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

Riots, Battenburg and Dildos

Did I, or did I not, give you the nod about London being a right little shit when he’s drunk? Not only that, but he’s been egging on his mates, Manchester and Birmingham and a whole load of other cronies to behave like nasty pieces of work as well. Look at what we’ve had this week, rioting, arson, looting. And worse than that, London’s trying to tell me that it’s all my fault. Look, he’s written to me again.

I don't know. I think he's depressed. I mean you don't self-harm if everything in the garden is rosy.

It can't just be the booze. I'd say this is a classic cry for help.

Dear, oh dear. Where did it all go wrong with London?

Years ago, cherub-faced children would use their small, light-fingered hands to 'pick a pocket or two'

and rob fancy silk handkerchiefs, watches and the suchlike...

Whilst these days, it appears they want to do something markedly different with them…

 Dear oh dear. It appears the reports are true: they are starting very young these days.

Trying shoving that porky mitt into a gentleman's coat pocket and his legs'll be buckling before you can say 'Bullseye'.

 And they're so confident too. Just look at this young chap ordering his pint with an element

of bullish authority.

When I was a kid, we didn’t behave like today’s lot. No, Siree.

A mere matter of seconds after this photo  was taken, little Trudie rammed her head

through the cake shop window and had it away with 7 gingerbread men,

10 cupcakes and a hefty slab of battenburg...

Okay, okay - maybe I have got a selective memory. Maybe we did get into mischief, bunk off of school occasionally, nick a few sweets from Woolies and spark up the odd menthol cigarette or two.

Whereas nowadays, some kids just cut to the chase and spark up the odd building or two.

And they just seem so casual about it. Look at this young gentleman: fearless of

being caught, he even takes time out from his 'activities' to adopt a pose to show

off his newly acquired outfit in its 'best light'.

(I would liked to have posted the several photos I have of him 'Vogueing', but am

fearful that he may rock up in these parrrts and relieve me of my skant few possessions

before using my vodka bottle collection for Molotov cocktails...).

And we weren’t complete shitbags; looting the business of some poor sod who just wants to make a better life for himself (or herself) and his (or her) family.

Thankfully, not all the looters were the brightest trainers in the sports shop, as this misguided bunch

appear to be 'steaming' a public convenience. Whilst no mobiles phones were on offer in there,

I did fear (somewhat) for the white chap's girlfriend, who only minutes earlier went in there for a

gruesome dump. I later discovered, that following a swift(and brutal) wipe of her arse, and managing

to climb through the trap window with a modicum of urgency, she safely got away. 

And there were others who didn’t quite get the hang of it…

Fawning over a strappy pair of 'Fuck-Me Pumps', this would-be looter is quick to realise that she just can't bring

herself to do it. However, mindful of getting some value from her 'Round Robin' bus ticket, she secures a dildo

to the shop window and breathlessly knocks one out.

So where does all this leave things between me and London? Well, London needs to get his house in order, that much is for certain. But he’s going need help, professional help. And maybe, when he’s not all over the place, and drinking too much and being a bit of shit, maybe, just maybe (and perhaps with a little mediation) we’ll be able to have some form of relationship between us.

I’m sorry London got the arse because I didn’t go ‘all the way’ with him last weekend. Maybe, that was a wrong call. But as our politicians say, ‘it’s a lesson learnt’, (except I don’t say it quite so smugly).

And on a personal level, was it worth going to Twickenham? Was it, fuck....

Oh dear. How sad. Never mind.

....sing Lofty...

And I’m off to Cardiff tomorrow for the return match. There’s not been a squeak from Cardiff this last week. He’s been as good as gold.

Mind you, if the result goes the wrong way for him……

Pray for me, children...

Like every other decent human being, I am saddened and disgusted at the appalling events that have unfolded in England this past week. My heart goes out to those who have so needlessly lost loved ones or had their whole world turned upside down by the mindless activity of a moronic minority. We are better than this. We will get better.

My blog does not aim to offend, merely to reflect.

Be safe,

Angie x

London Calling, Francis Bacon and A Bit Of Ankle

London’s written to me: I got a note from him, just the other day. Obviously it all came as a bit of a shock, given as I thought everything was over between us and that he'd 'moved on'. But it seems I was wrong.  

You see, when I first left London – after all those years we'd had together – London was heartbroken, inconsolable even, and he let himself go. And quite frankly, London looked like a bit of a shit hole. Which got me thinking, that I'd made the right decision to leave him.

Hole de Shit. And not a pub in site.

But then, gradually, as London got to grips with the fact that I was gone for good, he began to focus on all the good times we’d had, and he started to feel a little better. And he started to do something about the god awful state he looked. But he looked so bad, and the project was so huge, that London couldn’t do it on his own. So he got half of Poland to come over to help him. And before long, London started getting his shit together.

Every day in every way, I'm getting better. 

And as London got better and stronger, he wanted to prove what a good time he was having without me and wanted me to feel jealous; so he decided to host the Olympics. And although it meant lots of hard work and a lot more Poles, London thought it would be worth it. Because really, and deep down, London hoped that the Olympics would make me go back to him.

 What, this old thing? Why, I just threw it on....

Naturally, word (eventually) filtered through to these parrrts that there was going to be something called the Olympics in London. And it made me think back to some of the good times I’d had with London….

Ooh, you can't whack a bit of Francis Bacon at the Tate.

Mind you, very different to the bacon in these parrrts (cue Basil Brush-style 'Boom! Boom!)..

And I'm dead partial to a Turner.

I'm all class, me. 

Ah, my old favourite, Kolossi in Roseberry Avenue. Top nosh.

If you ever see my old friend, London, try it out.

Or Efes in Great Titchfield Street...ooh, starting to feel a bit peckish now...

And lest I forget - the music! I've seen three of these bands.

And all we've had in these parrrts was Brotherhood of Man playing in the fields...

Phwoar! Soho pubs! Open all day and everyday.

Yak, Yak. Gargle, gargle. Bollocks, bollocks. Guzzle, guzzle. 

And just as I began to teeter and think that maybe, just maybe, these parrrts wasn’t ‘The One’ for me, London sent me this note. And I could tell by his writing that he was pissed when he wrote it.

Pick the bones out of that...

Now, I don’t like it when London gets pissed; he starts off okay, but then he can get a bit nasty and lairy, then he goes through his morose stage and then he starts singing. A bit like Edinburgh, really. Fiver says, that immediately after he penned this note, he broke into a dewy-eyed version of ‘My Way’. Nah, London’s not to be trusted when he’s been drinking.

            To placate him, I’m going to put my toes into Greater London tomorrow. After all, if I don’t play ball, he might get the arse and pull the plug on the Olympics. And we wouldn’t want that; a lot of people have been putting a lot of hard work and effort into getting it ready. Poles, namely. And I guess some of the athletes would have been having a bit of a limber up as well.

            So, I’m off to Twickenham, to see England play Wales in a warm-up game for the rugby world cup. And because I love my rugby so much, next Saturday I’m going to Cardiff to watch the return match. Only the problem is, Cardiff doesn’t like me at all. In fact, it appears that Cardiff doesn’t like anyone English. Look at what I saw them selling outside the Millennium Stadium last time I went.

Okay, I fess up, this isn't too bad.

 

Bit harsh.

 Blimey. Certainly seems that the England team of 1978 had a lot of extra

curricular activities. Hope it didn't affect their performance....

Alas, I got angrily shooed away when I tried to take a picture of a t-shirt emblazoned with ‘The Only Good Englishman Is A Dead One’ (or similar). Yes, Cardiff did seem very bitter towards the English. A statement best demonstrated by the fact that Wales weren’t even playing England that day – they were playing the Springboks.

Oh dear, and it appears they lost (to a second string scratch team). Shame.

There's no nasty racist t-shirts being sold outside Twickenham. No Siree. Which is big plus points for London, I guess. After all, London is all-embracing and all-seeing (what with his big Cyclops eye): he can spot a Pole from forty paces. Furthermore, London has theatres, museums, parks, markets, the Leyton Orient and a rather dysfunctional Royal family.  Mmmm. Tempting.

            But if only London handled his drinking better. He can be such a gob shite sometimes. Not like these parrrts. These parrrts is kind and gentle (despite the horse shit) and gives me Dartmouth, the moors, cream teas and Wally Dog.

Just look at Wally Dog. Seconds after this photo was taken, he entertained us all by crashing cymbals

between his knees and playing the comb and rice paper to 'I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy'. 

 Then some malicious bastard told Wally Dog that me and the old man were off to

London for good, sending Wally Dog into a frenzy and resulting in a pleading paw

being placed onto the old man's trainer.

So that’s it, I’m decided. I’m staying put. But to make sure that the Olympics goes ahead next year, I’ll do some day trips to London, just to keep him sweet, like. Maybe show him a bit of ankle and whisper some fruity tootiness in his ear. I know, I know, it’s a huge gesture (particulary given what a bunch of shysters SouthWest trains are), but I don’t want your gratitude or thanks – however, a steady flow of vodka vouchers would come in handy.

And remember children, the future of the London Olympics lies in my ankles…

P.S. Blogging don't half take it out of me. So as a sign of encouragement, if you enjoy my blog, please go to the 'share' button and share it with your muckers on Facebook, Twitter, Gusset and any of the other usual suspects. I Thank You.