Random mutterings, sighing and gasping, finger jabbing, brow dabbing and general bleatings about everyday bollocks. Brought to you by Angie Annetts, author of the highly-acclaimed short story collection, 'Tales From Around The Bend'. http://www.talesfrom.co.uk/

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

How To Write A Sitcom, Youffs and Karma

Forgive me. I've been a bit of an old shitter and deserted my admiring millions for longer than one intended. I'd love to tell you I've been serving a small custodial sentence for assaulting ditherers. Or for attempting to shoplift the entire vodka section of Tesco. Or even that I've been recuperating from the Mother of all Benders.
    But it's far worse than that: I've been working on my sitcom. And worserer than that - I'm making progress. I know, hard to believe, but it's true. Admittedly, I started off a bit howsyerfather and flapping around like a haddock that's just had the bath plug pulled on it, but then I met Marc. And Marc made everything better for me.

Marc Blake. My hero.
When I win my first award, this fucker will be getting a mention.
(Then I'll tap him up for a few bob, seeing as I'd just
endorsed his book. And his courses look pretty good too.
And then he can get the first couple of rounds in.)

So yes, it's happening. And as it turns out (and according to Marc) I was doing okay in the first instance. So why I spent £14.99 on his bollocks, I'll never know. And let's not forget, children, £14.99 can buy you a litre of vodka. Maybe I'll sue the fucker.
   One casualty though - avid readers of this blog may well remember the pub cat who blatantly (and without a kiss yer arse or anyfing) sprawled out on my sitcom notebook and basically just took the piss - is now dead. And as tempting as it was, it weren't me. Although I do wonder if there is any connection between this (semi-tragic) event and a scrawled post-it-note in Marc's handwriting that was stuck to my vodka chalice. It said, 'Diss my book and you're dead, bitch'. Nah. Can't be. Me? Luscious moi? He must be talking about a doggie. And as long as it ain't Wally Dog (or a couple of other buddies) he can do what the fuck he likes. Fucking authors. And shysters.
   So. Christmas. What a load of bollocks. Can't stand it. Don't do it. The hypocrisy and conformity make me want to gag. And don't even start me on paper hats. But I do do drinking. And I do do things that are pleasing on the eye. And that helps me through the annual horrorfest that is Christmas.

Look everybody!
A drinking establishment with its best outfit on.

And then, to prove that I'm really not a totally grumpy cow about Christmas (ahem), I went to Bath. And had an ogle of their Christmas market.

They don't fuck about in Bath.
Chalet stalls all over the gaff (selling overpriced shit that you
could happily live the rest of your life without ever owning) and green
fluorescent paint lobbed all over the Roman Baths. Quality. 

And then I found this total legend of a tree.
He'd shaken all his Christmas decorations off him,
and told organisers to 'Stop fucking abharrrt'.
I don't think this tree likes Christmas very much either.

Imagine my delight when I stumbled across this man
tossing his fudge around in a shop window (and therefore
affording me several golden opportunities to nudge
curious cherub-faced children in the ribs).

And just when you think things can't get any better. Lo. The good lord sent me a load
of youffs stuck in a lift. (This was in one of those cinema/eatery complexes that drunken
old shits like me shouldn't be allowed into). Furthermore, hopeful that someone might
recognise one of this mob and ignite maximum piss-taking and embarassment, I've made
this photo bigger. I'm all heart like that. Lastly, I think that lad at the back, to right, trying
to get me to score him a pint of lager was a bit fucking hopeful.

By now, I was ready for drink. So I ruthlessly did. And I went into wonderous pubs. All battered and old. And I heroically drank vodka in them. Like a true pro. But the problem with heroically drinking is that it costs vodka vouchers. And I'm a skint fucker. So I resorted to Plan B. Minatures of vodka. Strategically placed in my jacket pockets for bloody expensive pubs.

Can anyone spot the schoolgirl error I made here?

And finally. Finally. (And it took some doing). When I'd had my fill.
I ran off. As for some unknown reason, I have a habit (on occasion)
of running when I'm pissed. Although, I must confess, that upon closer
inspection, it does look as though I have also turned into a plane from
The Dam Busters.

Maybe you're thinking that my great time in Bath thawed me a bit about my attitude to Christmas. Nah. Did it fuck? Worse than that, my total disinterest meant that one evening as me and the old man set off for our midweek gym session and turned into the town square to get to our car, we were greeting not only by a cordoned off section of street and a big fuck-off notice saying Please Do Not Park Here On Wednesday Because The These Parrrts Christmas Fayre Will Be On, but also the sight of our car on the wrong side of the cordone. And right in front of the Town Hall. And surrounded by Christmas botherers. Lo.

This is the growing throng waiting for the Town Crier and some other old shit to come out and
turn the Christmas lights on. Which actually turned out to be one length of lights draped willy nilly
around the front of the Town Hall. And frankly, not worth the bus fare.

Shortly after, this fucking mob rocked up to sing Carols around our car.
Some of them had the audacity to look indignant and put out that our car was fucking
up the ging gang goolieness of the occasion. Did they give one flying fuck that I was missing
out on a lard-busting gym session. Did they fuck? Selfish pricks.

Now. I'm not sure if any of you humans believe in Karma. I think I do. And although I like to think of myself as a kind, warm hearted, fluffy bunnykins of a person, I think I got a little payback for not 'entering the Christmas spirit'. (Although, I've been magnificent drinking it. Boom. Boom). Lo.

I got mugged by these fuckers last night.
I was trying to gain access to the pissoir of my choice,
and they jumped me. And I fell over badly. And said the
'fuck' word. A lot. And then I had to get up. And walk into
the pub looking like a bellend. Who had just fallen over.
Oh the shame of it all.

And then, in a futile attempt to gain sympathy (large vodkas and diet cokes),
I had to show off some of many wounds and milk it a bit.
Not one fucker. Not one...

And because I'd been rolling and thrashing around on the tarmac,
as though fighting an imaginary crocodile, I was covered in shit and piss.
And still. Not one fucker. Not even a fucking sniff of the Vladivar bottle.

And if all that weren't bad enough, when I went out this very morning to score some milk I found this outside my front door. Done in that stuff you lob around your bathtub.

You can't make this shit up, can you?

Loyal followers of this blog will be aware of the magnitude of horror that has previously greeted me when limping out of my drum. I've had man mountains of horse shit. Every dog in Devon has pissed up the front of my gaff. Or dropped Mister Whippy dog turds outside. And now this. I don't know what to say.
Except, Merry Christmas everybody. Nuts and tangerines for all.

Being a creative type, my ego needs massaging on a level that is off the scale. So if you could find it in your heart to forward this on to someone you like (or maybe can't stand), lob it on Facebook or Twitter, or perhaps write the link in silicone outside people's houses, I'd be ever so grateful. Really I would. God bless you all.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Ball Bags, Funeral Parlours and The Plodmobile

Hello. I'm back. Which means only one thing: Eng-er-land are out of the Rugby World Cup. And worse than that, they deserve to be. Having behaved like Eng-er-land footballers off the pitch and like a bunch of Pepsis and Shirleys on the pitch, they got dissed last weekend. By the French. (How rude). Yes, baguettes were firmly rammed up Eng-er-lish arses. There was pate squirting out the sides and crumbs all over the gaff. Not a pretty sight at all. When the final whistle (finally) got tooted, it was trebles all round for the French and a horse and cart to the airport for our mob. And worse than any of this, at time of writing, Wales are still in the bloody thing. (Give me strength).

I did have a couple of pictures of the Eng-er-land boys arriving back at Heathrow yesterday (to a crowd of fuck all), and I entertained thoughts of lobbing them on here with a couple of jocular captions (naturally, at their expense). But then I found this.

I think this says it all, really.

What else? Oh yeah. When I last left you, I was wailing about how I wouldn't go the bloody carnival. How it was all bollocks and shite. How I'd rather put hot coals down my undercrackers than stand on a kerbside waving at overweight cherub-faced children twirling batons and high-kicking youffs on brightly coloured floats. Well, the upshot is - I went. I tried sitting in, with Old Fart TV on, but everything was getting whipped into such a frenzy outside that I drank an 'appropriate' amount of vodka and went out for a nosey. I also had about my person a small bottle of diet coke, into which (after drinking some mouthfuls of said diet coke) I rammed a fist load of vodka. Which is really, the only way to watch a carnival.

And to think, I could have missed seeing this grown man sitting astride an
un-lifelike horse and doing laps of the town. Doesn't bear thinking about.

By the time the chickens limped around the corner, I was really quite pissed.

Look at this girl giving me the hairy eyeball. Having realsied that (a) I'm half-cut and
(b) I have alcohol about my person, she stops dead in her routine and
fleetingly contemplates wrestling me to the ground and nicking my vodka.
It was at this juncture, that I smiled at her. Which scared her shitless.

Naturally, this level of excitement was always going to be impossible to maintain. So I left them to it and went to the pub. And naturally, a town like These Parrrrrts was never going to be able to handle this level of excitement. 

These Parrrrrts Plod, feeling somewhat left out by the recent riots and looting
in the grown-up towns, apprehend this youff for wearing a hoodie.  

Unbelievably, the youff got lobbed into the Plodmobile and taken
downtown to be further questioned about his choice of outfit for
the evening. I had wanted to rush outside and come to the defence of the
poor innocent youff, but someone had just got a round in. So I left him
to a bit of police brutally instead. I'm sure he'll understand. One day..

Other big news since I was last here: Wally Dog turned gay. For a while. I think it's called 'experimenting'. Anyhoo, whatever way you dress it, he 'let himself down' by rogering another dog in the pub. No blinds, no curtains, no nuffin. Right next to the bar. By the pork scratchings. Naughty Wally Dog.

This is Wally Dog looking suitably sorry for himself after his Dad
plot explained to him that humping a boy terrier is not the way forward.

After a brief period of reflection, Wally Dog defiantly orders a Light and bitter
in an attempt to display how macho and hetero he is.
We understand from Dad, that Wally Dog has now put this 'episode' behind him...

Meanwhile a recent walk around Sidmouth uncovered this beauty.

I think the clue's there as to what the average age is in Sidmouth....

And a trip to the local Spar shop, threw these into the arena.

The ideal Valentine present.
Says me. Who once got a heart-shaped potato off the old man.

But enough of this nonsense! I hear you cry. What's occuring with the sitcom. Well, thank you for asking. It's going the right way. Slowly. And as I don't have so much time to write these days, I guess it'll continue slowly. But it will get there (like British Rail).
What I have found more than a tad difficult is putting down my work head and putting my creative head on. If you get my drift. And as I work from home, some days it just ain't easy to suddently change hats. So a few weeks ago, as the sun was farting out the last of the summer's heat, I took a long, long walk. To 'think'.

Having walked from These Parrrrts to Seaton seafront (down there below),
I got a tread on and climbed up some hilly stuff.

And then I limped along here.
Which wasn't wholly unpleasing on the eye.

Then I reached this bit. This looks down on to the beach at Beer.
Whenever they cover East Devon on 'Escape to the Country' (or These Parrrts),
this is the beach the twonko presenter always presents from. And very nice too.

And then I got to the 'descent' part of proceedings.
And because I am a useless Jessie with no sense of balance,
I had to take 'Route B' which is the gentle slope for old doddery
scrotes. And alcoholic Jessies.

So I arrived in Beer. And I found an appropriate bench with an appropriate view. And I did some more of that thinking stuff. And after a bit of that thinking stuff, 'things' began to fall into place. And I got my trusty jumbo pad out my bad, uncapped my trusty 'writing' felt tip, and cracked on. Amongst it all, I came up with a scene, that should my sitcom ever see the light of day, would be the stuff of legend. So it was a good afternoon. A productive afternoon. I felt I had 'achieved'. So then I phoned the old man to come and collect me. And take me to the pub. As I was animated and 'over excited' by how things were coming together. And I wanted to talk to him about it. And have a drink. So he did. He jumped in the wagon and picked me up from Beer. And took me to my local in these parrrrrts. Where this happened.

Yes. It's the pub cat. Stretched out on my sitcom. Willy Nilly.
Without a care in the world. Fuck you, it's saying to me.
Fuck you. And fuck your sitcom. And I can't stand cats. So now
I've got essence 'o' cat on my sitcom. I may have to kill the cat.
Or start my sitcom all over again.
Or maybe, I'll get Wally Dog to shag it to death.
Now, that would make a cracking blog picture. Mmmm....

Thank you for having the ball bags to read my blog. As I'm desperate to inflict myself on as much of the human race as possible, please share this classically written blog on Facebook, Twitter or whatever other nonsense is floating around out there that I'm too clapped out to know about.
I thank you.  

Friday, 9 September 2011

The All Blacks' Secret, Concorde and A Jumbo Pad

It's here. It arrived this morning and I've already passed out twice. Not to mention a couple of blindly thrashing lunges to get to the karzie in time. Yes, it's Rugby World Cup time and I've come over all queer.

Oh, go on then. If I have to.

The opening game saw those nice young chaps from New Zealand, in their nice black outfits, playing some big fatty boom booms from Tonga (I bet they can all shit a pan full...). Anyhoo, they had their dance off at the start (I have already blogged my thunderpants off about hakas and dance offs. So, if you've ruthlessly missed it - or had the gaul to blatantly ignore it, but want to make it up to me and become my new bezzie mate; here's the link).

Unnervingly, Tonga devoted a large part of their allocated dance-off time to
the tried and tested tactic of trying to catch their opponents off guard by doing
the old, 'Look! It's Concorde!' routine. Meanwhile, the wily old fox at the front
adopted the strategy of pretending his plimsole's fucked.
Alas, it was Tonga who got fucked in the end. They lost 41 - 10.

Yes, they're bloody good those All Blacks. I don't know how they do it.
Actually, that's a complete lie. I do know how they do it. And because I like you, I'm going to tell you how. But you mustn't tell anyone else, okay? If those All Blacks find out I've given their secret away, then I fear I may wake up one day with a (decorative) maori stick inserted (brutally) up my crapper. And we wouldn't want that. Well, not on a school day. Here goes...

They talk a lot about 'getting the basics right' in rugby - but no fucker's got a clue
what this means. All the other countries believe it's some kind of 'urban myth'.
But the All Blacks know wotswot. So their secret to getting the basics right?
Simples. Throw the ball to someone in a matcing outfit.
Check out the picture. Man in saucy black outfit throws the ball (with an element
of flourish) to someone else in a saucy black outfit.

Which results in said someone else in saucy black outfit scoring a jolly nice try.
And 10/10 for artistic impression.

So now, I'm bracing myself for Eng-er-land's first game tomorrow against the Argies. Which by all accounts should be a real fuck up as Eng-er-land will have black outfits on - but the All Blacks wear black, and they aren't playing tomorrow, so I don't know how Eng-er-land are going to throw the ball to the men in black, and now my head hurts just thinking about. I'm praying it's going to get abandoned by some rogue sub-standard stitching in their shorts.

Naturally, the old man's girding himself for Sunday's clash between the Mighty Springboks and our old mates, Wales. Naturally, being a Springbok fan he has the standard calm aura of smugness about him and has taken to goading anyone Welsh (or with a singsong voice). I fear this is a strategy he may not have entirely thought through, as one of the guvnors who kindly dispenses me emergency vodka is Welsh. And I wouldn't want any taps being turned off. No Siree.

Sometimes the old man wakes me up as his legs are going like the clappers under
the duvet. At times like this, I know he's having his favourite dream of Bryan Habana
'dotting one down' after leaving a trail of (hopelessly) lunging boyos in his wake.

But despite the smugness and the puffed-out chest, he still gets
the odd nightmare. 

With all these games been shown early in the morning, I've had to knock the pub on the head and go a bit limp on the drinking side of things - otherwise, I'll never be able to slide down the bannister and onto my couch in time for the kick-off (or dance-off).  And replays are for poofters.

But in these parrrrts, it's our annual Carnival tomorrow night and some audacious humans keep pestering me to go. I keep saying, fuck off - it's shite. But they're not having any of it.

Carnivals. Do I look like I want to stand on a kerb waiting for Spooky Choochoo
HuckyDuck to limp past with some waving youfs can-canning on it? And every
year the procession gets stuck on our narrow streets (cos I have actually tried
all this caper), resulting in a good 10 minutes of the same Spooky Choochoo HuckyDuck
float stuck in front of you, and the same gurning youfs hoofing their legs about.
Sometimes I fantaize about having a slingshot...
...and when it all gets going again, a relieved ripple of applause breaks out...

Then you get all this caper. Give me strength.

They've got the right idea on the continent; they propel the fuckers
through the air.

And naturally there'll be all this kind of horror floating around.
Munch one of those, and I'll be spending the duration of the world cup
camped out in the karzie.

 No. I'll be better off having a quiet night in with my favourite liver basher.
And up nice and early for the ruggers. After all, I've waited four bloody years
for it. Whereas, Spooky Choochoo Whateverthefuckitwascalled will be limping
around in twelve months time.
And then, I'll still ignore it.

If you like rugby, I wish your team well. And beyond that, I wish all the players the best and hope that no one has to suffer the heartbreak of an injury during (what I hope to be) a fantastic World Cup.
I'm having a blog break for a month. Why? I hear you cry (once the smelling salts have rendered you conscious once more). Two reasons. (1) The bleeding obvious. It's world cup time and I'll be getting up at peculiar hours, which in turn may make me 'tetchy' and tired. Plus I'm busy getting boss-eyed in the day job.
(2) I've finally started work on a sitcom. There, I've told you. So now I'll have to finish it. Or you'll diss me and have me marked down as a rubbish tart. Yes, I finally got a jumbo pad, a new quill pen and started my sitcom. I can't tell you too much about it at the moment or you'll wake up with a (decorative) maori stick inserted (brutally) up your crapper. But I can tell you that I aim to keep true to my style (as vile as it is..) and give it a bash. Naturally, if any of you out there are bezzie mates with the head of comedy at Channel 4, give me the nod; there'll be a large voddies in it for you.

So back in a month (unless I find an overwhelming urge to blog and just break down and do it - like the big jessy I am). Hopefully, I would have made progress with my sitcom (catchy working titles I'm kicking around are 'Moist' or 'Slack'....that is, in fact, an untruth...). And hopefully, Eng-er-land will be marching on (and back in their nifty white outfits).

Be well. Byeeeeee!

PS. If any of you have got a photo of those fuckers who put a (invariably) straw hat and box of tissues on the ledge in the back windows of  their car, please forward it on to me. These fuckers need some serious dissing.
And I'm just the top tart to do it.

If you've enjoyed my blog, please treat it like a venereal disease, and spread it around. I recommend Twitter and Facebook and all that other social media bollocks. I thank you.

Friday, 26 August 2011

Raw Sewage, Thunderpants and Jenga

I’m not doing a blog this week. I can’t be arsed, quite frankly. And furthermore, there’s no point; it’s Bank Holiday weekend here in sunny Eng-er-land, so no one’s around to read it as they’re all busy shoe horning their brats into a car so they can fuck off from their parts to come to these parrrrts.

That's it, you little shits. Any noise from you over the next 5 hours and there'll be big twubbles...

Part of me doesn’t blame them for wanting to hoof it down here. It’s nice getting away from the big smoke. And into our wonderful sea.

Look at us, everybody! We're wading in raw sewage! 

Having rustled a couple of crisp packets and whined "How much further?" 312 times
during the journey, the little shits take their first tentative steps into the Pissfest that
is the sea, where, as their punishment they must remain for 2 hours. Or until they turn
blue. (Whichever comes first). 

Elsewhere, this old tosser's attempt to play 'chicken' with the waves comes a cropper,
when miscalculating what a slow fuck he's become, resulting in his feet becoming
embedded in two hefty turds. 

 Look at this silly cow. She might have a fit body, but she's up to her giblets in
festering logs...

But it’s not all bad news.

It's good to know there's still plenty of good wholesome family fun to be had at
the seaside....

So as you see, there’s no point in blogging this week. Which is just as well really, as I really need to have a chill as I’ve been getting far too over excited about the impending Rugby World Cup (this, in the main, has involved vaulting random items of furniture, heroically drinking vodka and shaking my fist towards Wales). So it’s probably best if I retire to my chaise longue for a bit and take some time out.

Experience tells me, that the only way to fully relax and contemplate Johnno's squad
selection for the Rugby World Cup, is to sport some capable-looking thunderpants
and spark up an exotic snout.

Sometimes, I get soooo chilled on my chaise longue that I nod off and dream of Eng-er-land lifting the World Cup again.

Cor! What a drinkfest I had that day... 

But sometimes, my dream turns to a nightmare.

Yep. It don't get no worse than that. 
Some demented fool tried telling me they beat Eng-er-land a few weeks ago, but
I just did the loud 'La-La-La-La' noise with my hands over my ears. And then
I punched them out in a stylish fashion ( and becoming of a wearer of thunderpants...).

So I’ll be flopping around, willy nilly, this Bank Holiday weekend. Someone told me there’s a couple of games of international rugby on the box, but I’m not sure whether to believe them or not.

And as for the flocking tourists to these parrrts? Well, at time of writing, I can report that in true Eng-er-leeeesh tradition – it’s pissing down. In fact, I’d go as far to say, it’s pissing down cats and dogs.

I don't know what rain you get where you come from - but let me tell you,
in these parrrts, it's hardcore.

Still, to escape the rain, they can always scrape the turds off their feet and try out one of lovely Devon inns.

Those of you who are legends and are loyal followers of my blog, will doubtless recognise
this pic from a few weeks back, when I (ruthlessly and) wholeheartedly took the piss out
of this culinary event (and extravaganza).

Word on the street is; only two fuckers fronted up for it. Which in turn has now led to this as a permanent fixture.

Mmm. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Is it conceivable that there may (and
against all the odds) be a 'surplus' of pies left over? And please note; the veggies
have been fucked off out of it. Plus - WHAT'S HAPPENED TO THE PEAS???? 

Something….deep down…almost a spiritual voice…is telling me, and maybe I’ve got it all wrong…and maybe I’m being unfair, unjust and a total drunken bitch…but something is telling me…that this mob can’t cook. Maybe, I should limp over and offer up some tips to help them shift their pie ‘surplus’ (which at this juncture, I feel could run into thousands...). Maybe pie and pineapple chunks on the bar or how about a pie eating contest?

One can only imagine the utter horror this contestant feels upon hearing that,
having eaten her entire body weight in out-of-date pies, she's only a tenth of
the way through her quota...

Or my personal favourite, Pie Jenga. If they got the ‘community’ involved, they could construct it in the town square, where it would end up towering high up in the skies. Pie upon pie upon pie. And then we could strap some ribbons (and wotnot) to it and use it as a maypole for cherub-faced children to dance around (and randomly squirt brown sauce over the pies). If you have any other thoughts on pie-shifting, please lob them in the comment box below. You never know, they may find a good home.

In the meantime, happy Bank Holiday – wherever you are.

And I leave you with a picture of an early Pie Jenga Construction in these parrts.
(By all accounts they knew fuck all about pie promotion in those days as well...).

As for me, I won’t be doing another blog soon.

Blogging still takes it out of me. It also interferes with my drinking duties. So, if you've enjoyed my blog, please share it on Twitter, Throb, Facebook, Gusset, Squawk etc. Or maybe you could come over all heady and reckless and resort to the outdated (and much scoffed at) word of mouth. I Bless you and Thank You x