I'll be quick about this 'cos I'm still hurting and I to get away from Ewan and his damn snickering. Suffice to say shit went down but that's got nothing to do with me. For those not in the know, I'm gassing about the bitch hot Screwball Scramble Championship and this year's final was a night to remember. It was no '97 but there were some upsets that took down the strongest men I know.
It started off with some chuckles when Biffa Munchkin showed up with his Mouse Trap set and was systematically beaten as per protocol. Then to kick things into motion Rubby Tumpish lost seven minutes on the log hoppers and left Budgy Cripper an easy route through to the semis.
Sufford Spatch went down to a wrist sprain after he overloaded his burger at lunch and Frankle Buthering got through on a technicality only to be bashed up the face with a swift circuit from Arnoldson Arnold Arnoldson.
By the time we hit the semis I was busting the sweetest moves I've ever scratched. Being a mix master has its advantages and after I took down Spadgington Miller I was well on the way to victory. That was until Little Tommy Worthing managed to take down Biffa after a by-ruling brought him back into the tournament.
During the final time out I could here Worthing gloating about his ten year winning streak but I knew this was my year and I knew everyone present didn't want him knocking Sir Desmond Claridge out of the record books.
The stress got to tenuous and so we had to hit the game. We were both fine over the see-saws and after a shaky fudge through the metal rods we were neck and neck on the studded platform. A loss of concentration allowed me to take a few seconds on the maze but the advantage got the better of me and I lost my head.
All I had to do was ease myself over the catapult and victory was mine but I panicked. I fucking panicked that shit game to bugger and lunged that motherfucking marble halfway across the social club. After Tommy's cheers had died out I found the ball in the G-spot of the damn dart board. The shame.
Suffice to say I'm not doing well. I lost my self-respect, my confidence and a title that should rightfully be mine. I could see the disappointment on the faces of everyone in that room. They had nothing else going for them. It was up to me to take that trophy and end Worthing's spree but the moment has gone and I don't think I'll ever pick up another Screwball Scramble board as long as my days are ticking.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Journey To The Centre Of The Countryside
Well, Ewan finally found the laptop. Turns out we'd just left it on the table after our last game of charades. Problem facing us now is how to get to Cirencester before the bridges close. I say to myself every year that I won't go, but the prospect of the annual Screwball Scramble Championship always proves to alluring.
Perhaps if I wasn't such a slave to the game I'd be sat at home taking in some Golden Girls repeats while Patters shimmies back and forth to the kitchen with a generous supply of leaks and tea. I've always enjoyed the dusks over Upper Lower Tollwoodford. Ever so dimly bright and full of magic streaming from the local guilds, but alas my current mental intrusion is of one of fevered anticipation and frustration and I fear that another day is lost.
Only Ewan's rendition of 'The Upper Hand' theme is giving me the kazoo fix I need to keep my stress at bay. The rain is letting in far too much sun and the heat is unbearable. The roads all look the same and because of our last pit stop we're hours behind schedule.
It appears a local acting troupe were doing an impromptu performance outside Fat Lenny's Hotdog Stable and the opportunity to take in 'Two Cats and a Twisted Yum Treat' was one I couldn't bring myself to miss and a more riveting performance was never witnessed. The acting was superbly dreadful and hit the exact comedic tone needed for the piece. I even felt myself warming to the character of Stubbins who I've famously hated in all his incarnations but Miss Sissy Jennings did a justice to the part I never knew possible.
After the troupe had gathered up all the applause and packed them away it took us a few hours to get over our artistic high and get the wireless Internet in the butching van back into action. It wouldn't have been too bad had we not got stopped at Riverhill's notorious tollgate.
I've heard stories about frank Frank but his insistence that the van was unsuitable for river crossing because of its colour was frankly absurd. Personally I think the pink is very fetching and Ewan started blubbing when Frank insulted the star mural he'd painted onto the windscreen. Eventually we got round him and if we're lucky he won't sue. I'm counting on it because another lawsuit will really rip into this month's food budget and to be honest I only chanced it because I've heard factual rumours that Frank once had his heart broken by an impressionist who specialised in doing lawyers.
We finally got onto the A999B-6 but had to switch onto the C-roads after a road kill warning flashed up on the radio and we are now currently stuck in traffic somewhere in the countryside with a few hundred sheep and an intoxicated farmer blocking our progress. The man is clearly a champion for the whacky backy but herding livestock is neither the time nor the place for such indulgence. If he doesn't stop dancing to the sounds of my engine I'll soon be forced to run him and his livestock into the sweet British earth. In hindsight the mural may have been a bit of a mistake. Not only has it become the focus of the Farmer's religious beliefs but also my vision is restricted to a narrow three-inch gap that is very much unsuited for the job of a mass cattle annihilation. Still, it looks very fetching and that sense of joy cannot be ignored.
The good news is that the wait has given Ewan the chance to get on the roof and fix the Internet aerial again. The wind keeps blowing leaves into the signal and my driving is taking a lashing while I type this.
Bollocks. The Farmer's amassed a rabble and they are mounting a service in praise of the windshield. If only it could shield me from stupidity and anger, apparently we aren't there yet but I've invested in some promising companies that could well give me my desired technical dominance in the future.
Right, I better skedaddle, a good hit and run needs exceptional concentration. If we are lucky we can get to the Championship on time. It's about 3 o'clock now, which gives us until later to get to Cirencester.
Hold on E I'm going to get us back some time!
Perhaps if I wasn't such a slave to the game I'd be sat at home taking in some Golden Girls repeats while Patters shimmies back and forth to the kitchen with a generous supply of leaks and tea. I've always enjoyed the dusks over Upper Lower Tollwoodford. Ever so dimly bright and full of magic streaming from the local guilds, but alas my current mental intrusion is of one of fevered anticipation and frustration and I fear that another day is lost.
Only Ewan's rendition of 'The Upper Hand' theme is giving me the kazoo fix I need to keep my stress at bay. The rain is letting in far too much sun and the heat is unbearable. The roads all look the same and because of our last pit stop we're hours behind schedule.
It appears a local acting troupe were doing an impromptu performance outside Fat Lenny's Hotdog Stable and the opportunity to take in 'Two Cats and a Twisted Yum Treat' was one I couldn't bring myself to miss and a more riveting performance was never witnessed. The acting was superbly dreadful and hit the exact comedic tone needed for the piece. I even felt myself warming to the character of Stubbins who I've famously hated in all his incarnations but Miss Sissy Jennings did a justice to the part I never knew possible.
After the troupe had gathered up all the applause and packed them away it took us a few hours to get over our artistic high and get the wireless Internet in the butching van back into action. It wouldn't have been too bad had we not got stopped at Riverhill's notorious tollgate.
I've heard stories about frank Frank but his insistence that the van was unsuitable for river crossing because of its colour was frankly absurd. Personally I think the pink is very fetching and Ewan started blubbing when Frank insulted the star mural he'd painted onto the windscreen. Eventually we got round him and if we're lucky he won't sue. I'm counting on it because another lawsuit will really rip into this month's food budget and to be honest I only chanced it because I've heard factual rumours that Frank once had his heart broken by an impressionist who specialised in doing lawyers.
We finally got onto the A999B-6 but had to switch onto the C-roads after a road kill warning flashed up on the radio and we are now currently stuck in traffic somewhere in the countryside with a few hundred sheep and an intoxicated farmer blocking our progress. The man is clearly a champion for the whacky backy but herding livestock is neither the time nor the place for such indulgence. If he doesn't stop dancing to the sounds of my engine I'll soon be forced to run him and his livestock into the sweet British earth. In hindsight the mural may have been a bit of a mistake. Not only has it become the focus of the Farmer's religious beliefs but also my vision is restricted to a narrow three-inch gap that is very much unsuited for the job of a mass cattle annihilation. Still, it looks very fetching and that sense of joy cannot be ignored.
The good news is that the wait has given Ewan the chance to get on the roof and fix the Internet aerial again. The wind keeps blowing leaves into the signal and my driving is taking a lashing while I type this.
Bollocks. The Farmer's amassed a rabble and they are mounting a service in praise of the windshield. If only it could shield me from stupidity and anger, apparently we aren't there yet but I've invested in some promising companies that could well give me my desired technical dominance in the future.
Right, I better skedaddle, a good hit and run needs exceptional concentration. If we are lucky we can get to the Championship on time. It's about 3 o'clock now, which gives us until later to get to Cirencester.
Hold on E I'm going to get us back some time!
Thursday, 25 August 2011
You Don't Want To Know
Okay, apparently you do.
Sometimes Ewan can push a joke too far. This is why I am currently sat in a damp field in North Wales surrounded by naked farmers while they currently act out the highlights from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Ewan being the upstanding coward that he is bolted into a hedge grove about ten hours ago and by now I'm hoping that he is dead. It is his fault I am here and it is also his fault I'm getting a mating display by a burly farm hand called Gavin. Apparently a kick in the balls is foreplay to this twat. I have never in my entire life been more uncomfortable and angry than I have been now.
It started a month ago. I was rocking a few samples on this old Casio FX14-0 when Ewan arrives to tell me his Aunt had died and he had inherited a time share in a caravan that under looked Snowdonia National Park. I didn't really want to go as my foot massager had just arrived and needed testing but Ewan bashed out the boggle eyes and the matter was settled.
So it takes us four weeks to track down the camp site by which time I'm busting for a piss. As soon as we halt I'm off to the nearest hedge to let loose. Little did I know that the neighbouring Farmer was going all 'Carry On Camping' with his misses on the other side and a splash of the golden love syrup wasn't making me any friends.
That's when it all kicked off. While I was running for my life from a disgruntled Farmer, Ewan has already been to the caravan to discover that it was inhabited by a heap of Strangers. A quick education in the notion of sharing time and Ewan was back in the car. Luckily I managed to Duke's of Hazard that shit through the window and we were gone, leaving our troubles behind us. Or so I thought.
It seems farmers are a persistent lot and what with all this interwebbing their communications network is a force to be reckoned with. What I hadn't reckoned with is their love for all things theatrical and that Ewan's van wasn't good for the 7.5million miles we were promised. So we break down. And then the farmers come. And then Ewan runs away. And then the Farmers get weird, very very weird. Then I die a little inside.
They promised me that they'd leave once the third act is done properly but I don't believe them. I've already been here half a day and I am already of the mindset that you should never wrong a Farmer especially one named Cuthbert Sinister. The rain has come and gone again several times but yet these guys insist on doing muddy cartwheels as a punishment for my disagreeable acts. I'm of the confused mindset and am hoping that someone will write me out of this.
My one hope is that Ewan comes to the rescue before I die with the image of Gavin's twig and plums being my only distraction on the journey to hell or heaven or wherever the fuck I'm going to end up. I just want out.
I've learnt three things on this adventure. One, naked farmer's are just as hideous as other naked people, two, holding in a piss for several weeks can cause extensive bladder damage and finally, it really is possible to put a fresh expression onto a classic work of art.
I thought I'd just jot down my final words before the battery on my handheld magic talkie thingy runs out. I...
Sometimes Ewan can push a joke too far. This is why I am currently sat in a damp field in North Wales surrounded by naked farmers while they currently act out the highlights from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Ewan being the upstanding coward that he is bolted into a hedge grove about ten hours ago and by now I'm hoping that he is dead. It is his fault I am here and it is also his fault I'm getting a mating display by a burly farm hand called Gavin. Apparently a kick in the balls is foreplay to this twat. I have never in my entire life been more uncomfortable and angry than I have been now.
It started a month ago. I was rocking a few samples on this old Casio FX14-0 when Ewan arrives to tell me his Aunt had died and he had inherited a time share in a caravan that under looked Snowdonia National Park. I didn't really want to go as my foot massager had just arrived and needed testing but Ewan bashed out the boggle eyes and the matter was settled.
So it takes us four weeks to track down the camp site by which time I'm busting for a piss. As soon as we halt I'm off to the nearest hedge to let loose. Little did I know that the neighbouring Farmer was going all 'Carry On Camping' with his misses on the other side and a splash of the golden love syrup wasn't making me any friends.
That's when it all kicked off. While I was running for my life from a disgruntled Farmer, Ewan has already been to the caravan to discover that it was inhabited by a heap of Strangers. A quick education in the notion of sharing time and Ewan was back in the car. Luckily I managed to Duke's of Hazard that shit through the window and we were gone, leaving our troubles behind us. Or so I thought.
It seems farmers are a persistent lot and what with all this interwebbing their communications network is a force to be reckoned with. What I hadn't reckoned with is their love for all things theatrical and that Ewan's van wasn't good for the 7.5million miles we were promised. So we break down. And then the farmers come. And then Ewan runs away. And then the Farmers get weird, very very weird. Then I die a little inside.
They promised me that they'd leave once the third act is done properly but I don't believe them. I've already been here half a day and I am already of the mindset that you should never wrong a Farmer especially one named Cuthbert Sinister. The rain has come and gone again several times but yet these guys insist on doing muddy cartwheels as a punishment for my disagreeable acts. I'm of the confused mindset and am hoping that someone will write me out of this.
My one hope is that Ewan comes to the rescue before I die with the image of Gavin's twig and plums being my only distraction on the journey to hell or heaven or wherever the fuck I'm going to end up. I just want out.
I've learnt three things on this adventure. One, naked farmer's are just as hideous as other naked people, two, holding in a piss for several weeks can cause extensive bladder damage and finally, it really is possible to put a fresh expression onto a classic work of art.
I thought I'd just jot down my final words before the battery on my handheld magic talkie thingy runs out. I...
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