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...
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
The Olympic Ticket Debacle a.k.a. Dodgy Ronald's Horlicks Emporium
Ewan and I were pretty annoyed when our promised front row seats to the High Jump failed to materialise, so we had to take matters into our own hands if we had any hope of seeing the event.
It wasn't until Mike The Shite rocked up at the shop looking to buy some ham that things got moving. He said he knew this dude who could get us some tickets but he was a bit iffy and shouldn't be approached without a gift. So we jot down the address and head out.
It was late afternoon before we got to the allotted place, even after our swift progress through the gumdrop forest and the haunted ruins. It took us a while to locate the entrance, what with it being a black door down the side of an alleyway, but the sun was out and all its menacing attributes were lost under a radiant summer's afternoon. As directed we had arrived with a box of Matchmakers, orange not mint, and knocked on the door.
We were a bit nervous because of all the stories but Mike assured us that Dodgy Ronald was all talk and most of the tales we've heard were made up. Although he said the chocolate reindeer fiasco was all fact. So this put us a little on edge. I mean there are crazy bastards everywhere so you just have to keep your wits about you, which is why I bought Ewan that bum bag.
So the door creaks open on its haggard old hinges and this dude Ronald is just standing there naked except for a pink garter belt and a 'Vote For Pedro' T-shirt. Ewan was already gone so it was up to me to brave this guy's den and secure us our front row seats. He looks me up and down and seeing the Matchmakers he gestures and I hand them over. He slowly opens the packet and carefully chomps his way through the lot before crushing the packaging into a little ball with his little fingers.
There is a lot of silence before he invites me in and cracks open the Horlicks. After the brew is made up we get to talking. Seems that Ronald has some inside knowledge of Sebastian Coe's operations and that for a small fee he can sort us out with a few tickets, "If I get what he's saying." I don't have a clue so he comes clean and says he stole a box of tickets from this big pile at the Olympic Stadium while he was there delivering a box of high end cat food.
Our next hurdle is the haggling. Ronald wants two fifty each and I'm not happy with that at all. I say two thirty-five and he comes back with two forty-five. We aren't getting anywhere so after another Horlicks break we get things underway and a few hours later we agree on two sixty. I had no choice but to go higher because I had drunk my way through a whole jar and that shits expensive.
I hand over the change and after a few victories on Mario Kart 64 I head off. I'm walking back down the high street's low end to find Ewan still cowering behind the hardware store's emphatic mascot Mr. Spanners. I show him the tickets and after he is done wiping himself the excitement subsides and we head back to the shop to chill out until the events kick off.
It wasn't until Mike The Shite rocked up at the shop looking to buy some ham that things got moving. He said he knew this dude who could get us some tickets but he was a bit iffy and shouldn't be approached without a gift. So we jot down the address and head out.
It was late afternoon before we got to the allotted place, even after our swift progress through the gumdrop forest and the haunted ruins. It took us a while to locate the entrance, what with it being a black door down the side of an alleyway, but the sun was out and all its menacing attributes were lost under a radiant summer's afternoon. As directed we had arrived with a box of Matchmakers, orange not mint, and knocked on the door.
We were a bit nervous because of all the stories but Mike assured us that Dodgy Ronald was all talk and most of the tales we've heard were made up. Although he said the chocolate reindeer fiasco was all fact. So this put us a little on edge. I mean there are crazy bastards everywhere so you just have to keep your wits about you, which is why I bought Ewan that bum bag.
So the door creaks open on its haggard old hinges and this dude Ronald is just standing there naked except for a pink garter belt and a 'Vote For Pedro' T-shirt. Ewan was already gone so it was up to me to brave this guy's den and secure us our front row seats. He looks me up and down and seeing the Matchmakers he gestures and I hand them over. He slowly opens the packet and carefully chomps his way through the lot before crushing the packaging into a little ball with his little fingers.
There is a lot of silence before he invites me in and cracks open the Horlicks. After the brew is made up we get to talking. Seems that Ronald has some inside knowledge of Sebastian Coe's operations and that for a small fee he can sort us out with a few tickets, "If I get what he's saying." I don't have a clue so he comes clean and says he stole a box of tickets from this big pile at the Olympic Stadium while he was there delivering a box of high end cat food.
Our next hurdle is the haggling. Ronald wants two fifty each and I'm not happy with that at all. I say two thirty-five and he comes back with two forty-five. We aren't getting anywhere so after another Horlicks break we get things underway and a few hours later we agree on two sixty. I had no choice but to go higher because I had drunk my way through a whole jar and that shits expensive.
I hand over the change and after a few victories on Mario Kart 64 I head off. I'm walking back down the high street's low end to find Ewan still cowering behind the hardware store's emphatic mascot Mr. Spanners. I show him the tickets and after he is done wiping himself the excitement subsides and we head back to the shop to chill out until the events kick off.
Monday, 13 June 2011
Stumbling Upon The Truth
Things have been slow this week. They updated the 'Wanted' posters outside the pub and the Local Vandal, Timmy spray painted a giant cock on the croquet lawn. Aside from these trivialities time drifts along surreptitiously, making a mockery of the uninventive. The rain has forced me indoors and after a stressful encounter with a Robin I have been in no mood for contact.
It was thus I spent the morning stumbling upon many an unnoticed gem on the Interweb. I was getting my fill of laughter until I stumbled upon something I found shockingly distasteful. My suspicions of foul play have been silently growing but suddenly before me lay the proof that my ancestral seat had indeed been unduly whipped from beneath my feet.
I read the confession with much interest. At first taking it to be a fake my reading pace was unhurried. It wasn't until the facts of my Mother's death sprang out of the page that I knew I was reading the confession of the man that had stolen my fortune and cured me of my parental love. Archibald Gubbins, Stableboy and genius. This dastardly fiend and scoundrel has faced me many times from the witness box but alas his deployment of my inherited wealth have given him the upper hand in legal matters. I have resigned away justice to the banks of memory and keep it locked away. Now they burst forth in a tide of rage and hate.
With this written and signed confession Archibald has made one fatal mistake and played right into my hands. A swift sojourn to the library allowed Miss Bubble the opportunity for a good faff while she made the digital physical. Not three days later and the problem was solved and I had my evidence.
Thus crossing the street to my childhood home I was greeted by Patters the Butler. The man had nursed me through many a grazed knee and it is to him I owe my victory at the 1972 World Polo Championship. Currently acting as my dealer he was pleased to admit me into the entrance hall of the splendid Gothic mansion I once called home.
Grinning from the balcony in my grandfather's robe stood Archibald. The devil, how dare he don the attire of a lord when his existence lay in the stink of the cattle shed. From across the auditorium we yelled and upon seeing the confession in print he was aghast with violence.
Springing form the balcony he deployed all of his Zorro skills and swiftly snatched the document from my grasp. The ghastly scene was already playing itself out. The confession maybe legal and allow me justice but my thirst for blood was insatiable and I wanted my REVENGE!
That fateful night flashed before my eyes. I was strolling through the garden sharing the air with Agatha when the upstairs terrace was opened to admit my Mother. We waved, we called and the gestures were reciprocated then out of the illuminated interior a second shadow presented itself. I knew it to be of Archibald because no one sports such a hump but I was unable to witness a face. Before confusion could present itself my Mother was falling and hit the fountain with deathly force. My cries rang out into the night and all that was left was anger.
Now he stood facing me. The destroyer of my bloodline and thief of my grief. He was to pay. I grabbed the nearest weapon to hand that usefully turned out to be motorised rapier and against his quill and ink the battle was already won. His reluctance to fight was something I had not bargained on. He fought with a melancholy attitude, as if his life had already reached its end. My anger could not be contained and amid protests from Patters' I injected my hate into Archibald Gubbins' heart.
He slumped to the floor, blood spilling from his mouth along with his nonsensical chatter. Finally he drew his last breath and in one incredibly impressive sentence brought about my emotional downfall. "For you see, I am your brother. I wished not for this bloodshed. I was rash, young and hot of head. My Mother was a simple village groveler and my Father abused his position to abuse her. I was shunned by the world I was bound to and in my anger I killed your Mother. It was I who sent you that confession and wish now I had chosen a more suitable initiation for our battle. I have been waiting here many a year, dying of cancer. Being kept alive by the thought of repairing a family I have destroyed. Now I can die free." It was then that he died free as I would not be tapped for burial costs.
So the rain continues, Timmy spray paints his phallic symbols across my many acres and I dwell in misery here in my study. Watching the hate flow through this building like the love that once did. There is no punchline to this story, only a gripping sadness. That was until Ewan showed up and we had a cracking game of Mouse Trap.
It was thus I spent the morning stumbling upon many an unnoticed gem on the Interweb. I was getting my fill of laughter until I stumbled upon something I found shockingly distasteful. My suspicions of foul play have been silently growing but suddenly before me lay the proof that my ancestral seat had indeed been unduly whipped from beneath my feet.
I read the confession with much interest. At first taking it to be a fake my reading pace was unhurried. It wasn't until the facts of my Mother's death sprang out of the page that I knew I was reading the confession of the man that had stolen my fortune and cured me of my parental love. Archibald Gubbins, Stableboy and genius. This dastardly fiend and scoundrel has faced me many times from the witness box but alas his deployment of my inherited wealth have given him the upper hand in legal matters. I have resigned away justice to the banks of memory and keep it locked away. Now they burst forth in a tide of rage and hate.
With this written and signed confession Archibald has made one fatal mistake and played right into my hands. A swift sojourn to the library allowed Miss Bubble the opportunity for a good faff while she made the digital physical. Not three days later and the problem was solved and I had my evidence.
Thus crossing the street to my childhood home I was greeted by Patters the Butler. The man had nursed me through many a grazed knee and it is to him I owe my victory at the 1972 World Polo Championship. Currently acting as my dealer he was pleased to admit me into the entrance hall of the splendid Gothic mansion I once called home.
Grinning from the balcony in my grandfather's robe stood Archibald. The devil, how dare he don the attire of a lord when his existence lay in the stink of the cattle shed. From across the auditorium we yelled and upon seeing the confession in print he was aghast with violence.
Springing form the balcony he deployed all of his Zorro skills and swiftly snatched the document from my grasp. The ghastly scene was already playing itself out. The confession maybe legal and allow me justice but my thirst for blood was insatiable and I wanted my REVENGE!
That fateful night flashed before my eyes. I was strolling through the garden sharing the air with Agatha when the upstairs terrace was opened to admit my Mother. We waved, we called and the gestures were reciprocated then out of the illuminated interior a second shadow presented itself. I knew it to be of Archibald because no one sports such a hump but I was unable to witness a face. Before confusion could present itself my Mother was falling and hit the fountain with deathly force. My cries rang out into the night and all that was left was anger.
Now he stood facing me. The destroyer of my bloodline and thief of my grief. He was to pay. I grabbed the nearest weapon to hand that usefully turned out to be motorised rapier and against his quill and ink the battle was already won. His reluctance to fight was something I had not bargained on. He fought with a melancholy attitude, as if his life had already reached its end. My anger could not be contained and amid protests from Patters' I injected my hate into Archibald Gubbins' heart.
He slumped to the floor, blood spilling from his mouth along with his nonsensical chatter. Finally he drew his last breath and in one incredibly impressive sentence brought about my emotional downfall. "For you see, I am your brother. I wished not for this bloodshed. I was rash, young and hot of head. My Mother was a simple village groveler and my Father abused his position to abuse her. I was shunned by the world I was bound to and in my anger I killed your Mother. It was I who sent you that confession and wish now I had chosen a more suitable initiation for our battle. I have been waiting here many a year, dying of cancer. Being kept alive by the thought of repairing a family I have destroyed. Now I can die free." It was then that he died free as I would not be tapped for burial costs.
So the rain continues, Timmy spray paints his phallic symbols across my many acres and I dwell in misery here in my study. Watching the hate flow through this building like the love that once did. There is no punchline to this story, only a gripping sadness. That was until Ewan showed up and we had a cracking game of Mouse Trap.
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