handlebar moustache.

“He wants you to give him a hand writing next months posters” blushed Beryl possibly, as she twisted the end of hers with a glint in her eye. Well it might have been a blush, if anyone could have seen her cheeks, obviously.

“Why he can’t do it im selfa?” Joined in Dangolini.

“Because he wants them written in Italian of course, now that your family feud is over Mr Flopatino wants do take us on a tour of the old country”.

“ITALSKI???????” cried the two Russian circus performers in angry russian, both from a very long line of angry Russian circus acts.

Linguistic Acrobatics (1) Hairy Weddings (0)

flash bang wallop

2007-08-17T20:16:00.000+01:00

The first Trans-gendered football megastar in the modern age of the game. That’s what it said on the news at the new First Ministers first feel good press conference. It was really my story of course, part of my new job to keep the leader up to speed with the type of stories that would appeal to the younger generation.

Morgan Frown, the newly unelected First Minister of Tingland. Not an easy accomplishment getting yourself the top job when no one has asked you to do it. I mean normally whole nations speak up & say I would like that chap to be in charge. I suspect Morgan sneaked into the job on a bank holiday weekend.

It was around the time of Morgan’s back door entry into number 13 Clowning Street that I got my first break as a journalist. I became the press officer for the cupboard.

“Cabinet” said Giles my editor. “It’s not called a cupboard. The government is run by the Cabinet”.

I rolled my eyes & sighed. A cabinet is just a posh cupboard I thought to myself. Giles was posh but he was more of a closet man. Well at least that’s what I overheard one of the girls in the canteen say.

“Like a closet, you mean” I replied hopeful that I was catching on with this high powered double meaning political speak that everyone around Number 13 appeared to use.

“What do you mean?” whispered Giles loudly as his eyes narrowed. “Who’s been talking about closets?”

“erh…well I overheard that you had been compromised in the cupboard with one of the secretaries.” narrowing my own eyes in the hope of achieving similar credibility.

As my eyes narrowed Giles eyes opened wide as he stood quickly upright. Now this was getting confusing, narrowing & opening of eyes. How would I know when to use each technique?

“Nonsense” blubbered Giles convincingly, “Loose lips sink ships old boy. I was looking for a pen.”

“Ah! The Navy” I said opening my eyes as wide as I could then realising that I was doing the same with my mouth. I quickly shot a look at Giles who appeared to be staring closely at me & slowly opening & closing his mouth with a rather puzzled look on his face.

“Navy???…NAVY. One fancy dress party & they won't let it drop” hissed a now slit eyed Giles leaning closer to my face.

“Well I just thought that perhaps you meant that you were discussing military secrets in the closet with the secretary. You know ships code for navy & lips code for discussing secrets!”

One of his eye’s popped open while the other remained slitty. His cheeks now a funny shade of purple. I would never be able to master this facial opera. Giles was obviously a giant in the subtle art of cat & mouse.

“Now listen here Peeler. It’s the FM’s first press conference tomorrow & he wants to finish off with something upbeat, cutting edge, something that no other newspaper has picked up on yet. So get me a story!!!!” he rasped soothingly. I was a little disheartened at this to be honest knowing that I would never be able to make the veins in my head swell & move with the same flare as Giles.

“Hello Arty. What have you got for me?”

Arty Buckle was a local football scout. He & my dad used to drink in the same pub. I had gotten quite a few stories off Arty when I worked for my first paper “The Farmers Cheese”.

I fondly remembered one of my earlier scoops.

CUT PRICE FOREIGN CHEESE SPARKS CHEDDAR WAR IN CHESHIRE

That snappy headline was followed up by

TINGLISH COWS FURIOUS

“Yes I can just about hear you Arty it's a bad line. He’s going where? He does what? Yep you're right it is spicy.”

“Are you sure about this Peeler?” squinted Giles. “Absolutely, straight from the scouts mouth” I answered, deciding to open & close my eyes at the same time just to cover all the bases.

“Right I’m off to brief the FM” crooned Giles.

“…..and to end my first official press conference” said Morgan Frown to a packed gathering of the worlds media in the press office of Number 13 “….I would like to congratulate Mavis Peckham. The first Trans-gendered football megastar in the modern age of the game. He is certainly a wonderful role model for all young aspiring transgendered sportspersons. Any questions?”

“Trans-American Sir” chuckled a reporter for the Tinglish Telegraph. “Mavis Peckham is the first Trans-AMERICAN soccer star Sir! He went over to play football with the yanks. But would you like to comment further about him wearing a dress?”

Morgan Frown, frowned, his eyes narrowed then widened, his face purpled.

“GILES.” he shrieked diplomatically.

My gaze turned to the far corner of the room along with that of the FM & the worlds media just in time to see a rather flushed looking Giles coming out of the closet with a rather important looking chap.

“Home Secretary, what are you & Giles up to in that cupboard?” bellowed the First Minister.

FLASH. CLICK. FLASH.

“Ah S-E-C-R-E-T-A-R-Y secretary” I smirked to myself whilst walking slowly backwards towards the exit.

Average Joe (1) Mobile Phone signals (0)

stop it... you'll go blind

2007-08-07T20:58:00.000+01:00

“Be good boys” said Father Macafferty “or you’ll eeend up in heel & before d' heel comes d' prison“.

Father Macafferty new a lot of things about hell, prison & the devil.

“Discoootecks are de Divils Tambourines & Neeked Flesh is de Divils Bread”, he would shriek on a tuesday morning in class.

Being twelve, I had never been inside a discotheque or seen a woman naked, not for the lack of trying I might add. I imagined doing them both together would be really good but eternally damning at the same time, like an icecream headache.

Oh god. I don’t think I could bear the pressure, just the thought of growing up & being invited to the naked disco after work was enough to make me put an extra jumper on.
What about all the people who went on those naturist camp sites that I had read about in dads purely educational magazines. Would they all be condemned to hell if they had a dance in the camp bar?

Topless sunbathing, surely that must mean a good stint in purgatory, such a shame!

No more John Travolta movies for me & by Father Macafferty‘s logic, disco John‘s going to need some flameproof underpants. Would the same apply to Olivia? Okay so it was a different movie but on the down side they did dance quite close together …..but on the other hand they weren’t in a disco in Grease & she definitely wasn’t naked, unfortunately? In fact disco’s hadn’t been invented then, so does that mean hell is only post Gloria Gaynor? Pre Punk even!

I’d heard the stories about hell & prison of course. No one ever leaves alive. You will need eyes in the back of your head.

I contemplate having eyes in the back of my head & wonder whether they will be instead of the ones in the front or as well as. I wouldn’t fancy having the front ones removed, that said I also wouldn’t relish the thought of having to learn to close the back set whilst walking forward & vice versa.

Now it seems to me that there are pro’s & con’s of having four perfectly functioning eyeballs.

Pro’s

An end to being stabbed in the back.
Being very clever at playing “hide & seek”.
Not having to look over your shoulder when reversing your car. (unless you have a big fancy car with big fancy head rests)
Going to the cinema, watching the movie & being able to look up the skirt of the girl behind.
Able to visit an Art Gallery twice as fast as everyone else.

Con’s

Never knowing whether you are coming or going.
Getting woken up by daylight even when you sleep face down.
Every time you look up means being able to see your own bum. (think about it)
Really having to concentrate hard to wink.
Problems deciding on which car to buy.
(“No sorry I do not wish to purchase that car, it is far too fancy & I have eyes in the back of my head”.)
Going to the cinema, looking up the skirt of the girl sat behind & being distracted by the movie.
Spending twice as much on sunglasses.
Having to have a fringe cut at the back of your head.

It would appear that the con’s outweigh the pro’s. So as I wasn’t ever going to get eyes in the back of my head I had to grow up avoiding disco’s & naked girls.

I remember one occasion being in a pub with my friend Larry. He said to me “You see those two gorgeous girls over there. They have being giving us the glad eye all night. If they come over just be cool & act natural”

“Okay” I eagerly responded not wishing to let the team down.

……& that’s when it happened. The most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on & her equally attractive friend, walked across the room as all heads turned, straight towards a salivating Larry & myself. Never again would we get the opportunity to meet such gorgeous girls as these.

“Would you like to dance” said the stunning creature.

The horror.

“F**k off you brazen hoor, you‘ll not tempt me through the gates of hell you disco dancing jezebel” I retorted proud in the knowledge that I had just saved my soul from the stain of eternal sin.

It was just a shame that the same couldn’t be said for my now wine coloured shirt.

“Could someone phone an ambulance…..” shouted the barmaid, “…….Larry’s just fainted”.

Success wid de ladies (0) Guilt laden & flawed decisions (7)

lost in crap nation

2007-07-17T08:30:00.000+01:00

“Bun elth hesh il soo hunesh ickma das blif zo bis reminash t’tirlmut oso il soo ormins efer do das blurf, elth hesh utu roff bir dolgon zo bis ulfrap nuti bir wintsh gosh il bir zo bis das blif United Nation‘s”

“What did he say Peeler, come on man”!

“Sir he said ‘good morning & thank you for allowing our small country to speak at the United Nation’s’ Sir”.

“That’s it, Peeler. That’s it. But it took him half an hour. Are you sure? Do I need to find another interpreter”?

“I am positive Colonel Blimley. I am also the only registered interpreter that can speak fluent Blingtigistanish, Sir”.

Colonel Horatio ‘pim pim’ Blimley, Tinglish Ambassador to the UN. His specialist field, ’s**t stirring'.

Since leaving the armed forces & after a short stint in MI6 I found myself working as an interpreter at the United Nations building in New Yodel which was just a short hop over the water from Old Yodel. Well when I say water I mean the Drywater River. When I say hop its not really a hop it’s more of a stroll across the bridge & when I say river it‘s more of a muddy canal.

New Yodel was built after the Great Pigeon Plague of 1895. The residents of Old Yodel were being bombarded with bird muck caused by a pigeon infestation which was mainly due to old Mrs Brinkle who continually fed foreign bread to the birds in the old square.

The miners, who had spent the day getting covered in honest coal dust from down below, would then find themselves getting covered in dodgy bird sh*te from up above as they walked home. This appeared to be a no win situation which they found very irritating & would often blow raspberry’s at Mrs Brinkle as they walked through the Old square. Mrs Brinkle in turn would give them the ’finger’ & shout “Up yours“.

This ritual went on & on, day in day out.

“Thhhuuuuurpp”!

“Up yours”!

“Thhuuuurrpp”!

“Up yours”!

Constable Dollup found his Police Station constantly inundated with people complaining about the birds, the miners & Mrs Brinkle. Some people said that the bird muck was lucky. Constable Dullop didn’t think so. Not with all the s**t on his helmet.

So eventually the residents of the Old town became founders of the New Town, except of course Mrs Brinkle who was banned & Constable Dollup who rather enjoyed the sharp drop in the crime rate since everybody had moved over the mud. In fact he suspected he was in line for a promotion due to his exceptional work in clearing up the crime rate.

“Constable Dollup” said a young Inspector Blimley over the telephone.

“Yes Sir” answered Constable Dollup in a medium to well gloating manner, immediately standing to attention & closing his newspaper which had no headlines.

“Headquarters have just promoted you Constable, it’s due to your exceptional work in clearing up the crime rate over there. So you are being promoted to Sergeant of New Yodel as from Monday. Well done son”.

“No shit Sir” cried Old Constable Dollup of Old Yodel & now the New Sergeant of New Yodel.

“Pardon, Dollup”! said the Inspector.

“There will be no shit in New Yodel, sir”.

“That’s the Spirit Constable, I knew you were the right man for the job, zero tolerance that’s what we need”.

So very quickly New Yodel became the fastest growing city in the world.

NEW YODEL
“THERES NO MUCK ON US”

except for the miners

Population 1372.
Pigeons 0

Read the sign at the end of New Street. & so New Yodel eventually became the home of the United Nations, well it was more to do with Inspector Blimley eventually becoming the Chief Commissioner of Tingland prior to becoming Colonel Blimley & on hearing that the UN was going to be formed & needed a home. So he proposed New Yodel, as he personally knew the no nonsense Police Sergeant there & what a crime free town it was.

“Right Peeler you’re off to Blingtigistan to find out what the devil they’re up to” said an overly enthusiastic Colonel 'pim pim' Blimley.

So that’s how it happened, one minute I was in New Yodel the next thing I was being greeted off the plane on the hot tarmac of Blingtigistan which was a small but well evolved nation which baked lovely bread & exported it all over the world.

‘Welcome to Blingtigistan’ said the Blingtigistanian Ambassador as he greeted me.

I was quickly whisked off to my hotel where a reception had been put on in my honour. It was mainly various types of local bread, it was however very delicious & I could see the potential for international trade.

I was conscious of the time & realised that I would have to sneak up to my hotel suite & radio a situation report back to HQ. I made my excuses of jet lag etc & after the Ambassador had finished saying good night an hour later I managed to nip off.

At the bottom of my suitcase was a secret compartment where the radio was hidden, along with several tins of beans which Mrs Peeler had kindly packed just in case the food was a bit dodgy.
I switched on the radio & began my transmission.

“Traveller to Camp Site come in over. Arrived safe, weather hot, over. I received a party invitation in my honour, over. It was wonderful they bake lovely bread which they export all over the world as they have methods of vast production, over”.

Crackle, crackle.

‘beep beep beep‘!

“It’s at radio transmission coming through from Peeler Sir”!

“What does he say private”? Barked Colonel Blimley

“Its very difficult to hear, the signal keeps breaking up. I’m getting ………HOT…crackle…..sounds like……..STARTING INVASION…hiss…..DEAD………ALL OVER THE WORLD…crackle…….WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION….then it went quite Sir”.

“I knew it, right get me a carrier pigeon I need to send an urgent message to First Minister Bloon, this means war”!!!!!!!!!!

Almighty Cock Ups (10) World Peace (0)

"you little swine"

2007-07-05T19:36:00.000+01:00

“Uncle Frank is a cross dresser” that’s what mum told dad. I heard it quite clearly. Through the wall & down the stairs.

Personally I never understood this, maybe it was because I was a young lad or just because my parents were as mad as cheese.

I thought about Uncle Franks friends & wondered if they knew. I mean it couldn’t be right. Everybody liked Uncle Frank he was just so funny.

Not like Aunty Wart. Aunty Wart was Uncle Franks wife.

Crack.

“Its Aunty Mavis” shouted mum. “Lots of people get warts when they get older”

“Not right on the end of their noses” I chirped back.

Crack.

“Don’t you answer me back lad, wait till your dad gets home”.

THE HORROR.

That was bad karma. Being grassed up by mum was definitely bad karma. Not that mum was a soft touch. I mean any woman that could make Die Hard or the Matrix look easy had to be tough. Before I had even finished saying Aunty Wart she had cart wheeled out of the kitchen, double back flipped, sideways dived & landed a slap on my back. Nope! Mum was most definitely not to be tinkered with, but dad well he was a different kettle of sharks. If dad wasn’t gods brother he must have been god himself.

My dad had the following patents;

WRATH
APOCOLYPSE
TRUTH SERUM
UPPER CUT
&
WIDE ANGLE ROUND CORNERS VISION

“Please don’t tell dad”

“I will”

“…..pleeeeease don’t tell him”

“I will”

“Pl..”

“I am”

“p”

“Dishes”

“Okay consider them done”

Half an hour, three sinks full of water & a small flood later the dishes were done.

“Look at my kitchen floor” screeched mum. Oh oh time to go. Door to dining room blocked, quick think fast. I sensed a back flip followed by a round house kick coming. Out into the back garden was my only sensible option. I moonwalk backwards (I actually invented it, as an escape method, not wacko. I just didn’t know it looked cool)

“You’ve got one hour” rasped the terminator. “Were going round to Aunty Mavis’s for your cousin Jimmy’s birthday every one will be there, so don’t get dirty or I‘ll wing you one“.

Outside sat on the garden wall in the safety of the real world I ponder whether to ask for Scalextric or an electric train set for Christmas. It is nearly as tough a decision as last years "Chopper" or "Chippa" bike contest. I actually didn’t get either.

“Its an action man” said dad.

“I know” I reply trying to sound disappointed in my best, my dog is dead & the end of the world is coming kinda voice.

“He’s got eagle eyes” clucked dad.

“He hasn’t” I replied with expert authority.

“Yes he has, you just swivel his head from side to side like this. See”!

STROOTH. Eyes roll, sigh. I think that was probably my first sigh. Apart from the time I realised that pooing in your shorts, without a nappy, in front of the other kids, whilst at nursery, without your mum there, was definitely not cool.

“Come & give your Aunty Mavis a kiss” said mum in a room packed full of hairy relatives.

‘Just get it over with’ I think to myself. ‘Don’t look at the wart. Don’t look at the wart’.

“He’s gone cross eyed, the daft bugger” yelled Aunty really big massive humungous wart on the end of her nose Mavis.

“Stop being silly” laughed mum in her ever so, I’m so embarrassed & wait till I get you on your own style.

“Aunty Mavis”? I enquire coyly.

“Yes dear”

“Has Uncle Frank lost weight”?

“No dear”.

“Does his suit still fit him”?

“Yes dear…..” said a baffled Aunty Mavis.

“Well why does he get angry when he’s getting dressed in the morning”?

In my minds eye I can see Uncle Frank getting dressed in front of the mirror, he pulls up his trousers only to discover they are too short or too tight. At this he looses his temper "Aaaarrgh look at the size of my bloody arse" he screams.

“What do you mean dear”? enquires Warty Mave.

“Well its just that mum said that he was a cross dresser”

Silence.

Darkness.

I think I heard a shriek in between Aunty Mavis fainting & the rain starting.

Uncle Frank strides into the room.

"Who's for another drink then"?

"Hehehehehehehe" chirps Uncle Albert constructively as Gran almost swallows her dentures.

Smirks in the pub (6) Tact (0)

in the future i will have curly hair & be able to sing opera

2007-06-02T18:14:00.000+01:00

Cupboards are useful. They may look boring but they are in fact just the opposite. Apart from the obvious uses such as storage they make for impromptu hiding places to be used in emergencies.
Case in point when Mrs Peeler is on the war path. (Note to self. Put a lock on the inside of cupboard door & hide the frying pan, resistance is just prolonging the inevitable)

Subsequently I found the hall cupboard very handy when I bought my first time machine. This quirky little device was a little worn but generally in good condition. It looked a bit like a small shower cubicle but without the soap dish.

It was small cupboard size in fact!

“That cupboard looks smaller than I remember” growled the love of my life softly.

“It’s just a little cluttered dear” I squirmed, stuffing my hammer into a pocket of one of the coats hung up inside. Thankful that I had not fainted.

I bought said quirky time machine off a gentleman in the pub after sharing a few jars with him at the bar.

“It will make you wealthy beyond your dreams” he purred as he opened the boot of his Bentley in the car park.

‘Yes! I will be able to learn & understand so much about our history, I will become wise beyond my years’ , I thought to myself whilst breaking wind with excitement or was that the Guinness.
Although I didn’t think he had made the best use of his wisdom as he was driving a large gas guzzler & was wearing a very creased linen suit.

Now this chap must have loved horses. On the first few occasions I used the machine I always landed at one horse track or another. Horse racing is definitely not my bag, but hey each to their own. The other strange thing was, that he had only ever ventured a couple of days into the future, I could never work that out. I mean what is the point of having a machine capable of travelling back through the ages but only ever visiting the middle of next week. On one of my early trips using the pre-programmed coordinates I even appeared in a television studio where they were playing bingo or some such like game with numbered balls. I didn’t hang around long enough to get the gist.

After downloading some intergalactic charts off eBay & fiddling with the control panel I managed to get the hang of it.

I fully intended to see the dinosaurs, watch the Egyptians building pyramids & warn all the wealthy Italians about building with solid foundations. Oh & to tell them to avoid Smokey mountains as well.

This would not be my first full on experience as a temporal time & space line dancer. Although I had a few run ins with time travel when I was very young. Indeed I recall my parents buying me my fist Timex watch.

“What is it”? I asked excitedly. “It’s a watch” said mum, “It tells the time”. Fantastic I thought, my first miniature time machine.

I recall the long summer days when all the kids on the street would play out together.

“Be home by eight”, dad would say.

Oh but we had so much fun knocking on the neighbours door & running off, knocking on the neighbours door & running off, knocking on the neighbours door &amp; running off, again & again & again & again &&&&& again. How annoying young children can be. “Are we there yet”? Eight O clock was far to early. Nobody else had to be in by that time.

…….& that’s when it occurred to me. ‘My time machine’. At eight, I wound it back to a quarter too. Then again every fifteen minutes. What a brilliant plan. This was the best present in the whole world.

THUNDER! Or was it? No it definitely wasn’t thunder. No such luck.

All the other kids look towards the heavens. It was in fact my dads voice booming up the street. I nearly fainted, but managed to maintain my balance long enough to run home. ( that was my first experience at travelling at the speed of light )

Now on arriving in the house for a period of less than three seconds I attempted to explain that it was only eight o clock according to my watch. My dad didn’t appear to understand me. I put this down to the time & space diferential, as we were in actual fact, in different time zones. He was in the present I was in the past. His zone looked a lot redder than mine. My father must have understood this & brought me back into the present by utilising a series of equalising strokes to my buttocks. Which apparently hurt him more than me but I could never see how. I must of inherited my time travelling capabilities from dad, as he managed to knock me from the past right into the middle of next week.

I did try to experiment with time travel on occasion whilst at secondary school.

“Peeler you are LATE”!

“But it’s nine o clock Sir”.

“It’s a quarter past”.

“It’s nine sir”

“It’s a quarter past”.

“But my watch says nine”.

I could see that my wonderous feat of folding time had failed to impress Mr Kennedy. & I was later to discover the reason. He like my dear father, was in fact a Time Lord himself. Later that very same day he managed to turn half past three into half past four.

Anyway back to the present. Well would you look at that! Now you're travelling through time as well. Before I decided to visit the ancient past I wanted to nip a short distance into the future just to make sure I was healthy & everything was hunky dorey in the home etc. So off I popped, a year or so into the future.

ZZZZaaaaap, ZZZZZooooosh pop!

I opened the cupboard door & walked into the hallway. I could hear the sound of someone taking a shower upstairs. Sneaky, sneaky up the stairs I went. I peeped into our bedroom, nobody there, good. I can still hear the shower so into the room I creep. I open the door to the en suite ever so slightly & find myself face to face with my own backside. Yes I am in the steamy shower. But to my surprise I have let my hair grow & it is rather curly. I have a good tan as well must have just been on holiday. Well that’s a good sign. My biggest shock however was my voice.

“Volare, oh oh

Cantare, oh oh oh oh”

I didn’t realise my voice was so good & I had learnt Italian.

The futures bright, the futures tanned with a firm butt.

Happy with my expedition I decide to retreat back to my own time & smarm around the house for a bit...

....ZZZZaaaaap, ZZZZZooooosh pop! & return.

As I sneak out of my cupboard the door bell goes.

“Get that would you” sings my beloved from the cushion. “It will be the plumber”.

“Ciao” said Mario, the plumber who had come to fix the leaky tap which I had promised to fix.

I pointed Mario in the direction of the leaky tap which I had promised to fix.

“Mario has come to fix the leaky tap which you promised to fix” said Mrs Peeler.

“Cup of tea Mario” I offered whilst attempting to look both manly & to busy for leaky taps.

A few minutes later I took Mario’s tea up to the bathroom. I could hear him singing away to himself. It was a lovely song, Italian I think.

‘Now where had I heard that song before’?

Average Joe (0)

Tall Dark Handsome Continental Types With Loads of Charm (make me sick)

will robots ever have a sense of humour?

2007-05-16T17:33:00.000+01:00

I often wonder how far we are going with technological advancements’. I mean look, we’ve got wheelie bins, stretch jeans, waterproof plasters & pot noodles. Where will it a end. Stretch, waterproof, edible bins that can hover? Ah! But even if we get that far down the road of scientific wonder I bet they still wont be able to empty themselves, not without moaning & scratching their electronic chins.

What prompts this tale is a recent run in I had with a satellite navigation system. If this is not the work of the devil & a coven of mother in laws I don’t know what is.

You see my mother in law has recently bought me a Satellite Navigation thingy for my birthday & naively I thought,

“Ooh that’s nice, thank you very much”, kiss.

Oh how I underestimated the powers of darkness. This small inoffensive looking box is a malevolent beast incarnated from the bowels of hell itself. AND if there is not a spaceship involved somewhere with this wee contraption I will be very surprised. There I am going about my business on a sunny afternoon, off to the football. Which I secretly don’t think ‘you know who’ likes me doing although I have no evidence to the contrary.

“IN 10 METRES TURN LEFT”.

So I did. Then realised that I didn’t want to turn left, so I took the next right.

“TURN LEFT”. I sigh & choose to ignore it.

“LEFT”

It shrieks in what I now think is rapidly becoming a mother in lawesque type of voice. A Shrill whilst gargling with gravel in a dark cavern type sound comes to mind. Is she actually in the car I wonder, the boot perhaps. With a megaphone.

“LEFT” it barks.

“NO” I find myself responding.

Note to self, talking alone (to yourself) in a car is okay, provided: Provided you never look to you left or right. It is at this point you will always find another car full of people staring & laughing at you. Also as I’ve mentioned before the only way to get out of this embarrassing situation is quickly look away (as if you don’t realise you’ve been caught) & start to sing, followed by a little seat dance as if you are listening to the radio. Obviously which method you use depends on what level your embarrassment threshold is at.

For example if you accidentally & suddenly break wind in a room full of strangers I see two potential types of people.

(a) the suddenly ‘go red & apologise’ types. (eyes roll, sigh, fools)

(b) or the ‘say nothing & walk away with a sly grin’ type. (just remember there is now’t down for an early confession)

© I have heard tell of people who will actually put there arms in the air & make a victory fist shouting “Ave it” even in a room full of strangers, but I suspect this is more fiction than fact. Surely nobody is that hard core?

On the odd occasion this happens & there is a terrible smell & you don’t have time to escape, I find raising one eyebrow & staring at the nearest person with a look of disgust across your face followed by a “Tut”! as you walk off helps to divert unwanted attention.

Anyway where was I? Oh yes replying to the demonically possessed Sat Nav.
I pull over & fiddle with its buttons in an attempt to turn it off. That should do it. I indicate & pull away continuing my journey. Periodically casting an eye in its direction. Was that a noise I just heard coming from it. I approach a set of traffic lights at a crossroads & drive straight through.

“LEFT, LEFT, LEFT” it screams, the noise reverberating inside my head. Oh my god, its alive.

‘Keep calm son ‘ I whisper to self. ‘Just keep driving & it will all be okay’.

I accelerate with the notion that if I drive quicker I will get there sooner & this nightmare will end.

“LEFTLEFTLEFTLEFTLEFTLEFT”.

“NONONONOWHYAMITALKINGTOYOU” I reply.

Did I just turn left then. No surely not. I definitely drove straight past that junction just like the next one which I fully intend to drive past ignoring the evil wee machine as I turn left into it completely against my wishes.

Did I just do it again. Two left turns on the bounce.

I need to take action to counter act this act of self destructive mutiny. So I immediately take a further left turn in order to come back on myself & continue on my way to the football.
So left I turn. Ha that’s confused it, I think smugly to myself. Aargh! Heavy breaking. I screech to a halt. In front an angry looking large man with big eyes.

“What the f**ck do you think you are doing on my drive”?

Oops I have taken a wrong left.

“Sorry” I offer in reverse.

Back on the street. Now which way. I get my bearings & suddenly realise that I am almost back at my own house. I jump out of the car & run the short distance to my home, I rush in shouting for my wife.

“The cars haunted, the cars haunted”.

“WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT” she bellowed gently.

I hurriedly explain what has just happened & pull her outside in the direction of the haunted motor.
As we fasten our seatbelts I explain how I am going to drive straight up the road passed all the side streets as if I am going to the football & how the demonic Sat Nav is going to tell me to turn left.

Off we set. As we past the first junction I hear,

“LEFT” - the Sat Nav.

“Left”, followed Mrs Peeler.

“What”?! I respond dumfounded. “I don’t want to go left”.

“Stop being awkward & do as the machine says, otherwise you will get us lost”.

“But we live around here. I know where we are - that isn’t the point! The Sat Nav has got a mind of its own, that’s why I wanted you to……….”

“You’ve never liked my mother”.

“…….what”!?

“Take me home”.

“LEFT” squawked the evil machine as we approached a cross roads.

We arrive home. I stop. The door slams quietly as Mrs Peeler exits.

“BURKE” barks the Sat Nav.

Pull, Rip, Open, Drop, Stamp & Smash.

“Hah” responds I.

I walk towards the house almost sure I heard a chuckle coming from the boot of the car.

'Now where did I put that hosepipe'?.......

Average Joe (0) Conspiracy Theorists (666)

it's like a dick, only smaller

2007-04-23T14:31:00.000+01:00

The other day whilst sat at my desk typing away I noticed something in the garden through the window. It was something shining. What was it, a reflection? I couldn’t quite make it out, I leaned forward to get a better look, eyes squinting. Now what is that?

Microwaves are electromagnetic waves with wavelengths longer than those of terahertz (THz) frequencies, but relatively short for radio waves. Microwaves have wavelengths approximately in the range of 30 cm (frequency = 1 GHz) to 1 mm (300 GHz). This range of wavelengths has led many to question the naming convention used for microwaves as the name suggests a micrometer wavelength. However, the boundaries between far infrared light, terahertz radiation, microwaves, and ultra-high-frequency radio waves are fairly arbitrary and are used variously between different fields of study. The term microwave generally refers to "alternating current signals with frequencies between 300 MHz (3×108 Hz) and 300 GHz (3×1011 Hz)."[1] sometimes used by alien invaders to shrink people, blah blah, blah

…….well it was one of them microwave thingy’s. Yes beamed down from an alien craft in orbit 50 miles above my house. & you guessed it, it hit me right between the eyes. Curious? I bet you are. Exited? Au natural.

SMACK.

“What the f**k” I cry out loud.

I begin to shrink. Yes I am suddenly getting SMALLER & smaller. Thank god it was between my eyes & not between my, well you know!
I slip right off my chair & land on the floor of my now enormous kitchen.

Bugger.

Its no use I can’t stop thinking about, well you know. So I do. I quickly sneak a look in my downstairs engine parts. Phew! They are still there, tiny, but in proportion. Although now I have suddenly been shrunk in an unprovoked alien attack I don’t know what use my tiny reproductive parts will be to woman kind. It would be the equivalent of throwing a pebble into the Grand Canyon. Not that I am suggesting that you ladies are like large barren hard rocky gaping caverns in the arse end of America of course.

Suddenly I am pulled from my inquisitive thoughts by a high pitched whirring sound. It’s coming from outside. I look up towards the window. I have to take a step back to get a better view. Damn I am still working in imperial measurements. Feet & inches don’t count. Alright well maybe inches are quite relevant now, but anyway. So I have taken a step back but I am no better off. So I have to turn around & run about a hundred yards. Sorry, sorry inches.
I turn around & look back towards the window, I stand on my tip toes (like it will make a difference now that I am 10 inches tall).

What’s that hovering outside? It’s a glowing metallic spheroid. Making a strange humming sound. Its about the size of a rugby ball. It hover’s away towards the back of the kitchen, I slowly run towards the dining table in order to peer through the patio doors. It comes in to view & begins to descend onto the lawn. It lands & I watch in horror as a door appears in the side of the craft & begins to slowly open. Then a black figure emerges from the opening. It walks down the gang plank carrying what looks like a ray gun of some type, I am not familiar with this particular model. As the alien visitor begins his journey towards my home I start to feel the panic rise from the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t take long to reach my throat now that I am short.

“AAAAHHHHH! The aliens are coming. The aliens are coming”! I bellow. Well it’s more like a squeak to be honest. I run around in circles waving my arms in the air for a moment but this doesn’t help so I stop, a little dizzy.

The bug eyed alien chap is at the patio doors now. He has started to cut through the glass with his laser, thank god for double glazing. Keeps the house warm & slows alien attacks. They should use that line when they are trying to sell it. I hate double glazing salesmen almost as much as taxi drivers, alien invaders & estate agents.

I have been shrunken so that I can be kidnapped & buggered to death by midget alien invaders. Oh the shame. Come to think of it I’ve heard of that before or did I read it in a magazine er oops! Right enough of this drivel lets get back to the nonsense.

I spring into action. I need a weapon, quick. I look around, a knife. that’s it. But I am tiny. I must scale the kitchen units & open a drawer I run towards a unit. I grab hold of a handle & pull myself up one drawer at a time eventually I am holding onto the top drawer handle. I heave. It slides open, but I am dangling below it. With one almighty effort I pull myself up & over the top. The alien is on the second pane of glass now. I reach in & grab hold of something.

A spatula! A f**king spatula.

Where is the corkscrew when you need it. It always the same I can never find that b***ard. No time to mess around, the spatula will have to do. I throw it to the ground & climb back down. He is in the house now.

Hide quick. I pick the spatula up & dart into the gap next to the fridge.

I take a moment to catch my breath. I wonder if it speaks English. A silly thought, I remember someone telling me that English is the hardest language in the world to learn. B***ocks, I say. Whoever said that must have been Chinese. Although we do have a lot of similar words which probably would confuse the average Dutchman such as where were, there their. But hey, they can talk, especially in double dutch. Sounds like someone gargling with a bad cough to me. & what about Gobble de gook? Now I don’t know where it originates from but I have heard it loads of times in my local pub! I did once meet a couple on holiday who were bi-lingual or something, but I could never understand them, always speaking with their mouths full. Anyway enough with the linguistics already, back to the action.

He is getting closer I can smell him. It is a dark & foul smell. Similar to that of a public toilet. Damn that’s not him that’s me.

I peep. He is inches away.

I pounce.

SPLAT.

I crack him, full on with my spatula. Right on one of his heads. Down he goes. I give him a second one for good measure.

“Have it”.

It is done, finished, game over.

Suddenly I hear a noise. It is a metallic sound. My heart sinks, was he the first of many. Then footsteps.

The horror.

No wait it is a familiar sound. It’s Mrs Peeler back from shopping. I am safe.
She strides into the kitchen & drops her bags on the floor.
“Hello dear” I croak, exhausted.

“Get up off the floor you dirty little bugger & stop trying to look up my skirt” she hisses lovingly.

Bugger. I am caught again.

I stand up and walk back to my desk & sit down.

“Would you like a cup of tea dear” I offer.

“Pervert” she replies.

Sunny Afternoon Day Dreams (9) Chance of a Leg Over (0)

the ancient martial art of poo shin

2007-03-23T17:21:00.000Z

In the early days, the earliest days of manhood. When we are nearer to nappies than shaving, democratic decisions in the school yard are made using the ritual act of

“pushin”.

Now “pushin” is a form of fighting. But truth be known it is nearer to being grumpy than actual violence. I recall that some of the best pushers even used vocals.

“Yeah?” Followed by a push was seen as mildly serious, inflammatory even.

Where as a solid shove accompanied by a “Come on then”! Was just down right hard.

The only downside to “pushin” was getting caught. …..Err by the other school kids I mean. What you didn’t ever want to hear were the cat calls of, “FIGHT, FIGHT” breaking out as a horde of badly dressed eager for blood, relieved it’s not them, kids, spotted you. Then charge across the yard & make a better circle than they ever did in geometry around you & your fellow (the pushee or opponent) pusher. No that was bad karma. Because then you would have to take your “pushin” to the next level, in front of everyone.

No, that was unthinkable, especially if you were not a good pusher. In that case you were likely made into the world’s largest laughing stock. Not only would you be seen as a bad fighter but a target for every up & coming contender who fancied their chances at “pushin”. Failure, wasn’t just failure, no it was more. So much more. It meant you were thick, it meant you wouldn’t be good at sport; girls would laugh & even a few teachers. No, failure just wasn’t an option.

The smart money was always on delaying tactics. Give it some more aggressive “pushin” & hope that Mr Kennedy the head of year would break it up in time. This is where the good vocals counted, as he who shouts loudest is generally perceived to be victorious.

Now I must say that I realised early on that “pushin” just wasn’t my thing. I would try to avoid it at all costs. In my time I have used many ingenious techniques, picked up from a variety of sources.

I recall a wild life programme debating the merits of surviving an attack by a Grizzly Bear.

“Lie down & play dead” offered the khakily dressed genius. “The bear will lose interest & wander off”.

It doesn’t work.

Several kicks later I was forced to groan out loud & curl up into a ball as the rest of the school tried to practice penalty shoot out.

Some of the kids at my school were so tough that even a Grizzly would play dead.

If there are any up & coming pushers reading this I would definitely advise against bursting into song as a way to defuse the situation. Singing, in the hope of calming a volatile crowd & impressing the throng with a few verses of “Dancing Queen”, whilst swaying from side to side doesn’t work.

I still maintain that in theory, fainting & throwing a fake fit is a good idea. I mean it’s not my fault if school kids are dispassionate & don’t understand the frailties of disability.

Posing like the karate kid stood on one leg arms raised is also a no no & combined with Abba can appear camper than Butlins. & definitely don’t tie your school tie around your head for added effect.

It was during one spectacular world title bout of “pushin” that I was almost on the verge of a famous victory. My opponent, a well renowned bully had attempted to steal some of my lunch. Now I didn’t mind when this particular chap copied my homework, but pinching my chocolate was the last straw. I responded with a quick upper push to the ribs. Before I knew it we were locked in a death struggle, “pushin” for pride. A crowd had gathered baying for blood. I almost had him in tears I could smell triumph. All of a sudden the crowd scattered as Mr Barratt the ferocious Headmaster appeared,

“MR KENNEDY…….” he bellowed at the deflated head of year.

“………leave Peeler alone, I will see you in my office now & take that stupid tie off your head”.

Average Joe (1) Wax on wax off (0)

cor blimey! this ones got holes in it, sir

2007-03-10T16:50:00.000Z

With all the news lately, blaring out from increasingly bigger & louder televisions, constantly reminding us of the war torn state of our planet, it got me thinking. When I was a young lad I spent a bit of time in the military, progressing on to the Special Forces before being eventually whisked off to MI6.

Well it was more of an,

“Oi Peeler pack your bags you orrible little turd - your off”!

A Kind of sideways down a few flights of dark stairs round a corner & under the bed kind of move really.

So there I was, ready to join the world of cloak & dagger. Utilising the dark secrets of espionage to save the world. The names Peeler, Granny Peeler. A definite ring to it I thought. All I had to do was await my posting, the exitement was immense.

“Switzerland Sir”?

“Switzerland Peeler".

“But the Swiss are nice sir. Everybody likes them. They have never cause any international strife sir”.

“Precisely”.

“But sir they never get involved in wars. Metaphorically speaking sir, they just hold the coats whilst everyone else fights it out. They sound jolly nice”.

“Peeler my boy, you just hit the nail on the head. Whilst every body else was watching the fight, Johnny Swiss was rifling through the pockets taking things out & what’s worse he was possibly putting things in. Smiling assassins Peeler the lot of em & they yodel”.

So there it was. I found myself spending several none descript years in Switzerland. I never did understand what my actual, bona fide, on the money job was. Lord knows I had plenty of time on my hands to think about it. Eventually I came to the conclusion that my commander was right & that the Swiss were in fact on the verge of world domination. Now the “how” that was tricky part. I thought & thought until it hit me. I had the answer.

Cheese!

The Swiss planned to utilise strange cheeses to take over the world. I mean think about it! In good old Blighty we make honest straightforward solid dependable cheeses, like Cheddar for example. The scheming Swiss on the other hand make cheese with holes in it.

Holes!

I mean it just stinks doesn’t it. We make a cheese & it is solid & square. A kind of what you see is what you get kind of cheese. But ‘them’ they make sneaky cheese. I’m not all that I appear to be cheese. I’m full of dodgy holes kind of cheese.

Whilst yodelling as well. Struth! Now that’s just wrong.

You see during my time in relative isolation due to the top secret sensitive nature of my posting…..high up in the Alps. On my own. With nothing but the constant ring a ding of the cow bells to keep me company. Constant, ding ding dong dong. Never ending, & the wind, the howling, the constant, howling howling. Erm! Anyway yes, holes.

Holes in good things are bad, but in bad things they are good. The Swiss make the cheese, yodel, make the cheese, then yodel some more. Then they export it. Holes you see, they put things in the holes & send the cheesy weapons all over the globe. A sleeping enemy. A pongy time bomb.

I mean they’ve even managed to get us to eat cheese & biscuits at the desert end of the meal. They’re obviously targeting our children by placing the cheese next to the ice cream…..oh the fiendish behaviour ……….

“What are you up to in there"? Calls a distant voice suddenly, interrupting my very important meeting on how to thwart the Great Swiss Cheese Invasion.

“Nothing dear, just cleaning the lawnmower” I hastily reply to Mrs Peeler as I am quickly dragged back into one of the many realities.

“Your breakfast is on the kitchen table” she yodels.

I quickly close the shed window & put my binoculars away. No sign of any enemy activity today anyway, the nation remains safe. I close the door behind & walk across the garden my attention drawn towards a very shifty foreign looking gnome. Now did he just move? On entering the kitchen I look at the plate on the table.

Cheese on toast.

My eyes roll. I dare not sigh. As my good lady turns to pour the tea I quickly pick up the toast and deftly lift a piece of cheese to look underneath. No holes, good.

“What are you doing”? Snaps the boss.

I nearly faint.

“Err nothing dear”.

Mrs Peeler (10) Switzerland (0)

at the checkout no one can hear you scream

2007-03-02T09:13:00.000Z

When I go shopping in Morrasdabury’s I always feel a sense of gloom. The slow walkers, the switchy direction at the last second types, the I’m gonna stand right in front of you whilst your gazing at the cereal people, the I bet I can clip your ankles with my trolley, at least three times, without even apologising morons, the I’m gonna stop in the middle of the isle with my trolley & park it right next to another trolley just so you can't get past, loon. They will all be there. Just to hinder ME.

It starts in the car park. The whole world needs to park as near to the entrance as possible. I stop my car, the last bars of a dull eighties hit playing on the radio. "And that was Rick Astley, with I'm never gonna give you up" announces the DJ. I groan, my eyes roll. The agony, Rick Astley & shopping on the same day. I leave the relative safety of my car & struggle to find a trolley. When I eventually do it starts to squeak, just as I get into the store. Squeaky trolley develops a life of its own & decides it wants to go in the opposite direction from me.

I survey the crowd. I sigh. I move in. My trolley moves out. I sigh again.

I do my best impression of a crab walking sideways with my trolley doing the same. As we pass the electrical section I notice a promotion for a universal remote control. It occurs to me that, that, is probably one of life’s great inventions. Even though I’m not sure what it does. It just sounds good.

I continue on, doing a 360 degree spin in order to get trolley back on track, narrowly missing one of the Morrasdabury shelf stackers. I fight my way through the exotic fruit & veg area ignoring the aubergines, courgettes & all the purple coloured produce, opting instead for the safer looking greens. & a few small potatoes for good measure.

I rush for the sanctuary of the toilet rolls. I am soon cheered up by the sight of a small child lying on the floor screaming & kicking in absolute rage whilst a bewildered parent looks on forlornly. I smirk to myself, in the knowledge that somebody else is having a worse day than I.

I carry on around the maze collecting various items with an increasing unease at the impending doom of the checkout. I complete my task & approach the endless line of tills with about three staff along the whole row. I pick the shortest queue knowing full well that I have in fact just picked the longest. There are two people ahead of me. As I stop & I can hear the woman at the front of the line who is engaged in holiday conversation with the checkout girl.

The horror!

This detailed discussion will obviously go on forever. I must escape; as I turn I am blocked in by an elderly couple who have just arrived at my rear.

Trapped!

No choice now, I am committed. I will just have to suffer. I pick up a ‘next customer sign’ & place it on the checkout behind the shopper in front of me. She has just joined in the holiday conversation.

‘Bitch’.

I unpack my trolley. I even consider carrying out some general repairs on it wheels whilst I wait in purgatory. The couple behind are pushing their trolley ever closer to my spine. I am sure it is intentional. At that age they have far superior intellects & have obviously developed telepathic powers. They know I am struggling & are basking in my misery.

It is at this moment my luck changes, I hear the old chap moaning to his wife that I have not put a ‘next customer’ sign at the end of my shopping. I can see one further ahead & could probably reach it with a slight stretch. But he has no chance.

She purses her lips & “Tutt’s” at me. I respond with a “Sigh”. She tutt’s again. I sigh back. Tutt, Sigh & on it goes. She tutt’s a bit quieter. I sigh under my breath. I get the last one. I think!

He tries to move past me so I lean to the right. He tries to manoeuvre to my left flank, but I have seen through his feeble plan & counter it with a lean to my left.

He is defeated. I am victorious!

I rejoice, at last a moment to enjoy. But I must be careful they may read my thoughts & bore me to death with a volley of tutting. I wonder if all of them in my queue are talking to each other telepathically about holidays or the missing ‘next customer’ sign. I bet they are laughing at me with my squeaky rebellious trolley. Oh god! The thought of synchronised tutting sends my head into a spin.

That’s when it hits me. The Universal remote control! That is the answer to my dilemma. I rush off, the elderly couple at first bewildered but then shock turns to anger. I have left the queue now it is they who are held up by the holiday conversation.

I can see the promotion stand twelve feet away; I leap over the screaming child still on the floor rolling around like an Italian footballer. I stretch & grab my Holy Grail. “The Universal Remote Control”! Frantically I pull the packaging apart. Then it hits me, BATTERIES. I spin around. Eyes wide, searching. I spot them, grab a packet & open them in one quick silky smooth action. I load my remote & start my sprint back to the checkout.

I spot him. Our eyes lock. His narrow slightly. I close one eye, just to lessen the effect. He is trying to read my mind. But he must never know of my plan if it is to work.

Once again I am ahead of him. It plays out like a scene from an old movie called “The Village of the Damned”. His face contorted with rage. Then it changes to puzzlement as it dawns on him that what he is hearing in my head is not my plan.

“Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna turn around & desert you....”.

I see him mouth the words “Rick Astley” towards his wife in slo mo. “Nooo” she mouths back as she shakes her head in despair. In my head over & over I am singing Mr Astley’s cheesy hit. The old chap will never break through such a robust defence as that.

I stop. We face each other. I raise the remote & press the pause button.

Silence.

The Universe is frozen in shopping limbo. I spring into action. First on my list is revenge. I grab his trolley & put everything back on the shelves. I replace his weekly shop with a large box of condoms & two bottles of whiskey. I return his replenished trolley to its original position back at the check out. Next, the woman directly in front of me. I gather her things off the checkout & put them back into the trolley. I push her in & trundle her to the back of the longest queue I can find.

I savour the best to last. The holiday woman. I run over to the toiletries isle. I select shaving gel & pack of razors, before returning to the checkout. I quickly perform my act of retribution. When I am done I notice a black marker pen near the till & as an after thought I pick it up, I have an artistic thought.

I gather my goods, place them into carrier bags.

“No I don’t need any help with my packing, thank you” I offer to the frozen Morrasdabury employee, as I glide past. I stop near to the exit, turn around once more & gaze at the tranquil scene before me. Then I lift up the remote control.

And PLAY.

Chaos!

"Aaaaaaaargh"! Screams the checkout girl, with the false moustache.

"Aaaaaaaargh"! Screams the holiday woman, with the freshly shaven & completely bald head.

“You dirty little pervert” shouts the elderly telepathist at her boozy oversexed husband.

“Bugger”! He whimpers in response.

I look directly into her eyes & I “Tutt”. It is the mother of all Tutts.

Her eyes drop away she deflates.

Average Joe(1) Telepathic Alien Body Snatchers (0)

at the end there will be lots of tubes & hushed voices

2007-01-28T19:28:00.000Z

If you ever meet my mother you are either going to die or become very poorly.

When I visit these days she always likes to tell me in hushed whispers about some "latest tragedy". It’s not that she is overly morbid; she is no more morbid than the next person fixated with death. It just appears to me that she knows a lot of dead or poorly people. I surmise it is just a part of getting older. Older people tend to catch up at weddings & funerals, & as families get older there are less people available to get married, thus less wedding invites. The same I’m afraid, can’t be said for the numbers of elderly people unwittingly waiting not to be invited to funerals.

Ethel wasn’t invited to a funeral recently.

“Ethel’s dead, it was such a shame”.
“She was ninety six” I said reassuringly.
“Ooh that’s no age. I was talking to Sylvia the other day…”

Psychic Sylvia, the local self proclaimed medium/spiritualist/fortune teller/marriage guidance counsellor.

“…….Sylvia said that she visited Ethel last month in the seriously old & poorly peoples ward at the hospital & that Ethel didn’t look at all well & that she knew immediately that something bad was going to happen”.

“Sylvia should have been a doctor” I offered, my attempt at humour wasted.

Then it occurs to me. Most people don't see it coming but I wonder if Psychic Sylvia will be invited to her own funeral, by registered post perhaps. I picture the conversation with the postman.

“Sign here please”.
“I’ve been expecting this”.
“Lovely” says Postie.

I can see the invite on her mantelpiece, unopened of course. I suspect she will leave her false teeth in that week, just in case, & clean *drawers, that goes without saying. *Knickers if you’re reading this in America. I am drawn from my mildly amusing dream world by my mother’s cheerful monologue.

“Are you listening to me”?
“Of course I am mother”.
“Remember Bill”?
“No”.
“Yes you doo”.
“No I don’t”.
“You do”.
“Alright I do”. Deep sigh, eyes roll.
“See”. Said mum.
“What about him” I add, regretting almost immediately that I had given in. In fact if I just keep practising I could do the whole pantomime “No I don’t, yes you do” thing for my whole visit with mum, thus keeping people well & perhaps even saving a few lives into the bargain.

“He’s got Alzheimer’s, poor bloke. But he doesn’t know he’s got it”

I consider this statement. “He doesn’t know he’s got it”. Now I know there are very few positives to be had from the decline of a person’s health, but I see ignorance of ones own failing health as possibly one. A blessing in disguise you might say. I imagine Bill down his local pub.

“Alright Bill”
“Alright Ted”
“How are you Bill”?
“Not so good Ted, got the Alzheimer’s, I feel terrible. Can’t remember anything & I keep shouting & misbehaving for no apparent reason”
“Struth Bill that must be awful”?
“WHAT”!!!!!………

Bert looks up from his usual table in the corner. He casually wonders who the bloke is, stood at the bar wearing no trousers, that has just poured a pint of bitter over Ted?

Yep I definitely think in this case ignorance would be bliss.

Average Joe (0) Grim Reaper (1)

the giant mouse that saved the world

2007-01-19T16:56:00.000Z

My wife’s cousin, Tanya, is a lovely lass. A few years back she found herself over in America, don’t you know, working as a nanny. You know the sort, big family, big house, big car & a big snake. Did I say snake, yes I did. A snake in a fish tank thingy.

So here’s the thing, the family is off to visit some relatives for the weekend. Which is nice because it gives Tanya a little free time. So off they pop, a last minute instruction shouted from the big 4 x 4,

“Don’t forget to feed the snake”.

Now I know what your thinking, young daft English girl is going to give it cheese or some salad. Well you’d be wrong. Tanya is thinking on her feet. She read somewhere that snakes eat live *mice. So off she drives into town, where she buys a couple of mice from the pet store.

Back she drives. And without a moments hesitation she drops one in the snake tank. Okay, okay a bit heartless some of you might think, but it had to be done. She’s not completely hard; she didn’t stay around to watch the sport. Tanya can’t waste any more time with the snake, she has friends to call.

And with the dawn of a new day she goes downstairs to check on the snake.

The horror!

There’s no snake. Nothing but a fat mouse, scurrying around.

“F***KETY F**K”, she screams. “THE F**KING MOUSE HAS EATEN THE SNAKE”.

Fearing for her job she picks up the snake tank takes it to her car & shoves it into the boot. Races back into town straight to the local vet.

“THE F**KING MOUSE HAS EATEN THE SNAKE”

“WHAT”! Says the animal doctor.

“This mouse has eaten a snake”, she reports to the perplexed looking vet. “I fed mouse to the snake for dinner last night & this tw*t of a mouse has eaten it, what am I going to do. You will have to cut the mouse open & save the snake”, she cries.

“Hold on a minute”, replies the vet.

He looks into the tank, puts his hand in. roots around, moves some of the stones & twigs around then reaches under the lining on the bottom & pulls out a terrified looking snake.(if snakes can look terrified that is. I always think they just look pissed off).

“Mice don’t eat snakes” laughs Doc……

I pictured the scene. Both mouse & snake in opposite corners of the tank all night. Staring at each other like some reluctant fighters in a world title bout. Both too petrified to come out & fight. “Why don’t you just go to sleep” says the mouse.

EEEEN DER RED CORNAAER WEIGHING IN AT 12 OUNCES ITS DA *MINCING MOUSE & INNA DA BLUUUU CORNAAER ITS DA PET WITH DA HATE, DA NON PLUSSED SNAKE, IT’S LOW DOWN SID. LET’S GET REEAADY TO TREMBLE.

…..meanwhile back at the ranch the second mouse who had been left on a nearby table in a box all night, had heard all the commotion that morning. He couldn’t believe his tiny ears; his brother had actually eaten a snake. Perhaps we are killing machines after all. I mean if a mouse can eat a snake? Well perhaps we can take over the world & eventually prevent world famine? With a little bit of raping & pillaging on the way. His confidence is boosted tenfold. With his ego inflating by the minute, he begins to gnaw viciously through the cardboard. He escapes.

‘Right’, he thinks. ‘Where are all the other snakes’? ‘I’m going to kick the sh*t out of a few’.

So with that in mind off he toddles, spoiling for a fight. He scampers into the kitchen & that’s when he spies it! The biggest mouse in the world. ‘It’s a giant mouse. A GIANT F**KING MOUSE’ he thinks. Giant mouse is in the corner drinking out of a small bowl.

‘Bugger me; with him as an ally I could conquer the world, & in half the time. I just need to go over there, introduce myself and tell him my plan for world domination & bob’s your uncle'. Super mouse is elated. He really is going to be King of the world.

‘First thing I’m gonna do is go back to that pet shop. The bastard who took me & my brother away from our mum is having it. Then I’m gonna do that parrot. Noisy, big mouth, bastard. & its gonna be slow. I might even sh*g the tortoise’.

Tiddles isn’t a giant mouse at all. Tiddles’ day has just improved 100%. ‘I think I will delay going upstairs & pissing on the bedroom carpet for a while. Yes, I will wait until after lunch’.

“Hey mate” squeaks super mouse excitedly as he runs over to giant mouse.

Pounce.

Crunch.

Yawn!

Deluded Egotistical Mouse (0) *Ginger Tom (1)

*Authors note. All references to ginger, mincing & small rodents are purely coincidental.

sharks in a car

2007-01-12T19:48:00.000Z

I recently saw a movie trailer for a film entitled,

“Snakes on a Plane”.

Once I’d stopped laughing I vowed never to spend good money watching something with such an appalling title. However once it airs on telly I may revise my standpoint, purely out of curiosity.

It led me to thinking what the inevitable sequel would be called,

“Sharks in a car”, sprung to mind. Now I would definitely pay for that.

I consider the theme. A car, full of water (salt water of course), a hero & a large Great White Shark, or two. Depending on the budget & the size of the car, naturally.

The plot. A man sits in his car which is full of water; he is parked on the high street. Perhaps waiting for his wife, who maybe shopping. A large hungry predator is swimming around in the back. The big nasty sharp toothed killer suddenly notices our hero behind the wheel. Just as said shark is about to pounce, our hero senses he is being watched. He turns & realises he is in over his head.

Thinking quickly he places his finger on the electric window control & depresses the button, then stops. Water begins to spill out through the narrow gap at the top of the window.

Shark stops. Shark hesitates. There is an awkward moment. Shark pulls back & sits in the back seat. Hero closes window.

A standoff. Both parties stare not blinking at each other. (I know I know sharks don’t blink, but they don’t usually swim in cars, so wind your neck in)

They both sit staring intensely at each other. Shark feigns a lurch forward. Hero immediately puts finger back over button. Shark pulls away. To & fro, to & fro this dramatic scene plays out. The tension mounts. A close up. (Well there all bloody close ups to be fair).

As their eyes are locked they both become weary, each desperate not to fall asleep first. (I KNOW Sharks don’t sleep, well Snakes don’t have passports so f**k off, it’s MY film).

“SLAP”,

(You jumped! I know you did, the tension became unbearable & you jumped).

A sudden break in the dead lock, as a traffic warden slaps a parking ticket on the windscreen. Shark looks at the ticket momentarily paralysed by its bright yellow appearance. (I know, I know for gods sake, sharks are colour-blind, but how else is the traffic warden gonna get killed if I can’t introduce the bad guy without a bit of poetic licence).

The horror!

A thirty pound ticket. He winds the window down.

“Oi, f**ckaroo. Can’t you see I’m being held hostage by a man eating shark”?

“What……..”

Murmurs the warden, catching a glimpse of something large & menacing on the back seat. No he thinks, no it can’t be, surely not………

He leans forward putting his head through the now almost completely open window. (Slow motion, slow motion, think about it).

A tidal wave comes flooding out of said vehicle. Shark seizes his moment. Hero the same, ducks & quickly opens door.

“SNAP”. Warden’s head gone. Shark & water disappear down the gutter. Our hero removes ticket & looks down at the torso lying on the road, he makes a note of wardens shoulder number He will need it for the letter of complaint he intends to send to the council re the wardens dispassionate attitude. How else will he evade the fine!

Wife returns from shops. Gets in passenger seat.

“The bloody seat’s wet”, she shrieks!

“Feels like I’ve got Slugs in me Knickers”.

Slugs in me Knickers, now that’s a trilogy. Perhaps?

Average Joe (1) Nosey Bastard (0)

men of steel

2007-01-07T12:13:00.000Z

When I was a young lad my father used to take me to a local Hospice to visit an old chap by the name of “Joe C”. Joe was a nice bloke whom my dad had started out working with as an apprentice at a local steel mill.

Indeed, Joe not only showed my young father the ropes at work but in the pubs as well. I recall a tale about a cheeky Saturday afternoon drink after work. Both my dad & Joe were in a boozer enjoying a pint or 10 with all the other workers when the door burst open & in stormed Molly, Joe’s wife. The pub went silent, (more with fear than shock I suspect) Molly scoured the room. She eventually turned her glaring eyes onto a tiny Joe trying to desperately turn himself into a beer mat.

Across the room she marches & places a dried out roast beef dinner on the table before him. She then laid out the knife & fork.

“There’s your dinner” she growled, before storming off out the door. Everyone’s eyes following her. Privately thanking God that it wasn’t their wives who were so upset at them for being late home for tea. The pub emptied in seconds. Men began rushing to get their caps & scarves on as they fought to get through the door.

My dad looked to his side to see the colour just starting to return to Joe’s cheeks as he climbed back into his seat from under the table.

Joe began slowly to recover his self esteem. “She could have brought you one” he whispered to my dad, both trying not to chuckle (in case Molly heard, somehow).

It was later in Joe’s life that he fell victim to an unfortunate industrial accident. A steel cable fell & broke Joe’s back leaving him unable to walk. Thus Joe ended up bed bound in the Hospice.

Joe kept a couple of canaries in a cage in the day room at the end of his ward. I always used to head straight for them on our visits. There always seemed to be a couple of eggs at the bottom of the cage. I would look at the eggs fascinated as all young children are with such things.

“When are they going to hatch Joe”? I would ask.

“Twenty one days son, it takes twenty one days”.

It always seemed to be twenty one days. I wasn’t very good at maths but I knew enough that twenty one days must be a very long time.

It was at this moment the usual visiting time circus began. ‘Great!’ I thought as Naked Hairy Man got out of his bed, stripped off & began running up & down the ward, Showtime was always a welcome distraction from the smell of poo. Sometimes he would even pee on the floor. His behaviour always seemed to upset the other residents, leading to grunts & shouts from those that were able to grunt & shout. When enough of a commotion had been caused the nuns would quickly enter the ward & a game of “catch me if you can” would follow. Naked Hairy Man would usually jump from bed to bed around the ward until being wrestled to the ground by some very speedy & agile nun. The sight of a nun stood with her boot depressed across the throat of a deflated Naked Hairy Man always seemed to raise a cheer.

Joe being the grandfatherly type, wishing to protect my young child’s mind from such disgusting behaviour shouted:

“Yer fooking dirty bastard, get your pyjamas back on. Cant you see there’s a young lad here?”

“What’s a fooking dirty bastard, dad?” I enquired.

“Never you mind, son” he replied. He used to use this phrase quite a lot. ‘Never you mind’ seemed to be the answer to a lot of questions as did ‘Twenty one days’. Joe & my dad seemed to know the answers to a lot of hard questions.

Later that week in school, Mrs Faulkner barked,

“Peeler, what is 3 x 7”?

I was stumped. If only my dad or Joe had been there!

“Never you mind, miss”. I offered hopefully!

Surely that was the type of clever response that would suffice.

Once the violence had stopped & Mrs Faulkner had begun breathing normally again, (I thought she was going to pass out with rage at one point) I reasoned to myself that the answer I had chosen was wrong. Next time I resolved to use “Twenty one days” as my stock answer.

On one of our visits as we walked onto the ward we could hear the sound of an argument coming from Joe’s end of the room. As we approached he was shouting animatedly across to the large fellow in the opposite bed,

“Why don’t you come over here then & I’ll smarten you up”.

Concerned about Joe’s safety my dad rushed over,

“Joe, Joe what are you doing? You know you can’t walk He’s bigger & younger than you! He might get out of his bed, & stick one on your nose”.

“No, no it’s alright” Joe said with a glint in his eye.

“He can’t walk either”…

Naked Hairy Man (0) Well Organised Pack of Nuns (1)

fat ben elton

2007-01-02T11:26:00.000Z

“You’re fat”.
“I’m not fat”!
“Yes you are”.
“No I’m not”.
“Yes you are”.

I have always enjoyed the depth of pantomime like debate that my friends & I participate in down the pub. Larry, I have called him Larry because somewhere Fat Larry’s Band seems to ring a bell & to call him Domino or Checker would be silly.

No, Larry will do. He has been a life long friend. He is a loyal husband & loving dad. I am proud to know him, however he is “a lad” & he likes to talk a good fight, larger than life & as the Americans would say “a real wise guy”. So as they say “alls fair in love & war”.

On the balance of probabilities I would say that Larry is probably fat. Well he kinda looks like a fat Ben Elton, FBE for short. That’s provided Ben Elton has not put any weight on recently in which case he would be reduced to a Ben Elton look-alike or BEL. Or indeed what if Mr Elton has become extremely overweight? Would that make Larry a Thin or Thinner Ben Elton, TBE?

“You look like a fat Ben Elton”.
“No I don’t”.
“Yes you do”.

Note to all celebrities. Please can you all remain the same weight so as not to confuse us non celebrity pub going intellectuals & render any “Mickey taking” pointless.

Anyway back to Larry or FBE. (In fact I can picture him reading this. “I’m not fat” he will say to his wife. “Well yes you are”. Say I) He periodically goes on health kicks. One of his more famous quotes, which myself & chums have had years of fun with was, “I’m giving up chips for Lent”. Now if I had a pound for every time he had walked passed a chippy without going in I’d have 13 pence. I even once witnessed him drop a kebab on the floor at the end of a drunken night. The look of disappointment across his face lasted seconds. Then came the “beer fuelled” reasoning,

“It won’t be to dirty down there” I hear him think. “…and after all nobody can see me I’ve been drinking invisible juice all night”.

Two girls stood in the queue for food are heard to say,

“Isn’t that Ben Elton over there, look he’s picking a kebab up off the floor”?

“No, he’s too fat”, says the other.

So as he bends over to pick up his temporarily displaced meal.

Crash. Head first, straight into the advertising board outside the kebab shop. Glasses smashed. Eye cut.

“It’s all right” I heard him shout from the floor. “I’ve saved me Kebab.

Result.

“I’ve started jogging”, was another excellent quote. & to be fair, he had & cycling. This brings me nicely to the punch line of my tale. Larry goes on a 50 mile bike ride for charity. (As previously stated he is a great guy).

So come the day he sets off on his mountain bike. Six hours in the saddle, eventually crossing the finishing line at which point he collapses to the ground. Lying on his back like a star fish gasping for air.

He is then approached by a couple of other participants in this event, they are more serious cyclists.

“We just noticed you approaching the finish line”, says one. “We are very impressed”.

“Yes”, said the second. “Remarkable! Such effort, all that way”!

“We have never seen anyone ride 50 miles with knobbly (off road) tyres on their bike before”, added the first. “Must have took you hours”.

“We almost didn’t recognise you Mr Elton” said the second as they walked away chuckling.

“I’m not fat”, choked Larry.

Average Joe (0) Local Bike Shop (2)

mission aborted

2006-12-21T09:39:00.000Z

Back in the mid eighties Madonna was topping the charts. All the boys liked her & all the girls wanted to be her. When I first spoke with her I was filled with hope, curiosity & mostly lust. During our first conversation, little head was well & truly in charge. A mistake made all to often by lusty young men.
Now I’m no oil painting, I fully admit that. So with that in mind I decided to describe myself accordingly. Disappointment can be a terrible let down.

“What do you look like”? Said Madonna over the telephone.

“Alright, not bad I suppose. I do alright with girls”. I offered, in a middle of the road non-committal fence sitting what you see is what you get kind of approach.

Arranging blind dates over the telephone is not an easy affair & without the help of an independent third party who knows both willing contestants & can describe each to each can be a dangerous business.

“What do you look like”? I retorted with equal imaginary flare.

“Madonna”. She replied.

Now at this point the phrase, “Hook, line & sinker” would be very appropriate. I heard very little else of the conversation, only the time & the place of the arranged meeting.

“And don’t forget to bring a friend” said Madonna.

And so to Friday night. “Hey Rob”. “Hey mate”. Rob was a good lad. We’d been mates for a few years. He was a willing party to my little blind date with everyone’s favourite “Pop Diva” & her friend.

Spammed up we were. I was wearing navy blue tight semi flared trousers with a greenish “Pierre Cardin” jumper. & So was Rob. Both of us sporting very fashionable mullet haircuts. Irresistible!

The plan. Spend a few hours in the local, game of cards & once we’d drank enough “clever juice” & people had started going deaf we would get a “Joe “ into town.

We were due to meet “Madonna” & co at 11 bells outside a burger place in the center of town. So not wishing to keep the ladies waiting we were late. As we timidly approached the location I eagerly looked around for my pop star queen. Suddenly I hear a female shout,

“There they are”.

(Note to self never describe what you will be wearing to future blind date candidates).

I turned & looked as two figures came hurriedly over to us. A small not unattractive blonde accompanied by a large tall wrestler of a woman. Wearing a green canvas army coat. Anticipation turns to fear. What have I done? Her face orange, I had never seen so much makeup. It must have been put on with a trowel. I was pretty sure she hadn’t looked like this in any of her pop videos. The four of us made brief introductions, I didn’t hear much other than the pounding of my heart in my ears as the panic rose. In my head I scream,

“MADONNA”?

“MADONNA, MARF***KINGDONNA”?

“We are just going to get a burger, we will be back in a minute” said dishonest, deceitful, lying “Madonna” & off they went.

I turned to Rob. What’s this? A smile is breaking out across his face. Can this be the smile of a traitor, an assassin?

“Mine looks alright” he says. “Lets go for a few drinks & see”.

The horror. He wants to stay. I beg & plead. It’s no use. He is grinning now enjoying my discomfort. We only have moments before they return.

“Please lets go,” I whimper. “She’s awful”.
“No” he replied.

“MADONNA”!!!!! little head screams. I watch helpless as they walk back towards us. She gracefully disposes of her burger in two bites. Wipes mouth with wrapper & drops it on floor. Rob engages small blonde in playful “I’m all right Jack” type conversation. “Madonna” leers at me menacingly. I must get out of this, she will eat me alive. I will let her down gently, I think to myself. Kindly. So as not to upset her. She will understand. She will not be too upset. Yes, that’s what I will do. Everything is going to be okay.

“RUN”, I shout.

I’m off. I hurdle a nearby set of railings. I sprint through flowerbeds; I look over my shoulder & see Rob. Initially stood still with a look of shock on his face. Realisation sets in. He follows. As I knew he would. We sprint across town for two hundred yards. I am desperately trying to stop my slip on shoes from slipping off. We stop in an alleyway.

“She looked f**k all like Madonna” I pant.

“What”? Says Rob.

“Squash club” I suggest. “OK” replies Rob.

So off we go in a cab, back home to a local nightclub. Robs attempt at disloyalty forgotten. At the bar I order drinks, I turn to a girl stood to my right.

“You look like Madonna,” I say.

Average Joe (0) Shame (0)

killing miss daisy

2006-12-13T17:01:00.000Z

My pet hate, one of many I must add, is people using round-abouts. They drive on in the left hand lane & proceed to drive all the way round on the outside cutting everyone up & causing carnage. You know the ones. His wife in passenger seat driving, him behind the wheel glasses perched on end of nose. Refusing to turn his head to the right in response to loud horn blast. He doesnt turn his head for two reasons.

Wife wont let him & he doesnt like lip reading. Or sign language for that matter.

I become more incensed just thinking of what might be occurring inside their Rover.

“Just keep driving”, she says. “Ignore him”. “Maniac”. “He’s going to cause a crash driving like that’.

I picture them at home talking to family members, telling them about all the bad drivers they have come across on their trip to the Chiropodists.

I want to stop them. Drag them out of their immaculately polished love bug. Ram a copy of the Highway Code into their horrified faces. Screaming

“I am right. I am right. It is you that is wrong. You, not me. Don’t go home & tell your family it was me. Tell them I was right. Tell them you are grateful that I have pointed out your mistake & have corrected the error of your ways”.

I don’t. I slow down & give way. They drive off looking perplexed. I know she is tutting. I just know.

…..and so the daydream begins.

I have bought a 12-year-old child soldier on ebay for $50 of the Queens pounds. These mercenary young war veterans from various trouble spots around the globe seem the perfect solution to my dilemma &he fits into the boot of my car just perfect. As I drive across roundabout I am “attacked in the nearside lane by Roverman”.

He & his disapproving remote driving harridan of a wife are going to cut me up. NO. I accelerate, I move forward & it is I who cross into their path. I quickly give the command & child soldier opens the boot from the inside. He stands up. AK47 in hand & opens fire with a spray of bullets into the engine of Roverman.

With steam & fragmented metal everywhere Roverman stops. I look in the rear view mirror. I look into the eyes of remote control driver.

She is defeated.

I am victorious.

Julius Caesareo, my child soldier comrade is hungry.

MacDonald’s again! Please leave the rifle in the car I meekly request. He is eating a lot & growing. He has also taken to demanding to sit in the back seat of my car. In fact he has taken to demanding lots of things whilst waving his AK47 towards an increasingly nervous me.

“How can you sit in the back? I take aunty Mavis shopping on a Tuesday. She sits in the back of the car. You wouldn’t like aunty Mavis”.

My mind is racing; I see them in the car. Aunty Mavis forced to sit in the front. Continually complaining about being put out by the surly youth with a foreign accent sat in the back.

“What is he screaming”? She says. “What is that metal thing he is waving about’?

Me, getting flack on all sides. The pressure mounting. Speed bump.

BANG.

Aunty Mavis’s brains are now over the windscreen.

The horror!

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE”? I SCREAM” whilst slamming on the brakes.

“What have you done? How am I supposed to clean aunty Mavis off the dashboard.
“Some valetting firms charge upwards of FORTY pounds”.

My mind snaps out of this nightmare back into the previous daydream. (I Know, I know, complicated) I see war child stuffing Big Mac into his gob. I look out of the window & see a man parking his white transit van in car park. Another great idea!

“Come with me Julius”. We approach white van man. I eagerly explain the merits of child soldier in a kind of its similar to sat nav & everyone is going to want one style.

“My reason for selling him”? You ask. “He is just getting to big for my boot” I say.

So the deal is done. SEVENTY-FIVE pounds. A profit. Result. So off they go back into the burger bar we have just left.

I wave at Julius. He does not look back.

“I want BIG MAC” I hear him demand. “NOW”.

I slip away. I get into my car.

BANG.

Keep driving. Keep driving. I say to myself.

Average Joe (1) White Van Man (0) ish.

road rage on a tuesday

2006-12-08T18:31:00.000Z

I pick Tuesdays because it is a dull day & there is less chance of coming across anyone bigger or tougher than me who would be likely to thump me or outrage my rage.

I like to rage at other motorists without getting caught for fear of a confrontation. I like to rage from the safety of my car, and would prefer darkly tinted windows to further minimise the risk of getting caught ranting. Or even more preferably a tank.

On the odd occasion after being cut up by some maniac & exploding with expletive loaded anger I have been noticed by said maniac whilst in mid rant. In order to avoid getting slapped, I pretend to be singing along to an imaginary tune on the radio. If that doesn’t appear to be working I might add a little seated disco dancing move for good measure. God forbid I should get involved in a real fight & become pugalistically embarrassed at my lack of toughness.

In my head full of magic I annoy the people who annoy me first. I dream of the perfect day..........

............I am at the traffic lights at a busy junction. The lights are on red. A spotty faced boy racer pulls alongside me to my right driving an XRi - dickhead. He looks across & starts revving his engine. The lights are on red. He starts edging forward slightly. I remain cool & steely jawed. I would ideally be wearing sunglasses, be dressed in black, sat in a black car looking cooler than Clint Eastwood sat in the snow. The lights are on red.

I rev my machine once. His face turns to a grimace. Another rev - this time harder. He’s ready to race, he’s coiled like Schumacher on the starting grid. The lights are on red. I can almost smell spotty’s excitement. The lights are on red.
He’s going to burn me into the tar mac, crush me, destroy me.

I quickly turn from his gaze, face forward depress my foot on the accelerator & move my body quickly forward. What’s this? Shock appears across his spotty moon face. I’m going to beat him. He is going to lose the formula one to an average joe blow.

He slams his foot down & screeches off, wheels-a-spinning, smoke arising. It is the mother of all racing starts. 0 to 60 in a nano second.

Slam........

Straight into the side of a big bus crossing his path.

The lights are still on red. My car is still in neutral. I am smiling.

The lights change to green. I pull away, slowly negotiating the broken plastic parts of his car strewn across the road. Savoring the look on his red spotty face.

The bus undamaged, his car a write off.

I grin & puff on the imaginary cigar stub in the corner of my mouth. I almost wee.

Average Joe (1) Baseball Capped Turd (0).

"I can't hear when I'm eating"

2006-12-05T21:11:00.000Z

Mark & Mary, not their real names of course, changed to protect the innocent, but strikingly similar. They have been close friends of mine for almost forty years. They are both wonderful friends & lovely people.

In fact I had my first fight with Mary around the age of 6, a very early lesson in male pride. She leathered me.

This blog started out as a conversation in the pub one night. My wife & I were out when we bumped into M & M. It was a quiet Monday night & we settled into a comfy chat. During the evening as the beer was improving my intelligence, making everyone around me go deaf & turning me invisible (nobody can see or hear you when your drunk, it's a fact) I said something to Mark to which he replied "what"?. Mary chastised him saying "His hearing is shocking". Mark was eating crisps at the time. "He can't hear when he's eating", said she. "I can't hear when I'm eating", he said. "Something to do with the noise it makes inside my head whilst I'm chewing".

It was then that the tale was told. they were staying in a lovely Hotel for a romantic weekend away. At the end of the night they headed back to the hotel room with Kebab in hand for supper & just in time for Match of the Day. Both like football, "which is nice".

Mary whilst getting undressed & ready for bed decides she needs a number 2, so off she goes to the bathroom in bra & knickers. Leaving Mark in bed tucking into his half of the supper & watching telly.

Meanwhile in the bathroom Mary is struggling (she can't poo whithout reading). Then she remembers a coffee table just outside the hotel room with an array of magazines on it. So up she gets & walks out of the bathroom down the short corridor to the entrance door of their room.

Gingerly she opens the door & peeps outside. Looks left & right, no one about. Good. She reaches towards the table. Oh no. Whats this the table is too far away. Didnt see that coming did we. So she uses one foot steps out with the other & stretch. Dam still no good. Right plan "B". Lets check the springability of the door. Push let go. Push let go. About 5 seconds till it closes. Plenty of time. Push, step, stretch, pick up magazine, turn around & slam.....

The horror!

Oh dear. Not to worry. A quiet tap on the door should alert the ever loving Mark.

No reply. A louder knock. Silence, apart from the increasing volume of her heart pounding faster & louder. A louder knock & a little cry "Mark, its me. I'm locked out". Silence. A knock a bang a shout, still no reply. Lets not forget Mary has consumed some alcohol. She is almost invisible & surely all the other guests are deaf. No problem just bang & shout a little louder. No. Twenty minutes later the other guests who are obviously immune to self induced invisability & deafness are telephoning down to reception with increasing anxiety. Reporting a semi naked female who they can't quite hear & can only just see.

And so. Up comes the Manageress. A fine robust women with eyes that can pierce the invisibility shield of any drunken semi naked female desperately trying to turn an old copy of "Womans own" into a dress.

"What the devil is going on", she bellows. "Never mind I will speak to you in the morning". Key in door, door open. An embarassed & equally amazed that she can be seen Mary, is ushered into her room. Red cheeks of embarassment soon become the Rouge of Rage. She marches along the short corridor past the bathroom & into the room proper. Only to find the happy Mark just polishing of the remains of said Kebab.

"Where have you been" asks Mark innocently.

And so Mary explains with the full force of a freight train.

"But you know I can't hear when I'm eating", says he.

"Wheres my Kebab", says she.

"Oops".

Lights out, in bed, turn over.

A whisper, "Mary", he says romantically.

"NO CHANCE", says she.