Yep. It appears so. Which makes me a blog shitbag.
But, BUT - to make amends, not only will this be a monster blog of titanic proportions, but I also bring forth from these parrrrts, news of the exciting variety. My stories are now on Kindle! Oh, yes they are. Some kind soul lobbed them on there for me and now you, the great unwashed, can buy individual stories - or bundles of 4 stories - for a matter of pence. Almost nada, in fact. Wouldn't even make a dent in your drinking funds. Next to nuffin. You wouldn't even miss the dosh. In fact, it'd be far less painful to buy some of my wonderful wit than give a few bob to those fuckers who manically rattle a charity pot in front of your face, (whilst giving you the hairy eyeball as they silently challenge you to defy said potty rattling and walk straight past them - wonga intact).
Look at the steely gaze and insincere smile on this Doris.
No fucker escapes her rattling potty.
I'd be inclined to rugby tackle her to the deck, nick her potty
and spend it's entire contents on my Kindle stories. Maybe,
leave a little over for a well-earned drink. And a packet of nibbles.
Right - so now we've cleared that up, here's the link - www.amazon.co.uk/s?_encoding=UTF8...Angela%20Annetts Enjoy. Live a little.Spread the word. Spread the lurve. Fuck charity. And give your money to me.
Other (brief) Bic Biro news; I actually finished the pilot for my sitcom a while ago. And being the over excitable type, I kinda went a bit too far with it. By er, half an hour, in fact. So it needs a bucket of slashing and general rejigging. My writing mentor has instructed me to 'put it away' until he gives me the nod. And then I can look at it with fresh eyes and do the corrections. Maybe I'll scream when I see it again, 'Argh!' I might cry. 'Who the fuck are you?' And then I might run off to the pub in fear with my pretend willy tucked between my legs. (Not saying I will, mind. But it's always a possibility.)
My mentor has also suggested doing 'something' for radio in the meantime, you know, to keep my hand in with my writing - plus, he reckons I'll be half all right at it. So that's what I'm doing. I am nothing but obedient. (Yeah, right.) I'm currently adapting a competition story for radio (well, it would have been a competition story - if I wasn't a pisshead, got the dates bolloxed up and missed the deadline by a day...). We have a pretty cool relationship, my mentor and I - a bit like an economy version of Educating Rita. He roars emails of encouragement and advice to me. I try to learn something. And get better. While he holds things together at his end by heroically drinking whisky. And gnashing his teeth a bit. Having said that, I've not heard from him for a while. Maybe he's buggered off. Mind you, if he's buggered off for good, I'll never know when to get my sitcom out my drawers. Bugger. Bugger.
And lastly, (before I get daft with the rest of the blog) - Twitter. Yes, I'm finally doing it. The desire to unleash my gob on a wider audience was finally too much for me. I held out for as long as I could. Plus a couple of people made the schoolboy (and girl) error of massaging my ego. So, nuff said. Here we go. https://twitter.com/#!/TheVodkaSection Follow. And spread the lurve (Volume II).
Okay. These parrrrts.
Firstly, ladies loos. I've not been having much luck, to be honest. Wherever I go - be it Marks and Sparks, Seaton sea front, service stations, yada yada - whatever length the queue, or if it's a one trap affair - I'm always copping a bog where the previous occupyee has been dropping steaming turds like depth charges. Every bloody time. And the smell! It invades your hooter, singes your nozzy rug and is on the tip of your tongue before you can reach for the latch and blindly fumble your way back out into fresh air. Why me? What new kind of karma bollocks is this? What unspeakable crime did I commit to cop this every time I need a tinkle when I'm out? I'm seriously toying with buying a canary. Let him go in first and check out wotswot. Every. Bloody. Time....
Not owning a canary - but being a charitable person (ahem), I offered this young
local lass one of my Kindle stories (the cheapest) in exchange for checking
out the loos for me in Seaton kebab shop prior to making a visit. Fearing the
worst, friends and family plead with her not to go.
worst, friends and family plead with her not to go.
And they were right to.
Feast your eyes upon this baby.
For a further bundle of 4 stories and a (modest) handful of chips,
this plucky lass also removed the Captain's log and took it home with her.
(Her family inform it's the best scarecrow they've ever had.)
Talking of Seaton, I've been doing some thunderous walks there in the recent warm weather. Swinging arms, jutting Julie Andrews jaw - the lot. But sadly, when you get there (despite the fantastic beach on the Jurassic coastline), it's just another run down seaside town. A lot of the shop owners moan and groan. And on a good day you can hear them wailing. And beating their frustrated fists upon easily breakable objects; pensioners, namely. But I don't feel any pity for the shop owners of deepest Seaton - as they are eejits and possess a flawed business plan....
That's right. No fucker is open.
Yes, it's that old sticking point with local retailers: having to trade in exchange for
monetry units of the realm. I love the (hasty?) re-think about Saturday's hours...
And don't even start me on the pubs that shut in the evenings. Or sometimes full days. Like they do in these parrrrts. The fuckers. I may need to do an entire blog about those hand-wringing gits. And then set fire to their pubs. And murder the landlord(s) by shovelling pork scratchings down their throats until they kick the bucket (signalled by a solemn peel of the pub bell for last orders).
Talking of pubs - some old twonk behind the bar at one of my locals has virtually demanded a mention in my blog. Which is a bit daft - given that he know's I'll slaughter him. But almost every time I see him, he's all finger to chin and saying, 'Oh, you aren't going to blog about me? Are you?'. And then I give him one of my withering looks, which by and large signals for him to shut the fuck up and get on with (immediate) vodka dispensing duties. (I'm a cherished customer in this particular pub...). Anyhoo - what did he do? I hear you cry. What fantastic feat did this geezer perform that he soooo wants me to blog about him? Well, I'll tell you what he did (steady yerselves now, children). - he passed out whilst on bar duty. That's what he did. And he's been lunching out on it since. Or 'attention seeking' as I call it (in my role as Humanitarian Ambassador For These Parrrrtts). And why did he pass out? I hear you further enquire (as you warm to this gripping topic). Ah, now - and here's the thing, dear readers; the fucker was dehydrated. Yep. That's right. Dehydrated in a pub. You'd have to applaud any fucker for managing that. And apparently, when he came over all queer (and thirsty - looking at all those liquid products and a sink with a drinking water tap) he lurched around behind the jump like some crude form of human pinball machine, before juddering his way from behind the bar and slumping like a dying swan on a padded bench seat.
Attention seeking at its best.
Actually, that's a complete lie - he would have scored more
points if he'd done two twists and a pike and before hurling himself
to the deck like any other self-respecting faintee.
After exhaustive investigations, it turns out he's got previous for all
this dehydration bollocks. Check out this bodged attempt to prepare
a little light supper in his kitchen at home.
Naturally, there was a modicum of interest shown when he passed out; namely, punters helping themselves to free beer (I wish I'd been there) and a degree of rifling through his pockets. And now you can't visit the place without old twonko regaling the tale (again, and again). Anyhoo, I have kept to my side of the bargain and blogged about this sorry state of affairs. You'll note I have kept both his name and the pub in question private (I did actually tell him I'd be refering to him as some old twonk - I'm all heart, me), but if you contact me at email@example.com I'll dish the dirt without hesitation (although some form of cash arrangement would naturally need to be in place first).
Other big news from these parrrrts; after holidaying here for 10 years and living here 5, we have sadly run over our first pheasant. Yes, after 15 years of dodging and weaving and tippy toeing the car around them - and in some instances, me getting out of the car to give them a fireman's lift across the road, one of them copped an unfortunate with our gee two weeks ago.
I recall patiently sitting in the car for 15 minutes (luckily I had my trusty
minatures with me) while waiting for this chap to safely cross the road.
But alas, a fortnight ago - this fucker.....
...thought he was this fucker.
And came off second best.
(Oh dear, looks like young Mister Bolt is rehearsing for the hunting season...)
Naturally, the old man and myself felt bad about killing the pheasant. We tried to make ourselves feel better by saying, 'it was definately suicidal' and that we 'stood no chance' in avoiding it. However, on our return journey, we were alarmed to find the Police had cordoned off the area and there was a pheasant-shaped chalk outline in the road.
Not being someone to over react, I decided the best course of action was to ditch the car (Exhibit A) and get a new one. Which we did. However, at this juncture - I feel I should come clean and inform that there may have been another littly reason behind this purchase; namely me - learning to drive....
Yes indeedy. Middle-aged old shit that I am, I fancy a bit of this bollocks now.
(Can't quite decide who I'm more like - daffy Thelma or efficient Louise. Mmm, maybe
a hybrid of the two methinks, with a slight leaning towards daffy.)
Look! And you get to dress and pose like a dirty hot bitch.
Hot damn, where's my Yellow Pages? I need to book an instructor this instant.
(Yes, yes, yes - and the bollocky theory test too..)
And what's this? Japes and larks trying to out run the Old Bill?
Phwoar! Where do I sign? Somebody, someone, score me some driving
gloves. And fast.
Fuck me. Now that's what I call a good day out.
But sadly, of course, when I began my driving lessons, the reality was more
or less 'this'.
Yep, that old combo of me being markedly clapped out PLUS gears was never going to be a marriage made in heaven. And I was essence 'o' shit at it. Hence trading in our manual car for an automatic (yes, yes, plus it was a murder weapon..). Which in turn meant trading in my manual instructor for an 'automatic' one. Which, in these parrrrts, was easier said than done. Eventually, we tracked one down and as I was poorly at the time (cue violins) the old man called her. And in short, she scared the bejesus out of him. Having succeeded in sending him running to the pub with his willy tucked between his legs, she then posted me her 'Terms and Conditions'. Lo.
I love the way this bird's opening gambit is, 'If you start with me'. (Oo are yer? Lez be aving yer.)
Perhaps more worrying, is the impression that maybe (just maybe) she's terrorised more than
one student in the past.
Plus, PLUS - look at this! 'Encouraged' to take 4 hour lessons? Fortnightly? Because of the expense?
What in the name of Roger Federer, Halle Berry and Lucifer is she on about?
Having said that, she did tell the old man that half an hour of a 4 hour lesson is a 'lunch break'.
Which, er - I guess you're paying for.
Twice, it seems.
If you take advantage of her 'foods at a special price' offer. I give up...
Suffice to say, we didn't go with this theiving, scary Doris in the end. I got myself a proper human instead. And I am loving the Milly Molly Mandyness of an automatic. So hopefully, and before too long - that'll be me pinging off the cliffs at Seaton.
Cos I sure as hell won't be this.
Pet hate No. 3086. Straw hats in the back window.
All that's missing is the conveniently placed box of spunk absorbing
tissues next to them.
But maybe that deserves a blog of its own.
I thank you. And goodnight.
And have a Happy Easter.
Although I've been a bitch and not blogged since Doomsday, I've tried my bestest to make it up to you with this effort. I started this a week ago, and I haven't slept or eaten or had a whiff of vodka since I began. Although I have had a poo. If you've enjoyed it (or applaud my heroic efforts) please Twat or Tweet it to your muckers, or post in Facebook or tattoo 'Damp Flannel' on your forehead (or lengthways down your dongly) or resort to the outdated (and by-and-large mocked) method of 'word of mouth'. And for this I thank you.