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.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Every little helps.......
Psst…….Andy here again. Well I’m still here. They haven’t wised up and realised I am a genius, and not mad yet. I don’t know how long they are planning on keeping me here, but not for much longer if me and Jim have got anything to do with it. We have formed an escape committee, and are presently digging two tunnels, one from each of our cells. You know how in the ‘Great escape’ they named their tunnels ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’, well we have named ours ‘ Posh and Becks’. I have to admit we haven’t got that far yet, I am using a pair of nail clippers that Norman smuggled in for me, and Jim is using a tea spoon that he stole from the canteen. Anyway, I will report on the progress of Posh and Becks at a later date. I suppose there are one or two advantages to being in here. I don’t have to go to work, get stuck in traffic jams, go shopping. Oh God going to Tescos used to be like hell on earth to for me. The hell started way before getting in the actual shop. The feeling of utter despair used to hit me as soon as I saw the queue for the bloody car park. This of course was not because there were that many people trying to get in there, it was because of the idle bastards who insisted on crawling round and round, trying to find a space right near the door. You know the one’s, those arseholes who just stop in the middle of the road because they have spotted someone just leaving the shop, who might have a parking space right near the door, that they can nip into. Why oh why oh why can’t I be allowed to have a rocket launcher. The next time I and every other poor soul is confronted with one of these twats, it should be my human right to step out of my car, hoist the rocket launcher on to my shoulder, and blast the bastard right out of the car park! But alas, they won’t listen to me. Even if there are parking spaces right near the doors, I am not allowed to park in them. No, that’s because I am not a mother with child. Why do they have special spaces just for them? Would it really hurt poor fragile little Joshua or Victoria to walk fifty feet every now and again? If it’s not them, it’s the bloody disabled. God what a bunch of moaning gits they are aren’t they. So you have only got one leg, I have got a bit of a headache, but it apparently doesn’t entitle me to park near the doors! The thing that always amuses me about disabled parking spaces, is that when it is raining, the bright orange paint that covers them, turns into a slippery death trap. Oh the irony! I am quite frankly fed up with these cordoned of parking areas for ‘special’ people. Where is it going to stop? It surely won’t be long before we have a ‘Gay and lesbian’ parking zone. Or a ‘Muslim parking area’ Lets not stop there, why not have ‘Jewish parking bays’, although these should be kept as far away from each other as possible! ‘East European parking zones’ (which they tarmac themselves) could be set up. How long will it be before some sort of car park ushers are employed to direct you to the relevant parking area. In a similar vein to those bloody ‘Greeters’ you get just inside the doors in supermarkets. “Hello sir. I hope you have a pleasant retail experience with us here today”. or, “If there is anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to ask”. What about telling that fucking woman in the frozen vegetables aisle, to stop leaving her fucking trolley in the middle of the aisle, so that nobody else can get passed, and inform her that although it may come as a bit of a shock, there are actually other people on the planet apart from her. This will have to wait of course, as I am still out in the car park. Where was I?…….oh yes, the car park ushers. They would obviously be issued with a fluorescent vest, which would no doubt make them feel very important, and it would be their job to direct you to the relevant car parking zone, depending on your special needs or requirements.
Attendant “Good morning sir, I am your ‘ Vehicle parking zone attendant’, and I will be making your stay with us here today, as pleasant as possible. Now what special needs or requirements does sir have”?
Me “Er none really, I just want to park”.
Attendant “I’m sorry sir, I can’t release you into the parking area, until I have ascertained your special individual requirements”.
Me “Well that’s very kind of you, but I don’t have any special needs, I just want to park, and get on with the shopping”.
Attendant “Well I’m sorry sir, but your not passing this check point until I have fully assessed you. Are you a homosexual sir?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Have you ever thought about it?”
Me” No”.
Attendant “Oh come now sir, I think we all have wondered what a little dabble would be like, I know I have.”
Me “Well I haven’t”.
Attendant “Are you disabled?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Muslim or any other member of a religious minority?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Immigrant?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Mother with child?”
Me “Do I look like it?”
Attendant “Single parent family?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Mmm, well I have been right through my list, and you don’t seem to be very special at all do you sir. Ok, You will have to go and park over there, in the ’Nothing special area’.
Me “Well how far is it?”
Attendant “Just over there sir, look there is a sign, here, use my binoculars”.
Inside the shop is no better. I have already mentioned the bloody woman with the huge trolley parked in the middle of the aisle. Incidentally, this woman is guaranteed to have an enormous four wheel drive vehicle parked in a ‘Mother and child’ slot. In the back of this behemoth of a car, there will be two specifically tailored, bullet proof titanium and carbon fibre child car seats for little Joshua and Victoria, and behind them, a dog guard for the spaniels. Richard, her husband, will be something big in advertising, and they will live in a mock Tudor five bedroom house in a small village. Victoria loves her pony, and Joshua is of course captain of the his school croquet team…….Where is that rocket launcher?
No shopping trip would be complete of course, without having to listen to some dickhead talking loudly into his mobile phone. He is asking his wife if they have got any coco-pops, and also telling her that Gavin and himself closed that vital deal today…….FUCK RIGHT OFF. Why do people shout into mobile phones? Do they understand the concept of a mobile phone? I sometimes wonder how the hell I survived before the days of mobile phones. I remember all those years ago, when I would happily swan off miles and miles in the car to somewhere or other. Not once did it cross my mind that I might break down, and if I had of broken down, I would have simply walked to the nearest phone box, or called at the nearest house, where some benevolent lady would let me use her phone to call for assistance, while she offered me tea and cake to sustain me. Now I can’t venture upstairs to the toilet without being laden down with communications equipment. Quite what disaster might beset me on my arduous journey upstairs I don’t know, but there I am, mobile phone, spare mobile phone. Battery charger, spare battery charger portable telecommunications aerial in case I can’t get a signal…….dear God what has happened to us all?
Anyway, what’s been happening in the asylum, sorry Davina doesn’t like us using that term, she prefers ‘Mental welfare environment’. Well not a lot really. Me, Jim, Cleopatra, Nigel, Rafael, and Father O’Tooled up were in the T.V. Room the other day, and Davina came in and informed us that the health minister would be visiting us next week, on a whistle stop tour of the countries ’Mental welfare establishments’. She said we were to all be on our best behaviour. In other news, Jim is still not responding to treatment. He was apparently still shouting “Shirt lifter” even when he was strapped to the bed, and plugged into the mains. Nigel the manic depressive had to be talked down off the roof of the gymnasium again. This is becoming a regular occurrence, and I have to say can be quite entertaining. I did think it was very tactless of Jim to shout up to Nigel the last time he was up there, would he mind threatening to kill himself on Tuesdays in future, as there wasn’t much on the telly that day. The Pols are still winking and blowing kisses at me, and I have to say, that due to the lack of female companionship these last few weeks, it has surprisingly put a bit of a spring in my step! Nothing much else to report really, will write again after the health ministers visit. Cheerio for now.
Yours Andy.
Attendant “Good morning sir, I am your ‘ Vehicle parking zone attendant’, and I will be making your stay with us here today, as pleasant as possible. Now what special needs or requirements does sir have”?
Me “Er none really, I just want to park”.
Attendant “I’m sorry sir, I can’t release you into the parking area, until I have ascertained your special individual requirements”.
Me “Well that’s very kind of you, but I don’t have any special needs, I just want to park, and get on with the shopping”.
Attendant “Well I’m sorry sir, but your not passing this check point until I have fully assessed you. Are you a homosexual sir?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Have you ever thought about it?”
Me” No”.
Attendant “Oh come now sir, I think we all have wondered what a little dabble would be like, I know I have.”
Me “Well I haven’t”.
Attendant “Are you disabled?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Muslim or any other member of a religious minority?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Immigrant?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Mother with child?”
Me “Do I look like it?”
Attendant “Single parent family?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Mmm, well I have been right through my list, and you don’t seem to be very special at all do you sir. Ok, You will have to go and park over there, in the ’Nothing special area’.
Me “Well how far is it?”
Attendant “Just over there sir, look there is a sign, here, use my binoculars”.
Inside the shop is no better. I have already mentioned the bloody woman with the huge trolley parked in the middle of the aisle. Incidentally, this woman is guaranteed to have an enormous four wheel drive vehicle parked in a ‘Mother and child’ slot. In the back of this behemoth of a car, there will be two specifically tailored, bullet proof titanium and carbon fibre child car seats for little Joshua and Victoria, and behind them, a dog guard for the spaniels. Richard, her husband, will be something big in advertising, and they will live in a mock Tudor five bedroom house in a small village. Victoria loves her pony, and Joshua is of course captain of the his school croquet team…….Where is that rocket launcher?
No shopping trip would be complete of course, without having to listen to some dickhead talking loudly into his mobile phone. He is asking his wife if they have got any coco-pops, and also telling her that Gavin and himself closed that vital deal today…….FUCK RIGHT OFF. Why do people shout into mobile phones? Do they understand the concept of a mobile phone? I sometimes wonder how the hell I survived before the days of mobile phones. I remember all those years ago, when I would happily swan off miles and miles in the car to somewhere or other. Not once did it cross my mind that I might break down, and if I had of broken down, I would have simply walked to the nearest phone box, or called at the nearest house, where some benevolent lady would let me use her phone to call for assistance, while she offered me tea and cake to sustain me. Now I can’t venture upstairs to the toilet without being laden down with communications equipment. Quite what disaster might beset me on my arduous journey upstairs I don’t know, but there I am, mobile phone, spare mobile phone. Battery charger, spare battery charger portable telecommunications aerial in case I can’t get a signal…….dear God what has happened to us all?
Anyway, what’s been happening in the asylum, sorry Davina doesn’t like us using that term, she prefers ‘Mental welfare environment’. Well not a lot really. Me, Jim, Cleopatra, Nigel, Rafael, and Father O’Tooled up were in the T.V. Room the other day, and Davina came in and informed us that the health minister would be visiting us next week, on a whistle stop tour of the countries ’Mental welfare establishments’. She said we were to all be on our best behaviour. In other news, Jim is still not responding to treatment. He was apparently still shouting “Shirt lifter” even when he was strapped to the bed, and plugged into the mains. Nigel the manic depressive had to be talked down off the roof of the gymnasium again. This is becoming a regular occurrence, and I have to say can be quite entertaining. I did think it was very tactless of Jim to shout up to Nigel the last time he was up there, would he mind threatening to kill himself on Tuesdays in future, as there wasn’t much on the telly that day. The Pols are still winking and blowing kisses at me, and I have to say, that due to the lack of female companionship these last few weeks, it has surprisingly put a bit of a spring in my step! Nothing much else to report really, will write again after the health ministers visit. Cheerio for now.
Yours Andy.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Is that an Uzi, or are you just pleased to see me?.......
Hello again. Sneaked into Davina’s office, got to keep an eye out for the Polish though. Had a close call yesterday, I presume you know about me having to store the Nokia up my bottom, well I was nearly caught red handed. It needed charging, but I didn’t want to leave it laying around in full view, so I decided to charge it while it was still hidden! I was cleaning my teeth, and so was facing into the cell, so my back was stupidly on full view.
All was going well until one of the Polish nurses saw the mains lead hanging down between my legs from under my regulation smock. I heard a gaggle of Polish shouting from behind me, and then my cell door opening. I spun round to be confronted by four huge nurses, all standing there with their arms folded. They all gazed down to the wire hanging there, and then back up to me. One of the nurses then said to me in pigeon English “What wire doing coming from out of bottom?” I knew that if ever there was a time in my life that I needed to think on my feet, this was most certainly it. The problem was, that my mouth and my brain seemed to be completely at logger heads. It went something like this…….
Mouth “I”
Brain “Come on think”
Mouth “I”
Brain “Don’t repeat yourself, it looks suspicious”
Mouth “I am”
Brain “Brilliant, two words, that will throw them off the scent”
Mouth “A homosexual”
Brain “WHAT?”
Mouth “And I”
Brain “Oh dear God, where is he going with this?”
Mouth “Have a vibrator…..in my bottom”
Brain “Sigh”
Mouth “It runs on rechargeable batteries”
Brain “mmm, green, that should get a few votes”
Mouth “And I have decided to recharge it, while it is……. in situ”
Brain “An unlikely scenario, but they are Polish, and therefore may hopefully not be completely au fait with British customs”
Four sets of Polish eyebrows raised in one perfect synchronized movement. “You English men. You like the bottom fun yes. We Polish men are real men, and like the front bottom fun, yes”
They all started to laugh, and jostle each other about in and East European sort of way. I had started to relax a little by now, as I thought this situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. Just when all the laughing and jostling had died down, we all heard “Fucking shirt lifter”. Oh dear oh dear oh dear Jim, I thought to myself, will you never learn. With this, all four Pols rushed from my cell, and bundled Jim down the corridor to the ‘Un-politically correct correctional facility’. The screams kept me awake for the rest of the night.
We had our visit from Father O’toole yesterday, or ‘Father tooled up’ as I like to call him. I am still very wary of anyone or anything remotely Catholic. Despite much electric shock therapy, I am still convinced the Pope has put a price on my head. I am extremely concerned about the bulge under Father tooled up’s cassock. If that’s not a pair of Uzi 9mm sub machine guns under there, I am a Dutchman. I try my damndest not to be left alone with him. I have this vision of him getting me into an out of the way room, on some pretext of giving me spiritual guidance or something, then whipping up his cassock, and spraying me with hot lead.
I do wish we could wear our own clothes, I do hate these regulation smocks we are made to wear. It’s not great indoors, but outside in the exercise yard, it can be very drafty. Of course I am most worried about the wind whipping up my smock, and exposing my Nokia. I have found the only way to conquer this problem, is to tuck the smock in between my legs. Unfortunately this means that I have to sort of mince along to keep the smock in place. This of course is doing nothing to help my reputation with the Pols. I am getting pretty fed up with them winking at me, and blowing kisses as I am standing in the dinner queue. Jim came back from the ‘Un-politically correct correctional facility’ earlier. It was good to see him still defiant. As he was being marched handcuffed back to his cell, he could still be heard shouting various politically incorrect phrases at the top of his voice. “Shirt lifter”…….Nik Nik”…….Sambo”…….Chalkie”. He has got his dignity, if nothing else!
Cleopatra next door has had her foot spa taken away. She was not at all pleased about this, and poured the two pints of semi skimmed all over herself before the nurses could confiscate it. Cleopatra, Jim and myself were in the TV room this evening watching ‘Celebrity firing squad’, when a new patient (Or housemate as Davina likes to call us) was brought in. His name is Nigel, and he is apparently a manic depressive. Jim immediately saw this as an opportunity to tell him a joke about a Jew, a Muslim, and a queer. Cleopatra draped herself over him in a queen like way, and it was at this point that the Nokia went off, and he was treated to a muffled ‘oops I did it again’. We have heard he has been put on suicide watch.
I had to have my ‘one to one’ with Davina today. To be honest, I find it very difficult to take anything she says seriously. When you are sitting opposite a mustachioed, monocle wearing, dwarf with a peculiar hair cut, nothing she says seems to matter very much. She is very ‘right on’. Your typical do gooding, slightly femenisty, Guardian reading, equal rights, hug a hoodie, save the planet social worker type of woman. Tries to see the good in people, you know all that kind of stuff. How the hell she see’s any good in Rafael the mass murderer I don’t know. Rafael was found guilty of murdering an entire room of Liberal democrats at one of their constituency meetings. This I suppose is to some extent understandable, but what really upset people I think, is that he then posed them all in sitting positions, gave them all drinks (Which incidentally he bought, even though he had killed the bar staff!), and proceeded to do his racist stand up routine. After he had initially done all the murdering, the building was under siege for two days, while the police tried to talk him out. Things took a turn for the worse when they heard the first ‘A one legged Jewish lesbian walked into a bar’ joke, But the SWAT team were straight in there when he lit a cigarette. Rafael is not permitted to mix with Jim. Davina thinks this could be a deadly cocktail, that could result in a bloodbath. During my ‘one to one’, Davina said she wanted to put my fears about Father Tooled up to rest once and for all. Father tooled up then walked in, and whipped up his cassock. What was under his cassock was not at all what I expected to see, but it was most definitely not a pair of Uzi’s. Father tooled up is now three cells down from me…….Now, where did I put those clogs!
All was going well until one of the Polish nurses saw the mains lead hanging down between my legs from under my regulation smock. I heard a gaggle of Polish shouting from behind me, and then my cell door opening. I spun round to be confronted by four huge nurses, all standing there with their arms folded. They all gazed down to the wire hanging there, and then back up to me. One of the nurses then said to me in pigeon English “What wire doing coming from out of bottom?” I knew that if ever there was a time in my life that I needed to think on my feet, this was most certainly it. The problem was, that my mouth and my brain seemed to be completely at logger heads. It went something like this…….
Mouth “I”
Brain “Come on think”
Mouth “I”
Brain “Don’t repeat yourself, it looks suspicious”
Mouth “I am”
Brain “Brilliant, two words, that will throw them off the scent”
Mouth “A homosexual”
Brain “WHAT?”
Mouth “And I”
Brain “Oh dear God, where is he going with this?”
Mouth “Have a vibrator…..in my bottom”
Brain “Sigh”
Mouth “It runs on rechargeable batteries”
Brain “mmm, green, that should get a few votes”
Mouth “And I have decided to recharge it, while it is……. in situ”
Brain “An unlikely scenario, but they are Polish, and therefore may hopefully not be completely au fait with British customs”
Four sets of Polish eyebrows raised in one perfect synchronized movement. “You English men. You like the bottom fun yes. We Polish men are real men, and like the front bottom fun, yes”
They all started to laugh, and jostle each other about in and East European sort of way. I had started to relax a little by now, as I thought this situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. Just when all the laughing and jostling had died down, we all heard “Fucking shirt lifter”. Oh dear oh dear oh dear Jim, I thought to myself, will you never learn. With this, all four Pols rushed from my cell, and bundled Jim down the corridor to the ‘Un-politically correct correctional facility’. The screams kept me awake for the rest of the night.
We had our visit from Father O’toole yesterday, or ‘Father tooled up’ as I like to call him. I am still very wary of anyone or anything remotely Catholic. Despite much electric shock therapy, I am still convinced the Pope has put a price on my head. I am extremely concerned about the bulge under Father tooled up’s cassock. If that’s not a pair of Uzi 9mm sub machine guns under there, I am a Dutchman. I try my damndest not to be left alone with him. I have this vision of him getting me into an out of the way room, on some pretext of giving me spiritual guidance or something, then whipping up his cassock, and spraying me with hot lead.
I do wish we could wear our own clothes, I do hate these regulation smocks we are made to wear. It’s not great indoors, but outside in the exercise yard, it can be very drafty. Of course I am most worried about the wind whipping up my smock, and exposing my Nokia. I have found the only way to conquer this problem, is to tuck the smock in between my legs. Unfortunately this means that I have to sort of mince along to keep the smock in place. This of course is doing nothing to help my reputation with the Pols. I am getting pretty fed up with them winking at me, and blowing kisses as I am standing in the dinner queue. Jim came back from the ‘Un-politically correct correctional facility’ earlier. It was good to see him still defiant. As he was being marched handcuffed back to his cell, he could still be heard shouting various politically incorrect phrases at the top of his voice. “Shirt lifter”…….Nik Nik”…….Sambo”…….Chalkie”. He has got his dignity, if nothing else!
Cleopatra next door has had her foot spa taken away. She was not at all pleased about this, and poured the two pints of semi skimmed all over herself before the nurses could confiscate it. Cleopatra, Jim and myself were in the TV room this evening watching ‘Celebrity firing squad’, when a new patient (Or housemate as Davina likes to call us) was brought in. His name is Nigel, and he is apparently a manic depressive. Jim immediately saw this as an opportunity to tell him a joke about a Jew, a Muslim, and a queer. Cleopatra draped herself over him in a queen like way, and it was at this point that the Nokia went off, and he was treated to a muffled ‘oops I did it again’. We have heard he has been put on suicide watch.
I had to have my ‘one to one’ with Davina today. To be honest, I find it very difficult to take anything she says seriously. When you are sitting opposite a mustachioed, monocle wearing, dwarf with a peculiar hair cut, nothing she says seems to matter very much. She is very ‘right on’. Your typical do gooding, slightly femenisty, Guardian reading, equal rights, hug a hoodie, save the planet social worker type of woman. Tries to see the good in people, you know all that kind of stuff. How the hell she see’s any good in Rafael the mass murderer I don’t know. Rafael was found guilty of murdering an entire room of Liberal democrats at one of their constituency meetings. This I suppose is to some extent understandable, but what really upset people I think, is that he then posed them all in sitting positions, gave them all drinks (Which incidentally he bought, even though he had killed the bar staff!), and proceeded to do his racist stand up routine. After he had initially done all the murdering, the building was under siege for two days, while the police tried to talk him out. Things took a turn for the worse when they heard the first ‘A one legged Jewish lesbian walked into a bar’ joke, But the SWAT team were straight in there when he lit a cigarette. Rafael is not permitted to mix with Jim. Davina thinks this could be a deadly cocktail, that could result in a bloodbath. During my ‘one to one’, Davina said she wanted to put my fears about Father Tooled up to rest once and for all. Father tooled up then walked in, and whipped up his cassock. What was under his cassock was not at all what I expected to see, but it was most definitely not a pair of Uzi’s. Father tooled up is now three cells down from me…….Now, where did I put those clogs!
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.......
Psst…..hello, Andy here. I can’t be long as I think my friend Norman has told you, I am in the Matron’s office, covertly! I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in here, I keep telling everyone, there is nothing wrong with me. Been about a week now that I have been held against my wishes. They keep telling me it’s for my own good. And where the bloody hell is Miss Marple? I suppose Norman told you about the file in the cake fiasco. Very bloody amusing, I don’t know what she is playing at. Apparently I had a funeral and everything. Anyway, everybody in here is absolutely stark raving bloody mental. In the cell, sorry, I mean room next to me, there is a woman who is convinced she is Cleopatra. She tried taking a bath in asses milk yesterday, well I say a bath of asses milk, does a foot spa with two pints of semi skimmed count? You will never believe who is in the room on the other side of me, only Jim bloody Davidson! Yes, apparently he was brought straight here after being kicked off of ‘Hells Kitchen’. They told him he was being flown back to Dubai, but whisked him straight in here. I talk to him through the bars sometimes late at night. We have formed an escape committee. So what’s it like in here I hear you ask. Well apart from being here against my will, it’s not all bad I suppose. We are free to roam the building and the grounds during the day, but it’s lockdown at night. This is when me and Jim take our trips back to the seventies, we both like it back there. The Matron is called Devina. She is four foot ten, has a haircut that looks like someone has put a bowl on her head and cut round it, a small moustache, and occasionally wears a monical. I personally think this is just for show, but I wouldn’t swear by it. She struts around in her air wear boots, followed closely by the nurses. Now these aren’t the female, slightly sexy type, no these are big buggers. Poor old Jim had to go for a counselling session today in the ‘Politically uncorrect correction facility’. He says he is holding out though, and good on him. Jim and myself wander around the place, trying to make as many politically uncorrect comments as we can get away with.
I don’t know how long they are expecting to keep me in here, but me and Jim are planning to go over the wall as soon as we can. After having a ’little chat’ with Davina, I am apparently in here because they say I am suffering from delusions of grandeur. I have told them to stop being ridiculous, and to only speak to me, when they are spoken to. Don’t they know I am a Genius for Christ’s sake? Anyway, better go, because I can hear the guards coming round on their patrol. Thankfully I have made a pretend me from pillows, a grapefruit and a baseball cap, which I have laid in my bed so it looks like I am there……. you see, genius!
Speak to you all soon. I will try and get some sleep sandwiched between Jim Davidson, and Cleopatra…….it’s a funny old world!
Cheers.
P.S. If any of you feel like starting a ’Free the Yarmouth two’ campaign, please feel free.
P.P.S. For all of you out there with my number, please only phone me if it is an absolute emergency. Even the Polish are starting get wind of my Britney Spears rues.
I don’t know how long they are expecting to keep me in here, but me and Jim are planning to go over the wall as soon as we can. After having a ’little chat’ with Davina, I am apparently in here because they say I am suffering from delusions of grandeur. I have told them to stop being ridiculous, and to only speak to me, when they are spoken to. Don’t they know I am a Genius for Christ’s sake? Anyway, better go, because I can hear the guards coming round on their patrol. Thankfully I have made a pretend me from pillows, a grapefruit and a baseball cap, which I have laid in my bed so it looks like I am there……. you see, genius!
Speak to you all soon. I will try and get some sleep sandwiched between Jim Davidson, and Cleopatra…….it’s a funny old world!
Cheers.
P.S. If any of you feel like starting a ’Free the Yarmouth two’ campaign, please feel free.
P.P.S. For all of you out there with my number, please only phone me if it is an absolute emergency. Even the Polish are starting get wind of my Britney Spears rues.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Elvis Lives!.......
Hello all, Norman here again. Where do I begin? Things have moved on rapidly since the last, and what I thought was going to be, final blog of Andy Mule. I have been contacted by the police, and it transpires that, that blithering idiot Mule faked his own death! Nobody is completely sure why he attempted to do it, it’s thought it had something to with him thinking he had upset the Catholic church in one of his blogs. He apparently became convinced that the Pope had put a price on his head, and that he was going to be taken out! This combined with his disillusionment at not becoming a top selling author, was enough to push him over the edge. So he concocted this ridiculous plan. Quite where he was going to go, I don’t know. The police told me that he was found wandering up and down Great Yarmouth beach, wearing just a loin cloth, that he had fashioned from sea weed. He was allegedly muttering to himself something about “misunderstood genius”, or some other such rubbish. I of course have been made to look a complete fool, having tearfully read out the eulogy at his ‘funeral’. How could this happen? I hear you ask, what about a body. Well, it seems that once Miss Marple learned of Andy’s disappearance, and suspected death, she didn’t wait for a body to be found, and went ahead and started to organise the funeral. She promised the local funeral director a large some of money, if he would ‘find’ a body to put in the coffin. The coroner was also in on the scam, having been promised a villa in Toremelinos, and they all would have got away with it, if Andy hadn’t turned up on Yarmouth beach. It’s a shame, because it was a lovely funeral, although I did find it a little inappropriate that Miss Marple was wearing a mini skirt and boob tube. I tried to tell her this at the grave side, but I think she was having a little difficulty hearing me, due to the din made by the fireworks display. Anyway, Miss Marple, the funeral director, and the coroner are all out on bail, having been questioned at length about attempting to defraud the insurance company.
But what of Andy? I don’t think it would be unreasonable of me to never have anything to do with that bastard ever again, but we go back along way, and I don’t like to see the poor old bugger in the predicament that he finds himself in. Once he had been picked up by the police, he was sectioned, and taken to the ‘Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered‘. He is only allowed visitors once a week, and not allowed to make any phone calls. We are managing to communicate however, because Andy somehow smuggled in his mobile phone. The patients are searched on a regular basis, but he says he has secreted it about his person. I don’t want to think about this for too long really, but it seems to have worked so far. He tried having it set on vibrate at first, due to not wanting to alert the guards by it ringing, but gave up on this because the guards were becoming suspicious when he fidgeted violently, crossed his watering eyes, and yelped every time I rang him. He is now (dangerously in my opinion) using his old ring tone. Now when I call him, Britney Spear’s ‘Oops I did it again’ emanates form his anus. I have told him about that ring tone, but will he listen?…….anyway, he explains this away by telling the guards that he suffers from a rare genetic condition known as, ‘melodic flatulence’ I think he has only got away with it so far, because all the staff are Polish. Thank God for immigration eh? He did make a request to Miss Marple that she bake him a cake with a file inside. She baked a four foot square Victoria sponge with a Lever Arch file in it. Under the circumstances an understandable, but still cruel practical joke!
I have told him that he owes his disciples an explanation, it’s really the least he could do. He has assured me that as soon as he can get access to a computer, he will whack off a quick one. (Blog obviously) This could be sometime, as the only computer he can get his hands on is the one in the Matron’s office. He can only sneak in there late at night, and all the while he has to keep one eye out for the patrolling guards. So expect a posting soon. He wanted me to tell you that he is baring up under the strain of it all, and despite having a Nokia up his rectum, he is managing to walk tall.
Yours Norman.
But what of Andy? I don’t think it would be unreasonable of me to never have anything to do with that bastard ever again, but we go back along way, and I don’t like to see the poor old bugger in the predicament that he finds himself in. Once he had been picked up by the police, he was sectioned, and taken to the ‘Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered‘. He is only allowed visitors once a week, and not allowed to make any phone calls. We are managing to communicate however, because Andy somehow smuggled in his mobile phone. The patients are searched on a regular basis, but he says he has secreted it about his person. I don’t want to think about this for too long really, but it seems to have worked so far. He tried having it set on vibrate at first, due to not wanting to alert the guards by it ringing, but gave up on this because the guards were becoming suspicious when he fidgeted violently, crossed his watering eyes, and yelped every time I rang him. He is now (dangerously in my opinion) using his old ring tone. Now when I call him, Britney Spear’s ‘Oops I did it again’ emanates form his anus. I have told him about that ring tone, but will he listen?…….anyway, he explains this away by telling the guards that he suffers from a rare genetic condition known as, ‘melodic flatulence’ I think he has only got away with it so far, because all the staff are Polish. Thank God for immigration eh? He did make a request to Miss Marple that she bake him a cake with a file inside. She baked a four foot square Victoria sponge with a Lever Arch file in it. Under the circumstances an understandable, but still cruel practical joke!
I have told him that he owes his disciples an explanation, it’s really the least he could do. He has assured me that as soon as he can get access to a computer, he will whack off a quick one. (Blog obviously) This could be sometime, as the only computer he can get his hands on is the one in the Matron’s office. He can only sneak in there late at night, and all the while he has to keep one eye out for the patrolling guards. So expect a posting soon. He wanted me to tell you that he is baring up under the strain of it all, and despite having a Nokia up his rectum, he is managing to walk tall.
Yours Norman.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Ignorance and bliss.......
Hello all, my name is Norman. I am Andy's friend. I am afraid I have some bad news. Andy Mule is dead, yes that's right, Mr Mule has passed on. He unfortunately died in a boating accident, the details of which are still sketchy. Shortly after his fortieth birthday, he was seen leaving the house, and towing a boat behind his car. He looked very dishevelled, and was heard muttering something about "Bloody Philistines".......nobody is quite sure what he was talking about, but he didn't appear in full control of his faculties. The next thing I know, i recieve a text from Andy, saying that he was off to find an island called sanctuary. A day or so later, I recieved another text, which said he had found the island, but just like the rest of life, it wasn't as good as he thought it was going to be. He then went on to say he was heading back. A day or so later, he texted me again to say a violent storm had capsised his boat, but he had managed to swim back to the island. That is the last I heard from him. A few days later we were contacted by the police and told that Andy had tried to build a craft to escape the island. Apparently he had fashioned it by binding together lumps of inspiration, and securing them with threads of hope. Unfortunately he was finally overcome, and drowned. His little raft of hope and inspiration was finally overwhelmed by the relentless, merciless, and unfortunately inevitable sea of mediocracy.
A few years ago, Andy once told me that if he should pass before me, he would just like two simple things to be read at his funeral. I granted him this wish, they are as follows. One was by Oscar Wilde, and the other by himself (Conceited to the last)!
Wilde......."We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
Andy......."Ignorance is bliss.......until one is surrounded by it!"
Well he always was a bit of a pretentious twat!
R.I.P. Andy Mule.
A few years ago, Andy once told me that if he should pass before me, he would just like two simple things to be read at his funeral. I granted him this wish, they are as follows. One was by Oscar Wilde, and the other by himself (Conceited to the last)!
Wilde......."We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
Andy......."Ignorance is bliss.......until one is surrounded by it!"
Well he always was a bit of a pretentious twat!
R.I.P. Andy Mule.
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