Short Stories, Moth Turd and Nuttiness

When I first decided to start writing (in earnest) a number of years ago, I limped off to Woolies (R.I.P.) in Camden High Street and parted with some cash in exchange for a spiral bound notebook. It was cheap, and it was certainly cheerful (as denoted by a selection of brightly coloured circles on its plastic cover), it would do the job; so job done.

I remember it fleetingly crossed my mind at the time – that to mark the occasion of finally flexing my Bic biro, it might be in order to get a bit heady and reckless and to splash out on some poncy, handmade effort, featuring ancient parchment paper and a cover made from soya bean pulp, mashed moth turd (or the suchlike) from one of the many independent shops in Camden that caters for the complete twat.

But just as I pictured myself sat on a crowded tube train, looking suitably smug and full of self-importance as I briskly flicked the ancient pages back and forth, pausing only to jot down (with sudden flourish) my latest earth shatteringly important note (or jaw juddering witty) that would leave awestruck onlookers thinking, “Just who is that incredible bird?” my Guardian Angel, Joe Hunt, swooped down, rested a firm hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Don’t be a bellend, love”.

And you can’t say fairer than that. So Woolies it was.

So now the notebook’s full of stuff. And as it should be. There’s over 60,000 words of my semi-autobiographical misspent youff bleatings, ‘The Big Banana’, (which I’ll tease out of its trailer one day, and finish). Plus the notes for all my stories from my book, ‘Tales from Around The Bend’ and the gumpf for other competition stories, monologues and sometimes, just random thoughts that come my way.

And I find the more I write, the more my head gets full of ideas. So I write the fuckers down. In my pad. And sometimes when I get these ideas, it’s because I’ve been sitting up late and having a marathon slurp, and unless I write them down – there and then – they’ll be gone from my head, forever.

Never doubt how much vodka can stimulate the old grey matter...

This was re-worked and ended up in my 3-part story, ‘Funny Old Life’ as ‘…dancing’s all about pretending to be someone you’re not, or remembering the someone you once were.” So there you go. Idea. Pissed. Pad. Sweet as.

Or maybe not.

The problem arises when I blearily grope my way downstairs in the morning, have a butchers at my notebook and see words I have absolutely no recollection of writing (and furthermore no meaning) and immediately fear that the men in white coats will be coming for me due to not being the ‘full shilling’.

'I want to go to America. I want to leave my house.'

A few points here; I like my current house and although I have nothing personal against America,

I would (given the choice) only leave my house to go to Australia (they like rugby more there and tend to cook dead things in their gardens - or anywhere, in fact).

A load more of ‘this kind of thing’ has (sadly?) been consigned to the bin by my husband, who sometimes does a ‘sweep’ of the lounge before I get up and disposes of any ‘nuttiness’ as he calls it.

There. You heard it here first...'The sea is no one's mama'...

The game is definately up with this one. Check out the meaningless

words and ropey handwriting.

No small wonder why my short story collection got its title…



Mr Whippy, Werther's Originals and Bullseye

Call me old fashioned…but picking up dog shit and carrying it around isn’t a good look, is it? And what’s more, the dogs don’t seem to go a bundle on it either. In fact, I’d even go as far to say they look somewhat ‘indignant’ and ‘put out’ by this turn around in modern day shitting etiquette.

I mean, time was a dog could go about its business and no one paid much notice to the squatting, frowned straining and Mister Whippy output. No, it was a good chance to spark up a fag, chat a bit of bollocks – if you were in company or, if I was back in deepest and darkest East London, it’d give me an opportunity to weigh up my chances of getting home in one piece with cash, dignity and fillings still intact. But not now. No siree. Whilst the dog’s pleading face is saying, “Just give me a bit of privacy here, buddy,” the owners eyes are zoomed in on the poor mutt’s rear end while frantically rustling around in their pockets for a shit pouch, anxious to let everyone know that they are responsible and not like some other dog owners, who ruthlessly leave their dog shit all over the gaff, willy nilly. Job done, they immediately steam in and pick up the (still steaming) turd.

Appalled by events witnessed in his forest, this distressed squirrel travels into town

in an attempt to obliterate images of doggie friends being routinely humilated.



And how they do it is beyond me. But they do, whilst the dog looks on as though he’s about to die of embarrassment and in the knowledge that all his doggie street cred has gone right out the window. And then it gets carried around until a suitable dog crap receptacle is located. Doesn’t make for a romantic walk does it? Some even shovel the shit pouch into their coat or jacket pockets, now that would put me right off my Werther’s Originals…  

This poor moo's foolishly smiling in the misguided belief that

she's being handed a bag of Pick 'n' Mix. Watch out, love!

Bizarrely, they just don’t show all this carry on in films – or soaps, come to that. I certainly don’t recall Dirty Den hoofing a bag of Wellard’s finest logs around Albert Square whilst manfully screeching, “Ere, I want a word with you!” to his latest victim. And I think it would be fair to say that Bill Sykes may not have appeared quite the invincible villain if he'd shovelled up Bullseye’s doings into a biodegradable bag before trotting off for a bit of Oom-Pah-Pah…dear oh dear… 

It's a plan, and it just might work...

Bill Sykes attempts to train Bullseye to crap into a strategically placed bowl on his bonce...



Sobriety, Talking Bollocks and Kathy Burke

I once stayed sober for a whole five months. Oh yes I did. And it wasn’t too bad packing it in either. Granted, come day four or five, I got a bit snarly and had a tendency to bare my teeth at various humans. And my sleep went belly up too. But come day eight/ten (there or thereabouts) I woke up with a saintly glow around me, did a backward flip out of my pit, threw back the curtains and announced, “Hello new day! I’m ready for anything you throw at me!” And then I jogged downstairs to partake in a highly nutritious and flavoursome breakfast.

            It was really weird shit; my energy levels went through the roof, I developed a can-do approach, I began being nice to people (I distinctly recall smiling at a child-type thing on one occasion) and the whites of my eyes became white.

Fuck me! I'm sober!

            I even went to the pub and would smugly nurse a diet coke while everyone around me got their faces in the trough. Fools, I would think, as I eyed their drunken behaviour. How weak of them to need alcohol to have a good time. Look at me – look at the fun I’m having without alcohol.

            But therein lay the problem; I wasn’t. And that’s what did for me, in the end.

            Thing is, I like drinking: I like going to pubs (cos I can be a dead sociable fucker, me) and I like the act of having a drink and talking bollocks. I do bollocks very well. But not so well when I’m sober. And I do drinking very well. For starters, I don’t get morose and start snotting and wailing all over the gaff like some. No, give me a flagon of vodka and I’ll still be grinning like the village idiot at the end of the evening. Although (and it must be said) I can get a bit over excited sometimes and let myself down.

            So five months of sobriety came to a halt. My skin had never had it so good and pleaded with me to not go back to my old ways. No can do, I told it. I’ve been bored as arseholes.

Look at this dozy mare. She's been on the wagon for a fortnight and the

boredom's made her come over all queasy and howsyerfather.



            Sometimes I make a list up of famous people I’d like to get pissed with – a top ten, as it were. Graham Norton’s always up there, there or thereabouts. Him and Paul O’Grady. It’s hard to pick between the two (what with me being such an old fag hag and all), but what a scream a night out on the lash with either of those two would be. Then there’s that geezer who’s very wise about things, the dog whisperer – bet he’d be good value after a Bacardi Breezer. He fixes humans, wouldn’t you know?  And Derren Brown – now that would be different – he’s a real smart alec (although I’d have to keep an eye on my wristwatch/knickyknackynoos and vodka level to make sure he’s not surreptitiously tampering with them). Who else? Too many sportsmen to fit in a pub sadly, but Lawrence Dallaglio is a deffo and Jenny Pitman looks like she’d spin a good yarn after a yard of ale. Michael Caine and Robert De Niro are simply crying out to be my new bezzie drinking buddies, whilst the multi-talented Kathy Burke is obviously itching to have a snot and guffaw with me over a gutful.

            And you can’t do all that stuck indoors clutching your mineral water to yer knockers. No siree. You take my word for it, you're better off up the pub having a guzzle.

Whilst waiting for her real muckers to front up for a drinking session

of Biblical proportions, Kathy ruthlessly phones me to cancel our

pre-arranged quaff, citing a bout of the shits after a rogue curry...



Andy Murray, Gangsta Limps and Bollock Rubs

I like sport a lot. I watch shed loads of it, and although I’m a bit of an old hoofer these days, I do as much of it as I can. And I think athletes are great. They’ve got enough savvy to score the only drug around that is totally free and doesn’t involve having to break into a gangsta limp: endorphins. And on top of that, the good ones get paid to do something they love. Smiles all round, you’d think.

            And then you see Andy Murray. Jesus. Just what is it with this guy? And moreover, who enrolled him in the Myra Hindley School of Charisma? Dear, oh dear. Mind you, after Sunday’s lame effort in the Australian Open and the flush of realisation that he’s just not made of the ‘right stuff’ to become a champion, perhaps I should cut Bonny Prince Charlie a bit of slack. But then I see that dragged lip and think, nah, bollocks.

 There's always one. This discus thrower clearly doesn't know if he's coming or going.

It's wrong. And on every level...



            Friday sees the 6 Nations return to our screens. And I can’t wait. Rugby players have a whole range of facial expressions and normally get to show off a fair old few of them during the course of a match. Invariably, most of them have something to do with having their nuts crushed or eyes gouged. Proper stuff. Then it’s all smiles as they head off to the changing room for japes/bollock rubs and rubber ducks in the communal bathtub.

England rugby players show Andy Murray wots wot and oo's oo.

Just look at this fucker run and smile at the same time.



            The only thing that spoils it all is that munchkin of a Scottish bird* who hangs about pitchside to ask players and coaches inane questions. If England lose a game (heaven forbid…) watch Martin Johnson look like he wants to deck her when she chirpily asks if he feels ‘disappointed’. I’m telling you, if a female presenter isn’t called Gaby, fuck her off. 

*Mind you, she could be related to Andy Murray, and he gets her to wind up the English lot for a laugh…

           

           

Crime, coffin-dodgers and 'Grunt'

I love the crime in these paarrrrtts. It’s so namby-pamby and, ‘How very dare you!” When I think back to the horror of what was contained within the pages of The Walthamstow Guardian, it still gives me the heebeejeebies. Here, there’s various accounts in the local press of youths being given a ‘good talking to’ about the error of their ways. Try that any of that caper in London, and they’ll have your truncheon off you and be bashing it in your bollocks before you can say ‘Juliet Bravo’.

"How very dare you!" It's an oldie, but still a goodie.

Pick the bones out of this fucker...

           

           You get quite a few car accidents down this way, too. Mostly, it’s the coffin-dodgers – they’re all at it. Last year one of them just drove into the window of the hairdressers. Willy nilly, if you please. And others just seem to randomly veer off the road – maybe a sign that they shouldn’t be cruising around when their afternoon nap is due. You should see them, shooting off at all angles, down that ditch, up that cow’s arse. If they ever got any faster than 20 miles an hour, I swear one of them is going to be meeting the Big Chief earlier than they’d like.

Anyhoo…I’ve had a funny old few days: I came over all holier than thou and wrote a story without any foul language in it. And I don’t mind telling you, it’s taken it out of me. Nearly cracked open the Ovaltine. What next? I hear you say. Effing poetry? Nah, I don’t think so. The only way I could recover from my ordeal was by reclining on my sofa and snotting and guffawing to Peep Show last night.

The story was lobbed off to Mslexia yesterday for their annual short story competition. I think a cast of thousands go in for it. Nice work at £10 a pop. If I knew what day of the week it was, I’d start my own literary mag called ‘Grunt’ (or similar) and would let any old sod grease my palm with quivering tenners in exchange for a guest appearance opposite a vodka advert. I can see it all now…

Gym Clothes, William Hill and Burnt At The Stake

January. And my gym’s full of humans I haven’t seen before. And they don’t half clog the place up. Curiously...although attending a temple of exercise, they do seem extremely reluctant to actually do any; and appear content to just waft aimlessly from workstation to cardio machine without breaking into a sweat. Two birds even managed to row next to each for about five minutes, whilst relentlessly chatting about work bollocks throughout. Dear oh dear. Move on, sisters, I need to have a go. Still, all the cloggers did have nice new gym clobber on: one tart brazenly displayed a ‘70% Off’ tag from the back of her undersized LA Gear top as she breezily pedalled away (Level 0) on a bike and fucked about with her iPhone.

I’m telling you, If William Hill would take my money, I’d soon let him know which one’s won’t be darkening the pedals of the cross-trainer again after the end of the month.

I'm 'fucking gutted'. These two were fatties when the came in. After 40 minutes of posing

and talking bollocks they now look like this. Am I missing a trick?

So, January 2011 and my Bic Biro’s gone all-a-quiver: after ruthlessly ignoring it for ages, I’m going to have a bash at lobbing something into the Mslexia Short Story Competition. If you’re not in the know (and maybe, frankly not that arsed..) Mselxia is a magazine for birds that write. Mind you, if they knew I was using words like ‘birds’ they’d probably burn me at the stake (I do worry when I see anything ‘Just For Women’ – makes me think they could be just a tad on the mad side and suffering from a distinct lack of humour). But there’s hard cash (vodka vouchers) up for grabs and if nowt else, it’s all good practice.

Slight technical hitch – deadline next Friday. Best start peddling like fuck.



Dr Zhivago, Fanny Battering and The Good Ear Review

I haven’t done one of these for a while, as my keyboard aura has been fucked with. I blame it on Christmas, myself; it gives me a large dose of the heebeejeebies – what with all those cherub-faced children, having to engage with fuckers you’d rather chin any other time of the year, and then there’s the lashings of greed and hypocrisy. It gets right on my knockers (I can tell you) and has me reaching for the vodka bottle. I wonder why anyone bothers with it. Still, it seems to have caught on.

          And then there was the snow. What a laugh that was. And how bloody cold was it? My bathroom looked like that iced-up house in Dr Zhivago (of note, my attempts to successfully pull off a credible Julie Christie impersonation fell somewhat short of the mark. In fact, it could be said that I resembled a multi-layered bag lady as I shuffled around my bathroom with gloved hands, that couldn’t quite wrestle the toothpaste onto the toothbrush; such was the severity of their shaking. Mind you, a mate of mine said I looked more like Tony Christie. And I suppose there’s a case to be made for that too).

           

 Julie and Omar visit my gaff, to make sure I'm not exagerating or telling porkies..

Julie brutally disses me by demonstrating how easy it is to look like a babe when your tits are frozen... 

            So, I don’t like Christmas and I don’t like being cold.

I thought I’d go to the gym. It’s a good time to go, over the festive season – the gym has a distinct lack of humans in attendance and their showers are piping hot, so it’d be a win-win situation. So off we set (my husband and I), and I was in buoyant mood, “Tangerines and nuts for everybody! Merry Christmas to you all!” But my newfound optimism for some quality time at the gym was short-lived. Upon entering the birds changing room, I was greeted by the sight of a wizened old fowl, stooped over and vigorously patting talcum powder onto her fanny. She looked up and smiled, before applying a fresh scoop of talc to her bits and continuing to batter away.

Now I don’t know what it is with some birds in the changing rooms. And I don’t mean lesbians or any of that caper, I just mean the ones who give it all that, “Us girls together” bollocks. They just seem to want to show off their giblets and grunge all over the gaff, rather than being a bit more modest, a bit more discreet, about it all – you know, use of towel as a shield or even (like me) use one of the shower/changing rooms (where I can hop around on one leg whilst trying to get my pants on in private). But there they are; legs apart, vice-like grip on each end of a towel and making exaggerated sawing motions with it between their legs. Get a room, I say. Dear, oh dear.

So, I drank a lot of vodka last month. I had to. I went to pubs that had hound-flanked log fires; where the birds kept their clothes on and house doubles were the order of the day. I ate steaming plates of pub grub, talked bollocks with my husband and dropped the odd howler of a fart. It really was, the only way to get through it.

Just before the real horror of Christmas kicked in, I slapped myself around and managed to send off a blindingly good monologue submission to ‘The Good Review’, before all was lost for the rest of the year. I’d been working on it for a while, so really, it had been more a matter of tidying up.

So now I’ve come out the other side, and my fingers have begun tapping away again. My aura has been restored. Love to everybody (this is, in fact, a lie). And the festive season now seems like a distant memory.

Although sadly, I fear the image of the biddy and her talcum powder may be indelibly etched into memory for time immemorial….