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, 25 January 2011

Crime, coffin-dodgers and 'Grunt'

I love the crime in these paarrrrtts. It’s so namby-pamby and, ‘How very dare you!” When I think back to the horror of what was contained within the pages of The Walthamstow Guardian, it still gives me the heebeejeebies. Here, there’s various accounts in the local press of youths being given a ‘good talking to’ about the error of their ways. Try that any of that caper in London, and they’ll have your truncheon off you and be bashing it in your bollocks before you can say ‘Juliet Bravo’.

"How very dare you!" It's an oldie, but still a goodie.

Pick the bones out of this fucker...
           You get quite a few car accidents down this way, too. Mostly, it’s the coffin-dodgers – they’re all at it. Last year one of them just drove into the window of the hairdressers. Willy nilly, if you please. And others just seem to randomly veer off the road – maybe a sign that they shouldn’t be cruising around when their afternoon nap is due. You should see them, shooting off at all angles, down that ditch, up that cow’s arse. If they ever got any faster than 20 miles an hour, I swear one of them is going to be meeting the Big Chief earlier than they’d like.
Anyhoo…I’ve had a funny old few days: I came over all holier than thou and wrote a story without any foul language in it. And I don’t mind telling you, it’s taken it out of me. Nearly cracked open the Ovaltine. What next? I hear you say. Effing poetry? Nah, I don’t think so. The only way I could recover from my ordeal was by reclining on my sofa and snotting and guffawing to Peep Show last night.
The story was lobbed off to Mslexia yesterday for their annual short story competition. I think a cast of thousands go in for it. Nice work at £10 a pop. If I knew what day of the week it was, I’d start my own literary mag called ‘Grunt’ (or similar) and would let any old sod grease my palm with quivering tenners in exchange for a guest appearance opposite a vodka advert. I can see it all now…

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