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, 11 October 2011

Ball Bags, Funeral Parlours and The Plodmobile

Hello. I'm back. Which means only one thing: Eng-er-land are out of the Rugby World Cup. And worse than that, they deserve to be. Having behaved like Eng-er-land footballers off the pitch and like a bunch of Pepsis and Shirleys on the pitch, they got dissed last weekend. By the French. (How rude). Yes, baguettes were firmly rammed up Eng-er-lish arses. There was pate squirting out the sides and crumbs all over the gaff. Not a pretty sight at all. When the final whistle (finally) got tooted, it was trebles all round for the French and a horse and cart to the airport for our mob. And worse than any of this, at time of writing, Wales are still in the bloody thing. (Give me strength).

I did have a couple of pictures of the Eng-er-land boys arriving back at Heathrow yesterday (to a crowd of fuck all), and I entertained thoughts of lobbing them on here with a couple of jocular captions (naturally, at their expense). But then I found this.

I think this says it all, really.

What else? Oh yeah. When I last left you, I was wailing about how I wouldn't go the bloody carnival. How it was all bollocks and shite. How I'd rather put hot coals down my undercrackers than stand on a kerbside waving at overweight cherub-faced children twirling batons and high-kicking youffs on brightly coloured floats. Well, the upshot is - I went. I tried sitting in, with Old Fart TV on, but everything was getting whipped into such a frenzy outside that I drank an 'appropriate' amount of vodka and went out for a nosey. I also had about my person a small bottle of diet coke, into which (after drinking some mouthfuls of said diet coke) I rammed a fist load of vodka. Which is really, the only way to watch a carnival.

And to think, I could have missed seeing this grown man sitting astride an
un-lifelike horse and doing laps of the town. Doesn't bear thinking about.

By the time the chickens limped around the corner, I was really quite pissed.

Look at this girl giving me the hairy eyeball. Having realsied that (a) I'm half-cut and
(b) I have alcohol about my person, she stops dead in her routine and
fleetingly contemplates wrestling me to the ground and nicking my vodka.
It was at this juncture, that I smiled at her. Which scared her shitless.

Naturally, this level of excitement was always going to be impossible to maintain. So I left them to it and went to the pub. And naturally, a town like These Parrrrrts was never going to be able to handle this level of excitement. 

These Parrrrrts Plod, feeling somewhat left out by the recent riots and looting
in the grown-up towns, apprehend this youff for wearing a hoodie.  

Unbelievably, the youff got lobbed into the Plodmobile and taken
downtown to be further questioned about his choice of outfit for
the evening. I had wanted to rush outside and come to the defence of the
poor innocent youff, but someone had just got a round in. So I left him
to a bit of police brutally instead. I'm sure he'll understand. One day..

Other big news since I was last here: Wally Dog turned gay. For a while. I think it's called 'experimenting'. Anyhoo, whatever way you dress it, he 'let himself down' by rogering another dog in the pub. No blinds, no curtains, no nuffin. Right next to the bar. By the pork scratchings. Naughty Wally Dog.

This is Wally Dog looking suitably sorry for himself after his Dad
plot explained to him that humping a boy terrier is not the way forward.

After a brief period of reflection, Wally Dog defiantly orders a Light and bitter
in an attempt to display how macho and hetero he is.
We understand from Dad, that Wally Dog has now put this 'episode' behind him...

Meanwhile a recent walk around Sidmouth uncovered this beauty.

I think the clue's there as to what the average age is in Sidmouth....

And a trip to the local Spar shop, threw these into the arena.

The ideal Valentine present.
Says me. Who once got a heart-shaped potato off the old man.

But enough of this nonsense! I hear you cry. What's occuring with the sitcom. Well, thank you for asking. It's going the right way. Slowly. And as I don't have so much time to write these days, I guess it'll continue slowly. But it will get there (like British Rail).
What I have found more than a tad difficult is putting down my work head and putting my creative head on. If you get my drift. And as I work from home, some days it just ain't easy to suddently change hats. So a few weeks ago, as the sun was farting out the last of the summer's heat, I took a long, long walk. To 'think'.

Having walked from These Parrrrts to Seaton seafront (down there below),
I got a tread on and climbed up some hilly stuff.

And then I limped along here.
Which wasn't wholly unpleasing on the eye.

Then I reached this bit. This looks down on to the beach at Beer.
Whenever they cover East Devon on 'Escape to the Country' (or These Parrrts),
this is the beach the twonko presenter always presents from. And very nice too.

And then I got to the 'descent' part of proceedings.
And because I am a useless Jessie with no sense of balance,
I had to take 'Route B' which is the gentle slope for old doddery
scrotes. And alcoholic Jessies.

So I arrived in Beer. And I found an appropriate bench with an appropriate view. And I did some more of that thinking stuff. And after a bit of that thinking stuff, 'things' began to fall into place. And I got my trusty jumbo pad out my bad, uncapped my trusty 'writing' felt tip, and cracked on. Amongst it all, I came up with a scene, that should my sitcom ever see the light of day, would be the stuff of legend. So it was a good afternoon. A productive afternoon. I felt I had 'achieved'. So then I phoned the old man to come and collect me. And take me to the pub. As I was animated and 'over excited' by how things were coming together. And I wanted to talk to him about it. And have a drink. So he did. He jumped in the wagon and picked me up from Beer. And took me to my local in these parrrrrts. Where this happened.

Yes. It's the pub cat. Stretched out on my sitcom. Willy Nilly.
Without a care in the world. Fuck you, it's saying to me.
Fuck you. And fuck your sitcom. And I can't stand cats. So now
I've got essence 'o' cat on my sitcom. I may have to kill the cat.
Or start my sitcom all over again.
Or maybe, I'll get Wally Dog to shag it to death.
Now, that would make a cracking blog picture. Mmmm....

Thank you for having the ball bags to read my blog. As I'm desperate to inflict myself on as much of the human race as possible, please share this classically written blog on Facebook, Twitter or whatever other nonsense is floating around out there that I'm too clapped out to know about.
I thank you.