I AM FREE!…….Or should I say, we are free. Yes Jim Davidson and I have escaped from ‘The great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’. I suppose you heard about the mini Tsunami that was supposedly heading for the east coast, well it was then that we managed to escape. The local fire brigade had paid a visit to inspect our defences, and in all the ensuing chaos, a door was left open. Well me and Jim couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. We slipped through the door, and out into fresh air. Boy it feels good to be free again. The smell of fresh air in my nostrils, the weight lifted from my shoulders, yes freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose alright.
Of course we are technically fugitives, and to be honest, it’s a feeling I could get used to. Yes me and old Jimbo are like Bonny and Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the sun dance kid, Thelma and Louise! We are free spirits, children of the road, masters of our own destiny. We are going to live one day at a time. Live for today, and to hell with tomorrow. And do you know what, I don’t care if we are cut down in a hail of gunfire after we have held up a bank, or turned over a post office. No, because we are desperados, and we don’t let anyone get in our way man. The world is our oyster. Tomorrow Bondi beech hanging out with the surf babes, the next day Hanging out with the ’Crips’ in south side L.A. Cruising along Route 66 with the wind in our hair, and yesterday behind us.
Alright, so we have only got as far as Lowestoft, but hey it’s a start. It’s not actually quite as easy being a fugitive as I had imagined. The only vehicle we managed to hot wire, was a ‘Bedford Rascal’. Not quite the mode of transport we had hoped for as we started our life on the road, but still, better than nothing. One of the main problems we faced after our initial escape, was finding some clothes. We spent the first few hours wandering the streets of Yarmouth wearing the regulation issue smocks that we wore inside. We quickly realised that we stuck out like a sore thumb, and so had to resort to desperate means. We didn’t have a penny between us, so we had to improvise. We stalked the back gardens of Yarmouth looking for washing lines. The problem was, it was getting dark, and so it wasn’t easy to see exactly what it was that we were pinching. We grabbed some stuff, and headed back to the rascal. As a result of this, Jim is wearing a purple shell suit, with prison sandals, while I seem to have drawn the short straw on the clothing front, as I am sporting a pair of turquoise leggings, and a crop top! I am beginning to wonder if the smock wasn’t such a bad look after all.
For the time being, I will have to do the blogs from internet cafes, that is until we can get ourselves a laptop. We will have to do a ram raid on ‘Cash converters’ or something. To make living conditions a little more bearable, we are planning to convert the rascal into a camper van. A little tight for space maybe, but desperados don’t need a lot of room. While we are on the subject of living conditions, Jim does seem to have a slight problem with flatulence. Miss Marple would confirm that bottom trumpeting was something I had seemed to turn into an art form, but Jim is in a different league. The sleeping arrangements at the moment, are that we are topping and tailing in the back of the rascal. This means that I am in close proximity to Jim’s arse all night, and spend most of it extremely wind swept. I am actually starting to get chapped lips!
Anyway, I had better finish up. Jim is telling a disabled girl a joke about a black man, a Jew, and a Nazi war criminal. I am sitting here tapping away wearing leggings a crop top and lipsil. We are starting to get some funny looks, so going to move on. Where? Well we just don’t know man. Catch you later dudes…….
PS. Do you know the best thing about my new found freedom. Is it the smell of the sea air, the sound of birds singing in the morning. Maybe it’s the open road stretching before us, or the not knowing what delights tomorrow has in store for us…….No, it’s none of these things. It’s finally getting that fucking nokia out of my arse!
Friday, 16 November 2007
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Bangs Ghoulies and the Minister for Health.......
It’s a black day in the world of mule. I haven’t been this depressed since Michael Schumacher had Damon Hill off to cheat him out of the 1994 Formula 1 world championship. Just this morning, I discovered my first grey pubic hair. Reaching 40 was pretty earth shattering, but not as bad as coming to the realisation that I have elderly testicles! How has this happened?, and why only one? I suppose it’s got to start somewhere, I suppose one of the little buggers has got to make the break, and show the rest the way. I suppose they will all be following suit now, yes, grey will be the new gingery brown. You won’t be anyone in the pubic world unless you are a shade of grey. I guess the only consolation will be that I will have a distinguished scrotum!
Anyway, enough of my pubic problems. So where have I been, and why no updates. Well, Jim Davidson and me have been in solitary confinement, due to an unfortunate incident involving the Health Minister. A couple of weeks ago, The Health minister, what ever his name is, came to visit ‘The Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’, as part of a nation wide tour of mental welfare institutions. He had invited his counterparts from various countries, to show them what a wonderful mental health system we have. On the day in question, Davina had given us all a pep talk, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were all to stand in a line, and politely greet and shake hands with the various visitors. This sounded to me a little like the line up at the ‘Royal variety Performance’, only they don’t wear dressing gowns and dribble. We were to only speak if we were spoken to, and there was to be absolutely no swearing. So, as Davina was informed that the visitors were imminent, we all dutifully lined up. First in line was Father O’Tooled up, and standing next to him was Nigel. He had been made to wear a long sleeved shirt to disguise his self harming. They had even gone to the trouble to take his dressing gown away from him, to have it dry cleaned. Davina didn’t think the guests would want to be confronted with a manic depressive’s stale vomit. Next to Nigel was Cleopatra. She was asked to wear her normal clothes instead of her usual get up. She wasn’t happy about this, but she was bribed with the promise of getting her foot spa back. Rafael stood next to her. Rafael was heavily sedated due to the fact that he is a mass murderer, and today of all days was not a good time for more blood shed, said Davina. I asked her if in her opinion there was ever a ‘good’ time for bloodshed, and was quickly pocked in the back with the electric cattle prod. The prod only comes out on special occasions. Normally it’s only Christmas that it gets an airing, so today must have been very special!
So there we were, all lined up all neat and tidy. Davina bounced around like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the guests could be seen walking down the corridor towards us. “Ok everybody”, said Davina “Break a leg”. Where the bloody hell did she think we were, on stage in the west end, silly cow. Apart from being a ridiculous thing to say, it was probably a little unwise, Rafael didn’t need much of an excuse at the best of times, so virtually giving him the green light could be seen as a little foolish.
In they came. The Health Minister all suited up, with a gaggle of hangers on and general toadies. Following them were the foreign guests. There were people of all nationalities, and out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Jim lick his lips in anticipation! This could all go very wrong I was thinking to myself, as Davina guided the crowd along the line, bowing and scraping as she went. The Health Minister shook hands with Father O’Tooled up, who offered to show him what was under his cassock. The Minister politely declined, and was herded along the line as quickly as possible. He was swept past Nigel and Cleopatra, but stopped to talk to Rafael. Davina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and the veins on her temples were at bursting point.
“And how are you today?” asked the Minister in his very best ‘couldn’t give a shit, but disguises it as only a politician can’ voice.
Rafael gave the Minister one of those side ways glances, that dogs give each other, just before it all kicks off.
“Are you a liberal democrat?” asked Rafael in a chilling voice.
“Good Lord no”, replied the Minister, not realizing how those three little words had potentially saved him from a gruesome, and very public death.
By this time Davina’s Temples were visibly pulsating, and the Minister was now being frog marched along the line.
He stopped at Jim, and said “Hello, aren’t you er…….what’s his name. Oh you know…….er…….your somebody famous aren’t you?”
Davina jumped in, “Yes you’re quite right Minister, this is Jim, Jim Davidson, he is our only celebrity guest at the moment, and he is responding very well to treatment”.
“Hello Guv’ner” said Jim, “It’s a bleeding travesty I am in here you know, can’t you do something?”
The health Minister smiled like Dracula, just before he sinks his fangs in your neck, and said, “I’m sorry Mr Davidson, I am afraid it’s out of my hands”.
Davina, who was by now virtually hyperventilating, shoved the Minister along the line towards me, the relief written all over her face, thinking that the worst potential flash point, apart from Rafael decapitating the Minister, had been avoided. Just as the Minister reached out his hand towards me, one of the guests came face to face with Jim. He was an oriental gentleman. He was very smartly dressed, and very courteous. Then it happened.
“Hey up, so what kind are you then?” said Jim to the oriental man, “Are you a chinky, or a Jappo?”
The oriental gentleman said in a perfect Oxbridge accent, “Actually sir, I am neither, I am South Korean”.
Jim winked at him, and blurted out, “Well your all the same aint cha. You’ve all got slitty eyes and eat dogs”.
It was genuinely a shame to see Davina being dragged down the corridor to the medical room by her heels, especially after all the time and effort she had put into this visit. Needless to say, the electric cattle prod was wielded about like Luke Skywalkers light sabre. I was apparently guilty by association. Me and Jim were marched to the solitary confinement section in handcuffs, and all the way Jim was shouting “Mental mental chicken oriental”, over and over again!
Apart from that, it’s everything as usual. I suppose the only redeeming feature about being in here at this time of year, is I have managed to completely avoid the lunacy that is Halloween, and Bonfire night. I have never understood the attraction of either of these events. Out of the two, Halloween must be the craziest, for a start it’s an American tradition, and they have never been well known for good ideas.
Apart from that, it seems to fly in the face of every rule that a parent tells their child. Right from day one, parents monotonously drum into their children that…….
1. There are no such things as ghosts. Especially when little Rebecca comes down the stairs crying, saying “Daddy daddy there is a ghost in my room”, to which the parents reply “Don’t be so silly, I have told you a thousand times, there are no such things as ghosts. Besides, your Mother and me are trying to recapture our youth by smoking this joint, so go back to bed”.
2. Never accept sweets from strangers, absolutely never never never. Don’t talk to strangers, and never go off with a stranger, and
3. Always be good, best behaviour, respect your elders, other people and there property.
All very good values, and ways to behave I am sure you will agree. But on October the 31st every year, some sort of madness besets us, and parents all over the country dress their children up like something from the occult, and say to them, “Right, I want you to go up to that strangers door, knock on it, and ask him to give you something nice. If he doesn’t, throw this brick through his fucking window”!…….Bizarre.
Bonfire night is just as mad really. For 364 days of the year, MI5 do their absolute best to prevent the public from obtaining ordinance. This is obviously a commendable attempt to stop terrorist outrages, leaving people dead and injured. Then, one day a year, the madness descends again, and we can all go into our local newsagents, and buy what amounts to TNT!. Not only that, but how much fun can it be really to stand in a freezing cold field, in the pitch black, and watch somebody light a fire? It’s only because it’s a bloody tradition that we all carry on with this ridiculous behaviour, just like Christmas really, but don’t get me started on that. Think about it, just step back a minute, and look at it from a rational perspective. If a friend of yours said to you, ”How do you fancy coming to a party I’m throwing. It’s on January the 18th, and it will basically consist of standing in a field in the freezing cold and the pitch black, and then I’m going to light a fire, and endanger you and your children’s lives, by letting off some explosives“. You would justifiably tell him to bugger off! But there we all stand, stuffing sparklers into our children’s hands. (Remember rule number 4. Don’t play with fire)! Even though little Rebecca is saying Daddy daddy, it’s blinding me, and my hands are burning, we tell them to shut up, and stop disrespecting traditions. Then we all wander over to the burger van to catch botulism.
The A&E departments all over the country must curse our government for letting this insanity go on every year. People lose all sense of reason on this particular date. They stick enormous exploding rockets in milk bottles, and light them. Then when it fails to go off, go and stick their face over it to see what the problem is! I can’t imagine this happening in other walks of life. The army are storming an enemy compound, with the objective of blowing up their ammunition dump. Captain Price leans towards Private Jones and says…….
“Right son, I want you to go and plant the C4 on that ammunition dump, and get back here toot sweet”.
“Right o sir” says Private Jones. He dashes off and plants the explosives, runs back and takes cover. They cover their ears and wait for the bang.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone off sir” says Private Jones.
“Don’t worry son, ill just go and have a look”! It doesn’t happen does it?
I have never been quite sure what exactly it is we are supposed to be celebrating/commemorating anyway. Is it the fact that someone tried to blow up the houses of parliament, or the fact that he, and his fellow conspirators were thwarted? Either way, it’s not much to celebrate is it? Failing to blow up bastards that without doubt deserve it, should not be celebrated, or he was a rubbish terrorist, something else that doesn’t deserve a knees up!
Oh well, Better get back to the cell I suppose. Posh and Becks have been abandoned. After weeks of scraping, clawing, and digging, it slowly dawned on us, that we were on the second floor, and would only have succeeded in escaping into someone else’s cell.
Cheerio for now.
Anyway, enough of my pubic problems. So where have I been, and why no updates. Well, Jim Davidson and me have been in solitary confinement, due to an unfortunate incident involving the Health Minister. A couple of weeks ago, The Health minister, what ever his name is, came to visit ‘The Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’, as part of a nation wide tour of mental welfare institutions. He had invited his counterparts from various countries, to show them what a wonderful mental health system we have. On the day in question, Davina had given us all a pep talk, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were all to stand in a line, and politely greet and shake hands with the various visitors. This sounded to me a little like the line up at the ‘Royal variety Performance’, only they don’t wear dressing gowns and dribble. We were to only speak if we were spoken to, and there was to be absolutely no swearing. So, as Davina was informed that the visitors were imminent, we all dutifully lined up. First in line was Father O’Tooled up, and standing next to him was Nigel. He had been made to wear a long sleeved shirt to disguise his self harming. They had even gone to the trouble to take his dressing gown away from him, to have it dry cleaned. Davina didn’t think the guests would want to be confronted with a manic depressive’s stale vomit. Next to Nigel was Cleopatra. She was asked to wear her normal clothes instead of her usual get up. She wasn’t happy about this, but she was bribed with the promise of getting her foot spa back. Rafael stood next to her. Rafael was heavily sedated due to the fact that he is a mass murderer, and today of all days was not a good time for more blood shed, said Davina. I asked her if in her opinion there was ever a ‘good’ time for bloodshed, and was quickly pocked in the back with the electric cattle prod. The prod only comes out on special occasions. Normally it’s only Christmas that it gets an airing, so today must have been very special!
So there we were, all lined up all neat and tidy. Davina bounced around like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the guests could be seen walking down the corridor towards us. “Ok everybody”, said Davina “Break a leg”. Where the bloody hell did she think we were, on stage in the west end, silly cow. Apart from being a ridiculous thing to say, it was probably a little unwise, Rafael didn’t need much of an excuse at the best of times, so virtually giving him the green light could be seen as a little foolish.
In they came. The Health Minister all suited up, with a gaggle of hangers on and general toadies. Following them were the foreign guests. There were people of all nationalities, and out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Jim lick his lips in anticipation! This could all go very wrong I was thinking to myself, as Davina guided the crowd along the line, bowing and scraping as she went. The Health Minister shook hands with Father O’Tooled up, who offered to show him what was under his cassock. The Minister politely declined, and was herded along the line as quickly as possible. He was swept past Nigel and Cleopatra, but stopped to talk to Rafael. Davina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and the veins on her temples were at bursting point.
“And how are you today?” asked the Minister in his very best ‘couldn’t give a shit, but disguises it as only a politician can’ voice.
Rafael gave the Minister one of those side ways glances, that dogs give each other, just before it all kicks off.
“Are you a liberal democrat?” asked Rafael in a chilling voice.
“Good Lord no”, replied the Minister, not realizing how those three little words had potentially saved him from a gruesome, and very public death.
By this time Davina’s Temples were visibly pulsating, and the Minister was now being frog marched along the line.
He stopped at Jim, and said “Hello, aren’t you er…….what’s his name. Oh you know…….er…….your somebody famous aren’t you?”
Davina jumped in, “Yes you’re quite right Minister, this is Jim, Jim Davidson, he is our only celebrity guest at the moment, and he is responding very well to treatment”.
“Hello Guv’ner” said Jim, “It’s a bleeding travesty I am in here you know, can’t you do something?”
The health Minister smiled like Dracula, just before he sinks his fangs in your neck, and said, “I’m sorry Mr Davidson, I am afraid it’s out of my hands”.
Davina, who was by now virtually hyperventilating, shoved the Minister along the line towards me, the relief written all over her face, thinking that the worst potential flash point, apart from Rafael decapitating the Minister, had been avoided. Just as the Minister reached out his hand towards me, one of the guests came face to face with Jim. He was an oriental gentleman. He was very smartly dressed, and very courteous. Then it happened.
“Hey up, so what kind are you then?” said Jim to the oriental man, “Are you a chinky, or a Jappo?”
The oriental gentleman said in a perfect Oxbridge accent, “Actually sir, I am neither, I am South Korean”.
Jim winked at him, and blurted out, “Well your all the same aint cha. You’ve all got slitty eyes and eat dogs”.
It was genuinely a shame to see Davina being dragged down the corridor to the medical room by her heels, especially after all the time and effort she had put into this visit. Needless to say, the electric cattle prod was wielded about like Luke Skywalkers light sabre. I was apparently guilty by association. Me and Jim were marched to the solitary confinement section in handcuffs, and all the way Jim was shouting “Mental mental chicken oriental”, over and over again!
Apart from that, it’s everything as usual. I suppose the only redeeming feature about being in here at this time of year, is I have managed to completely avoid the lunacy that is Halloween, and Bonfire night. I have never understood the attraction of either of these events. Out of the two, Halloween must be the craziest, for a start it’s an American tradition, and they have never been well known for good ideas.
Apart from that, it seems to fly in the face of every rule that a parent tells their child. Right from day one, parents monotonously drum into their children that…….
1. There are no such things as ghosts. Especially when little Rebecca comes down the stairs crying, saying “Daddy daddy there is a ghost in my room”, to which the parents reply “Don’t be so silly, I have told you a thousand times, there are no such things as ghosts. Besides, your Mother and me are trying to recapture our youth by smoking this joint, so go back to bed”.
2. Never accept sweets from strangers, absolutely never never never. Don’t talk to strangers, and never go off with a stranger, and
3. Always be good, best behaviour, respect your elders, other people and there property.
All very good values, and ways to behave I am sure you will agree. But on October the 31st every year, some sort of madness besets us, and parents all over the country dress their children up like something from the occult, and say to them, “Right, I want you to go up to that strangers door, knock on it, and ask him to give you something nice. If he doesn’t, throw this brick through his fucking window”!…….Bizarre.
Bonfire night is just as mad really. For 364 days of the year, MI5 do their absolute best to prevent the public from obtaining ordinance. This is obviously a commendable attempt to stop terrorist outrages, leaving people dead and injured. Then, one day a year, the madness descends again, and we can all go into our local newsagents, and buy what amounts to TNT!. Not only that, but how much fun can it be really to stand in a freezing cold field, in the pitch black, and watch somebody light a fire? It’s only because it’s a bloody tradition that we all carry on with this ridiculous behaviour, just like Christmas really, but don’t get me started on that. Think about it, just step back a minute, and look at it from a rational perspective. If a friend of yours said to you, ”How do you fancy coming to a party I’m throwing. It’s on January the 18th, and it will basically consist of standing in a field in the freezing cold and the pitch black, and then I’m going to light a fire, and endanger you and your children’s lives, by letting off some explosives“. You would justifiably tell him to bugger off! But there we all stand, stuffing sparklers into our children’s hands. (Remember rule number 4. Don’t play with fire)! Even though little Rebecca is saying Daddy daddy, it’s blinding me, and my hands are burning, we tell them to shut up, and stop disrespecting traditions. Then we all wander over to the burger van to catch botulism.
The A&E departments all over the country must curse our government for letting this insanity go on every year. People lose all sense of reason on this particular date. They stick enormous exploding rockets in milk bottles, and light them. Then when it fails to go off, go and stick their face over it to see what the problem is! I can’t imagine this happening in other walks of life. The army are storming an enemy compound, with the objective of blowing up their ammunition dump. Captain Price leans towards Private Jones and says…….
“Right son, I want you to go and plant the C4 on that ammunition dump, and get back here toot sweet”.
“Right o sir” says Private Jones. He dashes off and plants the explosives, runs back and takes cover. They cover their ears and wait for the bang.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone off sir” says Private Jones.
“Don’t worry son, ill just go and have a look”! It doesn’t happen does it?
I have never been quite sure what exactly it is we are supposed to be celebrating/commemorating anyway. Is it the fact that someone tried to blow up the houses of parliament, or the fact that he, and his fellow conspirators were thwarted? Either way, it’s not much to celebrate is it? Failing to blow up bastards that without doubt deserve it, should not be celebrated, or he was a rubbish terrorist, something else that doesn’t deserve a knees up!
Oh well, Better get back to the cell I suppose. Posh and Becks have been abandoned. After weeks of scraping, clawing, and digging, it slowly dawned on us, that we were on the second floor, and would only have succeeded in escaping into someone else’s cell.
Cheerio for now.
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