Royal Wedding, March Of The Mods and Fireworks

As the country steadies itself for tomorrows Royal Wedding, I feel I ought to be whipping myself into a frenzy, (and be half-buried under a sea of commemorative tea towels, mugs and johnnies) but to be honest, I’m still reeling from the day that Charles and Diana juddered along the aisle, parked up, stuck the handbrake on and said, ‘I do’. Do you remember that? Mental wasn’t it? And she even called him Philip Charles, rather than the other way round. Some say this was ‘nerves’. I say she was about to call him a ‘prick’, but bottled it at the last moment and recovered just enough to call him ‘Philip’ instead. With hindsight, she should have gone with her gut instinct.

"Listen to me, you dozy bint. If you don't get one's name right, then

one is going to ram one's ceremonial sword up one's crapper."

Not only does Diana blatantly disobey Prince Charlie, but also

defiantly strains out a Mr Whippy on the red carpet for good measure.

            Yes indeedy, it’s true; I was one of the millions who got swept along in the tidal wave of hysteria that surrounded the wedding of Old Big Ears to Bambi, back the early 80’s. It was hard not to: she seemed alright and fronted up for photo shoots in a see through skirt. And as for Charles, I think the nation was just grateful he was finally being off-loaded so he could crack on with his breeding to-do list. Yes, the nation approved – it was trebles all round.

            I even broke down and went to a huge firework display in honour of ‘the’ wedding in London’s Hyde Park. And it was mobbed there. After the initial deluge of fireworks there was a lull. “Go on! Open another box!” I bellowed out, with a cupped hand to my mouth. This amused me somewhat, and I had a little snort and guffaw and a micro snot. Unnervingly, those in close proximity to me just cast a stony (and disapproving) expression in my direction.

That was a classic example of when I amuse myself, but sadly, no one else. It happens to me quite a lot.

Back in the 80's the public were also known for showing their support for

the Royal Wedding by performing The March Of The Mods enmass.

Even the police horses joined in.

I also used to devote a lot of the time doing Diana impressions. This involved resting my chin (at an angle) on folded palms and looking up with a doe-like, blinking expression. I would also make small pursing movements with my mouth – which must be said, had nothing to do with Diana – and may have had a bit more to do with a gold fish I once had when I was young.

My Prince Charles impression used to amuse me greatly, and simply involved spreading the fingers on both hands and then pressing them together (at about mid-chest height –if you’re trying this at home) and just saying, “One…” (as a drawn out word) as you stretched your lower lip as wide and as low as you could. At this juncture, you were free to add whatever you wanted to your ‘one’, i.e. “One thinks that Tim Henman is an awful little shit”. Or maybe, “One thinks one may have dropped one”. And so on. And so forth. To make this impression as realistic as possible, one must push one’s eyebrows up and making small shaking movements of the head when speaking.

I could do my impressions for ages. And did; when I was pissed.

So as you can imagine, come their big day, I was already exhausted.

And then five years later, we had to endure Prince Andrew and Fat Fergie rocking up at the alter with high fives and Toblerone crumbs all over the gaff.

And then everyone got divorced. And the other prince and the other bird didn't count.

So I’m finding it a bit hard to get overly whoop-wooey about this wedding. I wish them well in their married life – waving, breeding, more waving, more breeding, day out at Ascot and a humorous cameo appearance on Comic Relief…but fear this is being somewhat overshadowed by encountering an endless stream of fuckers who think they’re the first person in existence to say, “Did you get an invite to the wedding? I didn’t. Mine must still be in the post, hah hah”.  

(To date) I have exhibited enormous restraint when confronted with such tedious bollocks of this magnitude.

So what for tomorrow? The Royal couple being fanfared into the Abbey by vuvuzelas? Prince Harry texting from the hot seats? The choir boys breaking into a bit of street dance (body popping and all that kind of caper)?  A mexican wave by the congregation as the happy couple say their vows? Or maybe a ‘Spot The Hip Flask’ competition? (After all, the Queen is her mother’s daughter - and has had to sit through an inordinate amount of tedious shit in her lifetime).

Or maybe, just maybe, to show how ‘in touch’ our young Royals are with the modern era, they’ll just do away with the traditional balcony kiss and cut to the chase, with Wills hoofing up Katie’s frock and giving her the rogering of her lunchtime. Now, that would get the global viewing figures up.

Close, but no cigar.

Andrew goes for a quick fumble and a delve, but falls short of going up her kilt entirely

under the guise of rehearsing to be the rear end of a panto horse for a Comic Relief sketch...

Play yer cards right Katie, and there'll be fireworks coming from that balcony tomorrow.

Just off to wrestle up some bunting.

Rubbish, Wally Dog and T-shirts

This, (I'm afraid) is going to be a lazy man's blog today, with lots of pics and less writing (although it has come to my attention that some of you Pepsis and Shirleys out there prefer my pictures to my gobby words - which is cool by me. Sorting out the pictures and captions for this blog is great fun and gives me a huge snort). So lots of pics today/less gob. You see, I've not been in blog mode this last week as I've been more than a bit under the weather - and fear that my body is finally blowing raspberries at my lifetime of self-abuse, over-indulgence and various other knickynackynoos. And on top of all that, I went to London yesterday. And saw this.

How rude. Someone's just dumped a black bag full of rubbish on the pavement.

Bloody Londoners.

So I turned around and came straight back to this.

Ah, that's better. Pub. Horse. Vodka.

Horse shit.



And I had a cuddle with Wally Dog, to make me feel better.

This is Wally Dog. Just look at that confident approach to the bar. He's the bollocks.

One day I am going to dognap Wally Dog...a plan which may be slightly flawed as I repeatedly

keep telling his owner  this (when I am repeatedly drunk). 

So there you have it. I've been too tom and dick (and howsyerfather) to create my usual tirade of Angie-style observations (and wotnot). So instead, (children) I'm going to show you how I've recently produced the world's best T-shirt known to mankind. Steady yerself....

Printing screens on my kitchen table.



Because I am hopeless, I didn't take pics of how I made the screens. But screens I made; and if you're that arsed (want to make yer own) contact me and for a small fee (vodka and/or Wally Dog) I'll fess up to you.



Unsuspecting pile of t-shirts.

I made sure I had some t-shirts to print on, otherwise my t-shirt printing session would have deemed a total failure.

Inks huddling together through fear of being used brutishly.

And I had a load of these little shits.

Now we're cooking with gas.

Strap screen into position. Lob ink on. And with plastic squeegee thing (which I got totally fleeced for), bundle the ink back and forth over the screen.

Ink that has been duly bundled back and forth...

This is a crucial stage in proceedings...if your mind wanders, or you attempt to answer your mobile or rustle up a light supper during the bundling section, then you may 'take your eye off the ball' and spread ink willy nilly all over your t-shirt. This would be deemed as a 'fuck up' and you would need to "ABORT! ABORT!" (said in a dalek voice), and start all over. And the fucked up t-shirt would suffer the ultimate humilation and be turned into a duster. And we wouldn't want that.

Ta Dah!

Peel off screen and with a handy heat gun, bake the ink on, so once you wash your prized t-shirt these deep and meaningful words will remain.

Next stage, strap down screen of unreliable looking pants (a.k.a. undercrackers)

Yarda yarda

And this what I've lobbed on the back.

The word needs to be spread (like a tub of marge..)

"The Sea Is No One's Mama"

You heard it here first...

Yes, it's that classic line from my recent blog entitled, 'Short Stories, Moth Turd and Nuttiness'. In case you are wondering why this important (and historic) picture is upside down, the answer is, 'dunno'. It leaves my desktop the right way up, but lands on here upside down. Maybe there are dark forces at work within my computer.

Anyhoo, I got a move on and did these.

And in my excitement, I failed to keep the camera still for  this pic.

I have also failed to impart to you the fact that there is a www.talesfrom.co.uk '

byline' running at a jaunty angle down the side of the t-shirt. I am a right tit.

These are some other ones I made earlier.

I am particularly proud of my lifelike drawing of a fly. And a drum. And the sun...

When in doubt, given 'em the finger.

I sold this one on Ebay (but can bash out more) to some chap from Scotland.

 I have since wondered when he might get the opportunity to wear it..

Not one to labour a point, I went ape shit crazy and bashed out loads of

'I am not a tourist' t-shirts. Humans do seem to go a bundle on them...

Here's to you, Mrs Robinson.

 And for the laydees...

Sometimes I can't stop myself (and this isn't even half of it..)

So there you have it. Screen. Ink. T-shirt. Hours of fun for all the family.

If you fancy a Damp Flannel t-shirt contact me on angie@talesfrom.co.uk (subject line: What a top tart you are) and I'm sure we can come to arrangement that won't break the bank (I couldn't bear to see someone go without a drink). And if you give me a bloody good (ie. funny and favourable) reason why I should give you one for gratis, then let me know and I'll wing one over to you. Likewise, if you've seen any other t-shirts you wouldn't mind strutting around in, get in touch.

As for me, I'm cream crackered. This turned out to be more of a slog than I thought - and it's interfered with me doing my dying swan act, all limp and pathetic-like (with a series of sympathy attracting coughs and splutters).

Hang on a minute...it's Friday night. Hello.

This blog may contain nuts. It may also contain errors. I would love to spend the rest of my evening pouring over said blog, but need to exit (fairly pronto), stage left, for a hot date with Wally Dog.

Breeding, Chimneys and Ho Ho Ho

Thankfully, I had the very good manners not to become a parent. For starters, I would have been crap at it. I mean, come on; some mornings I can barely wrestle my own undercrackers on, let alone having to deal with somebody else’s. Nah, children are just too needy for my liking. And they whine (and whimper) and tug a lot. And generally get on my tits. Furthermore, if I’d bred, they’d have interfered with me doing what the buggery I like – and I’m far too much of a selfish moo to be putting up with any of that caper.

            So I didn’t have any. And that’s a good thing. 

            On occasion, I chance upon a small person that doesn’t have me running for the nearest flame thrower. And I have, on occasion, been known to (briefly) engage with a child-type thing (when I’m feeling all glowing and human, and like one of those tarts from a hairspray advert). But it doesn’t happen that often. And besides, I’m not qualified to yak about Hannah Montana, Lego, knickbocker glories (and the suchlike).

I have a recurring nightmare...

            For some god forsaken reason, babies seem to like me. When I see one in the supermarket, getting wheeled around in the hot seat of a trolley, its eyes will lock on me and it begins to gurgle and clap, and generally bounce around a bit with a soppy grin on its face. Perhaps they like the smell of alcohol. Or maybe, they sense someone else who is devoid of responsibility and likes to spend their time pissing around. I have been known to give these little things a gummy smile back in return.

            I expect some of you think that I’m being a ‘bit harsh’ on the tiddlers. And maybe I am. Maybe, (just maybe) I should be directing my harshness towards – and I think I could be onto a winner here – the loathsome scrote(s) who thought it would be a good idea to permit children into the hallowed adult domain that is, ‘The Pub’. And moreover, perhaps I should point a quivering finger of rage towards the berks of parents who think it’s acceptable for their offspring to conduct shrieking laps of said pub, whilst us grown-ups are trying to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet, get pissed and talk bollocks (and maybe embark on a light-hearted scuffle on the way home). And, it’s just no place for children. Pubs are for grown-ups to drink their way through their pocket money. Children are for doing homework, cleaning the car and going up chimneys.

Going up the chimneys from the age of three hasn't done this lad any harm...

...apart from his bolloxed knees...and the fact he's sprouting pubic hair out

of his back and arm...and that someone's super-glued a broom to his hand

...and while I'm at it, that hat's doing him no favours...

This one's taking the piss.

Rather than getting his bony arse up that chimney pot, he's muscled his

way to front of the bar and is demanding a large portion of Bombay Mix.

            And if they really, really, really have to be allowed out in licensed premises, then take them to one of those theme pubs, called Captain Ho Ho Ho’s Flame House All In For A Fiver And We’ll Chuck In A Bouncy Castle (or similar). Send them there, I say, to bounce and vomit chicken nuggets all over the upholstery. And leave me to stylishly slump over the bar of an adult only pub without any screaming Timmys and Tabathas swinging from the rafters and flicking KP nuts into my barnet.

These little shits were found beating the crap out of the fruit machine

and are now being swept home for a fate worse than death...no TV for a week.

            I dedicate this blog to the scene that greeted me upon returning home last Sunday, (after a stonkingly good weekend away) and entering a local pissior (at roughly 10.30pm). At the time, I feel I may be forgiven for initially thinking that I had stumbled into some form of Wild West brawl mixed with a crèche breakout; such was the chaos that confronted me. Drunken parents shouting their gobs off, children catapulting through the air and doing their best to muller the pool table; prams, crisp packets and a roaming dog.

But this was no Wild West brawl. It was far worse than that: the half-term holidays had begun.

Mind you, I can’t help but feel that as the children break-up, some of the parents should go in…

Rugby World Cup, Thriller and Deep Heat

The rugby world cup starts in September, and I can’t wait. I do love my ruggers. In anticipation I’ve been polishing my remote control since the start of the year, buying in the beers, practising a few rousing patriotic songs, and limbering up my gesticulating hand in readiness for the big occasion (at this juncture I feel it my duty to ‘fess up’ and inform you that, to-date, all attempts to pull off a credible Mexican wave in the lounge with my husband have proved somewhat futile and may well be aborted come the autumn..).

            Anyhoo, who’s going to win it? Dunno. But as the whole shebang is being held in New Zealand, and the fact that the All Blacks undeniably have the best outfits, let them win it, I say. Trebles all round. PLUS they do perform that terribly nice Haka thing when the rest of the teams just stand around and don’t bother doing nuffin.

           

            But then, why don’t the other teams do something?

            And is it fair that it’s just the All Blacks who get to slap their rippling thighs and stick their tongue out?

            Is it just showing off? Or maybe, hogging the limelight?

            Mmm.

            Maybe things would be fairer if there was some crude form of ‘dance off’ between the teams, to level things out, as it were, with the spoils going to best dancers. Why, you wouldn’t even need to bother with the rugby.

            Ooh, I can see it now…

The All Blacks ruthlessly demonstrate the best technique for stuffing the Christmas turkey.

Hello. What's this? They're a bit out of synch in this shot. They'll lose valuable points for that...           

10/10 for England's synchronised moves, and although a credible attempt at sporting the correct team colours,

       I fear that looking like big girl's blouses whilst wielding snot rags may not be enough to take the gold...           

Blimey. This has got the lot.

Class, poise, tight trousers...some bloke from Riverdance - looks like Ireland are coming up on the rails..             

But the gold goes to rank outsiders, USA.

Yes, any rugby team that can pull off a credible 'Thriller' dance in that get-up deserve to cop the lot.

Unlooky, New Zealand. There's always 2015...

           
Naturally, if Gavin Henson stamps his feet enough to get into the Welsh squad for the RWC there’d undoubtedly have to be a ‘tan-off’…

Admittedly, there could be a flaw with this. Namely, Gavin's team mates are translucent.

This, in turn, could expose the Welsh team's vulnerability when facing opponents from the SH (south of Hertfordshire..)

           And why stop at rugby? We’ve got the Olympics here next year. We could have a mass pose-off for that; I mean, the way half of them carry on before they come out the traps (or whatever they’re about to launch into). Yeah, lob the gold to whoever strikes the best pose beforehand. It’d save a fortune on plimsolls, cans of Deep Heat and orange segments. Not to mention time. And if they get a move on, it could all be over before tea time. Queenie and Prince Philip could be judges – X-Factor style – they could give their ten bob’s worth of opinion (“Orf with their heads!”) and then viewers could text in for their favourite and Bob’s Yer Uncle - we have a winner!

The Master.

If he plays his cards right, he'll be winning the gold from his front room next year

 - what with Skype, and all that.

Look and learn, children. These two have just won gold and silver in the

400m hurdles without even having to cock a leg.

        And it would save our dear Queenie and Prince Philip from having to watch and cheer our athletes on as they limp around the bend (and the suchlike).

(a) "Just lob the fucking thing!" Prince Philip reveals his frustration at our field eventers..

or

(b) "Run faster you fucker!" Even our track atheletes cop a mouthful...

           

Nah, best we stick to my original plan...

This lot may look a bit doubtful, but not only have they just won the women's 4 x 100m relay,

but they've smashed the world record... 

            

N.B. This blog could have gone on for days, months...years in fact (and almost has)….because I also began thinking about professional football players (Wayne Rooney in the main), which in turn would lead to a ‘spit-off’: tennis could become a ‘tantrum-off’ or perhaps with the girlies, a ‘grunt-off’ and….and darts could just cut to the chase and have a ‘tit-off’ by just having promotional big breasted birds strutting from the changing rooms to the stage…I could go on, and on, and on….

If you’ve thought of any others that might amuse, please lob them into the comment box for me. I’m off now for a Pot Noodle and a rub down with the Sporting Life…