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
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
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
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