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.