Twitter, Dehydration And A Dead Pheasant

Blimey. Is that the time? Over three farking months since I ruthlessly dissed Christmas and went arse over tit outside a pub (when - if you dare to recall -  not one single fucker had the decency to give me emergency voddies for the 'shock'. The ruthless gits.)? Really? Three farking months?
   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.

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.

Enough.

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 angie@talesfrom.co.uk 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.

What cocks.

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.

   xxx

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.

Angie xx

How To Write A Sitcom, Youffs and Karma

Forgive me. I've been a bit of an old shitter and deserted my admiring millions for longer than one intended. I'd love to tell you I've been serving a small custodial sentence for assaulting ditherers. Or for attempting to shoplift the entire vodka section of Tesco. Or even that I've been recuperating from the Mother of all Benders.
    But it's far worse than that: I've been working on my sitcom. And worserer than that - I'm making progress. I know, hard to believe, but it's true. Admittedly, I started off a bit howsyerfather and flapping around like a haddock that's just had the bath plug pulled on it, but then I met Marc. And Marc made everything better for me.

Marc Blake. My hero.

When I win my first award, this fucker will be getting a mention.

(Then I'll tap him up for a few bob, seeing as I'd just

endorsed his book. And his courses look pretty good too.

And then he can get the first couple of rounds in.)

So yes, it's happening. And as it turns out (and according to Marc) I was doing okay in the first instance. So why I spent £14.99 on his bollocks, I'll never know. And let's not forget, children, £14.99 can buy you a litre of vodka. Maybe I'll sue the fucker.

   One casualty though - avid readers of this blog may well remember the pub cat who blatantly (and without a kiss yer arse or anyfing) sprawled out on my sitcom notebook and basically just took the piss - is now dead. And as tempting as it was, it weren't me. Although I do wonder if there is any connection between this (semi-tragic) event and a scrawled post-it-note in Marc's handwriting that was stuck to my vodka chalice. It said, 'Diss my book and you're dead, bitch'. Nah. Can't be. Me? Luscious moi? He must be talking about a doggie. And as long as it ain't Wally Dog (or a couple of other buddies) he can do what the fuck he likes. Fucking authors. And shysters.

   So. Christmas. What a load of bollocks. Can't stand it. Don't do it. The hypocrisy and conformity make me want to gag. And don't even start me on paper hats. But I do do drinking. And I do do things that are pleasing on the eye. And that helps me through the annual horrorfest that is Christmas.

Look everybody!

A drinking establishment with its best outfit on.

And then, to prove that I'm really not a totally grumpy cow about Christmas (ahem), I went to Bath. And had an ogle of their Christmas market.

They don't fuck about in Bath.

Chalet stalls all over the gaff (selling overpriced shit that you

could happily live the rest of your life without ever owning) and green

fluorescent paint lobbed all over the Roman Baths. Quality. 

And then I found this total legend of a tree.

He'd shaken all his Christmas decorations off him,

and told organisers to 'Stop fucking abharrrt'.

I don't think this tree likes Christmas very much either.

Imagine my delight when I stumbled across this man

tossing his fudge around in a shop window (and therefore

affording me several golden opportunities to nudge

curious cherub-faced children in the ribs).

And just when you think things can't get any better. Lo. The good lord sent me a load

of youffs stuck in a lift. (This was in one of those cinema/eatery complexes that drunken

old shits like me shouldn't be allowed into). Furthermore, hopeful that someone might

recognise one of this mob and ignite maximum piss-taking and embarassment, I've made

this photo bigger. I'm all heart like that. Lastly, I think that lad at the back, to right, trying

to get me to score him a pint of lager was a bit fucking hopeful.

By now, I was ready for drink. So I ruthlessly did. And I went into wonderous pubs. All battered and old. And I heroically drank vodka in them. Like a true pro. But the problem with heroically drinking is that it costs vodka vouchers. And I'm a skint fucker. So I resorted to Plan B. Minatures of vodka. Strategically placed in my jacket pockets for bloody expensive pubs.

Can anyone spot the schoolgirl error I made here?

And finally. Finally. (And it took some doing). When I'd had my fill.

I ran off. As for some unknown reason, I have a habit (on occasion)

of running when I'm pissed. Although, I must confess, that upon closer

inspection, it does look as though I have also turned into a plane from

The Dam Busters.

Maybe you're thinking that my great time in Bath thawed me a bit about my attitude to Christmas. Nah. Did it fuck? Worse than that, my total disinterest meant that one evening as me and the old man set off for our midweek gym session and turned into the town square to get to our car, we were greeting not only by a cordoned off section of street and a big fuck-off notice saying Please Do Not Park Here On Wednesday Because The These Parrrts Christmas Fayre Will Be On, but also the sight of our car on the wrong side of the cordone. And right in front of the Town Hall. And surrounded by Christmas botherers. Lo.

This is the growing throng waiting for the Town Crier and some other old shit to come out and

turn the Christmas lights on. Which actually turned out to be one length of lights draped willy nilly

around the front of the Town Hall. And frankly, not worth the bus fare.

Shortly after, this fucking mob rocked up to sing Carols around our car.

Some of them had the audacity to look indignant and put out that our car was fucking

up the ging gang goolieness of the occasion. Did they give one flying fuck that I was missing

out on a lard-busting gym session. Did they fuck? Selfish pricks.

Now. I'm not sure if any of you humans believe in Karma. I think I do. And although I like to think of myself as a kind, warm hearted, fluffy bunnykins of a person, I think I got a little payback for not 'entering the Christmas spirit'. (Although, I've been magnificent drinking it. Boom. Boom). Lo.

I got mugged by these fuckers last night.

I was trying to gain access to the pissoir of my choice,

and they jumped me. And I fell over badly. And said the

'fuck' word. A lot. And then I had to get up. And walk into

the pub looking like a bellend. Who had just fallen over.

Oh the shame of it all.

And then, in a futile attempt to gain sympathy (large vodkas and diet cokes),

I had to show off some of many wounds and milk it a bit.

Not one fucker. Not one...

And because I'd been rolling and thrashing around on the tarmac,

as though fighting an imaginary crocodile, I was covered in shit and piss.

And still. Not one fucker. Not even a fucking sniff of the Vladivar bottle.

And if all that weren't bad enough, when I went out this very morning to score some milk I found this outside my front door. Done in that stuff you lob around your bathtub.

You can't make this shit up, can you?

Loyal followers of this blog will be aware of the magnitude of horror that has previously greeted me when limping out of my drum. I've had man mountains of horse shit. Every dog in Devon has pissed up the front of my gaff. Or dropped Mister Whippy dog turds outside. And now this. I don't know what to say.

Except, Merry Christmas everybody. Nuts and tangerines for all.

x

Being a creative type, my ego needs massaging on a level that is off the scale. So if you could find it in your heart to forward this on to someone you like (or maybe can't stand), lob it on Facebook or Twitter, or perhaps write the link in silicone outside people's houses, I'd be ever so grateful. Really I would. God bless you all.

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.  

The All Blacks' Secret, Concorde and A Jumbo Pad

It's here. It arrived this morning and I've already passed out twice. Not to mention a couple of blindly thrashing lunges to get to the karzie in time. Yes, it's Rugby World Cup time and I've come over all queer.

Oh, go on then. If I have to.

The opening game saw those nice young chaps from New Zealand, in their nice black outfits, playing some big fatty boom booms from Tonga (I bet they can all shit a pan full...). Anyhoo, they had their dance off at the start (I have already blogged my thunderpants off about hakas and dance offs. So, if you've ruthlessly missed it - or had the gaul to blatantly ignore it, but want to make it up to me and become my new bezzie mate; here's the link).

http://dampflannel.blogspot.com/2011/04/rugby-world-cup-thriller-and-deep-heat.html

Unnervingly, Tonga devoted a large part of their allocated dance-off time to

the tried and tested tactic of trying to catch their opponents off guard by doing

the old, 'Look! It's Concorde!' routine. Meanwhile, the wily old fox at the front

adopted the strategy of pretending his plimsole's fucked.

Alas, it was Tonga who got fucked in the end. They lost 41 - 10.

Yes, they're bloody good those All Blacks. I don't know how they do it.

Actually, that's a complete lie. I do know how they do it. And because I like you, I'm going to tell you how. But you mustn't tell anyone else, okay? If those All Blacks find out I've given their secret away, then I fear I may wake up one day with a (decorative) maori stick inserted (brutally) up my crapper. And we wouldn't want that. Well, not on a school day. Here goes...

They talk a lot about 'getting the basics right' in rugby - but no fucker's got a clue

what this means. All the other countries believe it's some kind of 'urban myth'.

But the All Blacks know wotswot. So their secret to getting the basics right?

Simples. Throw the ball to someone in a matcing outfit.

Check out the picture. Man in saucy black outfit throws the ball (with an element

of flourish) to someone else in a saucy black outfit.

Which results in said someone else in saucy black outfit scoring a jolly nice try.

And 10/10 for artistic impression.

So now, I'm bracing myself for Eng-er-land's first game tomorrow against the Argies. Which by all accounts should be a real fuck up as Eng-er-land will have black outfits on - but the All Blacks wear black, and they aren't playing tomorrow, so I don't know how Eng-er-land are going to throw the ball to the men in black, and now my head hurts just thinking about. I'm praying it's going to get abandoned by some rogue sub-standard stitching in their shorts.

Naturally, the old man's girding himself for Sunday's clash between the Mighty Springboks and our old mates, Wales. Naturally, being a Springbok fan he has the standard calm aura of smugness about him and has taken to goading anyone Welsh (or with a singsong voice). I fear this is a strategy he may not have entirely thought through, as one of the guvnors who kindly dispenses me emergency vodka is Welsh. And I wouldn't want any taps being turned off. No Siree.

Sometimes the old man wakes me up as his legs are going like the clappers under

the duvet. At times like this, I know he's having his favourite dream of Bryan Habana

'dotting one down' after leaving a trail of (hopelessly) lunging boyos in his wake.

But despite the smugness and the puffed-out chest, he still gets

the odd nightmare. 

With all these games been shown early in the morning, I've had to knock the pub on the head and go a bit limp on the drinking side of things - otherwise, I'll never be able to slide down the bannister and onto my couch in time for the kick-off (or dance-off).  And replays are for poofters.

But in these parrrrts, it's our annual Carnival tomorrow night and some audacious humans keep pestering me to go. I keep saying, fuck off - it's shite. But they're not having any of it.

Carnivals. Do I look like I want to stand on a kerb waiting for Spooky Choochoo

HuckyDuck to limp past with some waving youfs can-canning on it? And every

year the procession gets stuck on our narrow streets (cos I have actually tried

all this caper), resulting in a good 10 minutes of the same Spooky Choochoo HuckyDuck

float stuck in front of you, and the same gurning youfs hoofing their legs about.

Sometimes I fantaize about having a slingshot...

...and when it all gets going again, a relieved ripple of applause breaks out...

Then you get all this caper. Give me strength.

They've got the right idea on the continent; they propel the fuckers

through the air.

And naturally there'll be all this kind of horror floating around.

Munch one of those, and I'll be spending the duration of the world cup

camped out in the karzie.

 No. I'll be better off having a quiet night in with my favourite liver basher.

And up nice and early for the ruggers. After all, I've waited four bloody years

for it. Whereas, Spooky Choochoo Whateverthefuckitwascalled will be limping

around in twelve months time.

And then, I'll still ignore it.

If you like rugby, I wish your team well. And beyond that, I wish all the players the best and hope that no one has to suffer the heartbreak of an injury during (what I hope to be) a fantastic World Cup.

I'm having a blog break for a month. Why? I hear you cry (once the smelling salts have rendered you conscious once more). Two reasons. (1) The bleeding obvious. It's world cup time and I'll be getting up at peculiar hours, which in turn may make me 'tetchy' and tired. Plus I'm busy getting boss-eyed in the day job.

(2) I've finally started work on a sitcom. There, I've told you. So now I'll have to finish it. Or you'll diss me and have me marked down as a rubbish tart. Yes, I finally got a jumbo pad, a new quill pen and started my sitcom. I can't tell you too much about it at the moment or you'll wake up with a (decorative) maori stick inserted (brutally) up your crapper. But I can tell you that I aim to keep true to my style (as vile as it is..) and give it a bash. Naturally, if any of you out there are bezzie mates with the head of comedy at Channel 4, give me the nod; there'll be a large voddies in it for you.

So back in a month (unless I find an overwhelming urge to blog and just break down and do it - like the big jessy I am). Hopefully, I would have made progress with my sitcom (catchy working titles I'm kicking around are 'Moist' or 'Slack'....that is, in fact, an untruth...). And hopefully, Eng-er-land will be marching on (and back in their nifty white outfits).

Be well. Byeeeeee!

PS. If any of you have got a photo of those fuckers who put a (invariably) straw hat and box of tissues on the ledge in the back windows of  their car, please forward it on to me. These fuckers need some serious dissing.

And I'm just the top tart to do it.



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