A place in the sun

I wake up in a genuine state of excitement for the first time in ages. It had been a hellish couple of years since the car crash that left me needing a walking stick, but today I was gonna be on my favorite TV show “A PLACE IN THE SUN”. I’d decided to spend my compensation on a little Spanish hideaway so no one could see the terrible squint I’d developed. I love Amanda Lamb I think she’s the most natural, down-to-earth, bubbly TV presenter ever. Did I fancy her? Okay, yes, I could never resist a woman in a summer dress.

We are to rendezvous at a bar in a small Spanish hamlet on the edge of Cadiz. When I arrive I meet the director and camera crew and I’m told Amanda would be along shortly, so I order a drink in an almost frenzied state of giddiness. I can’t help but notice how nervous the crew seems, biting fingernails and smoking fags right to the filter, and then instantly sparking up another.

Then she appears in the doorway dressed as the Scottish widow, “coffee, fucking coffee now” she screams, everyone scampers around tending her every whim. Blimey I think, maybe she’ll cheer up after a coffee. “Where’s my subject” she barks, “over here, h, h, hi Amanda” I say, and she gives me the kind of look normally reserved for pedophiles on a school bus, and looking down at my walking stick say’s “bungalow is it?” I gulp and nod, “then move it I haven’t got all day stick freak” I become a squinty wreck.

En-route to the first property she tells me that she’s only in this for the money and that if I make eye contact with her she’ll spit in my face, I sink into my seat and wonder what’s next. When we arrive at the first apartment I find it’s on the seventeenth floor and there’s no lift. Amanda grabs me by the arm and say’s “let’s see you get up there wobbly legs” I immediately feel like crying. But as soon as the cameras start rolling she’s as nice as pie, tossing off her cloak to reveal a really rather beautiful summer dress. “Welcome to a place in the sun” she enthuses, smile beaming like a naval searchlight, but no one can see she’s pinching my leg really hard below camera shot.

She takes me to two more similarly unsuitable properties, a small one bedroom castle which you can only access by swimming a moat, and a tree house reached by a rope ladder, and it’s here I make the fatal mistake of catching eye contact via an inappropriately placed mirror, off camera she burns the back of my hand with the Cuban cigar she’s been puffing away on all day “I fucking warned you” she said.

I’m getting tired now, so we decide to call it a day, we’ll resume our search tomorrow when I’ll see the last two properties. Back at the hotel Amanda is getting hammered by snorting vodka, and then she starts to abuse everyone “I’m the fucking Scottish widow” she yells “don’t fuck around with the Scottish widow, I’ll choke yer with me cloak” she slurs, and grabbing a cameraman by the balls she says “your nothing without me you fucking worm, nothing, your finished” and passes out on the bar in her own vomit. I fire up me stick and fuck off to bed.

Next day it’s fairly obvious she’s got the hangover from hell and again threatens everyone with death if they come within five yards of her. The penultimate property is a fairly attractive little ground floor flat with a small garden, but I’m disappointed to find the toilet is literally next to the cooker, handy I suppose for frying a steak whilst dropping a brown bomb, but not for me. Just for the record while here she slashed my trousers with a penknife, bashed my hand with a wooden mallet and flushed my head down the cookoilet for not liking it.

The final property, and I wonder what punishment I’m in for next. But I find it’s a beautiful little bungalow with sea views and easy access to the local amenities including an English community of doctors who are specialists in the rehabilitation of squinty people who crashed Vauxhall vectra’s in February 2004. I can’t believe my luck, I bang in an offer straight away, and will find out when I get home if it’s accepted.

We all say our goodbyes and Amanda actually apologises for the way she’s acted and reveals she’s been “sailing the crimson tide”. She wishes me good luck and say’s she hopes I manage to secure the property as it’s perfect for me, but I’m sure I hear her say “fucking squinty arsehole” under her breath, perhaps I’m just tired. When I get home I wait excitedly for the call from the estate agents and at 2 p.m. they call “Hello Sir, I have some very bad news for you” “What? What?” I cry, “I’m afraid we’ve accepted a higher offer on the property” “I’ve been gazumped?” I squeal “Yes Sir, a miss A Lamb has paid us over the asking price and it’s been accepted”. I fall to my knees and wonder what kind of hell-hound this bitch is.

Running track

I become lost in the mist that is nostalgia at my younger days as an athlete. So a decision is made to join the local running club the “Merseystriders” A long time rival to my old running club “Liverpool leggers” who sadly went to the wall after the owner ate the track and died of rubber poisoning. Now the striders, even in the old days were infamous for their “win at any cost” motto, and were renowned for their “dirty tricks and funny business” but maybe times have changed.

I train hard and after a few weeks I’m feeling much fitter and can see straight away I’m getting on peoples nerves with my speed and agility, particularly Billy Scribbins, he’s had it his own way for far too long, that’s obvious, he can see his in-house 100 meter record disappearing quicker than a pizza on a fat kids plate, and we are to race for the title in a weeks time. I busy myself pounding the track, building up stamina and making sure I seize the title away from Scribbins dirty little fingers. Scribbins meanwhile takes it easy and I’m wondering if he is going to employ dirty tricks.

The day of the race arrives and I’m feeling good, I can see Scribbins is worried and begins to whisper in the corner to a bunch of his conspiratorial friends. I’m not worried though, hard work I’m sure will win the day. We line up at the start line and Scribbins is giving me the evil eye, I ignore this and make sure my cock won’t fall out my shorts.

The starting pistol fires and I’m off, I’m ten feet ahead of him already the fat bastard, my legs feel like a wind turbine in a hurricane, he’s got no chance. Just as I’m passing his cronies at the 50-meter mark I see one of them push a button on a weird silver box, there is a bright flash and I feel like my feet are made of lead. I look down to find my brand new running spikes have turned into huge pair of clown shoes!!! Fuck. Next, my running lane turns from a lovely rubbery red, to a sea of tarmacadam, I’m sticking to the fucking track.

Determined not to lose I summon the power of Hercules via a simple prayer, I’m ten meters away from the finish line and still ahead of Scribbins when I feel a huge pulling sensation around my waist, they’d only tied a rope around me at the start when I wasn’t looking and now I had five of his henchmen pulling me back in what must have been the worlds unfairest tug-of-war ever, I’m just a blasted meter from winning when Scribbins ambles past me to victory. And to top it all off I look down to find my cock is hanging out my shorts…great, now the cheerleaders are laughing at me too. I come to the conclusion that “dirty tricks and funny business” are still a pulsing boil of contention at the very fabric of the Merseystriders.

Reality TV

I tire of the constant barrage of reality shows on TV and decide to take positive action. So I unplug the TV from the wall, heave it into the back of my car, and drive 318.7 miles from Liverpool to the town of Fort William at the foot of Ben Nevis, which takes me 6 hours 2 minutes without taking on food or water.

When there, I remove two large reels of rope, a rucksack full of wotsits, and a flask containing three bottles of lucozade sport, cunningly mixed with twenty pro-plus. I zip up my twenty-year-old duffle coat that I found at the bottom of the wardrobe, don some fisherman’s pants, a “boyzone” cowboy hat my missus brought back from their last concert, and a pair of my dad’s old wellies; I look like a right twat, but I tell myself some things are more important than fashion.

I removed the TV from the boot, strapped it to a two-wheeled trolley, and off I went. The walk through town to “base camp” was, well… hairy. Gang’s of local youths were shouting things like “wanker” “tramp” and “be-hatted-chutney ferret” I think that’s a reference to homosexuality, but I know I’ll have the last laugh if it starts to rain.

At base camp I look up to the summit with a certain amount of trepidation, did I really hate reality TV this much? I decide it best to make a running start, so I adopt the crouched down posture of a 100-meter sprinter, and dash off not that quickly really, have you tried pulling a TV on a trolley? Very incapacitating.

It becomes very clear, very quickly, that this trolley thing isn’t gonna cut the mustard for very long up hill, so I have to rid myself of this debilitating item at about 1,200 ft. I now must summon the courage and strength of ten or so lions if I want to accomplish my aim. So I hoist this bad-boy 32-inch widescreen onto my back and start walking.

Days pass… wind, rain and snowstorms battered my cheap-ass boyzone hat off long ago, my face is as raw and tender as a newly circumcised bell end, my fingers are black at the tips, my wellies have virtually no sole left, every rock cutting into my blistered feet, wotsits a distant memory, but at least the lucozade sport was giving me the extra 20% athletes need.

I drag the TV with rope for the last four hundred feet, sobbing tears of exhaustion and frustration, and when I finally reach the summit I fall to my knees, and scream at the TV with the manic look of a man possessed “you can’t get me here” “you can’t get me here” “there is no leckie” for half an hour, and smashed it’s little face into a fine dust.

When I return home, my wife has seemingly replaced the TV and is watching an episode of “celebrity lightening conductor constructor” I can’t wait till’ the bitch is in bed. ©

FIRST DATE

Having been divorced now for three years, I decide it's time I got myself back on the dating merry-go-round. So I sign up at a few dating agencies, scan their catalogues but don't really find anyone who "tickles my fancy" if you know what I mean. Then I suddenly remember that the quite fit girl from the hairdressers 3 doors down from were I work, is always saying hi, and seems to quite like me. So I pluck up the courage and ask her out and she says yes.

The day of the date arrives and i'm a little apprehensive and nervous that I may have "lost my touch" so I have a few cheeky vodkas before I set off. The moment she arrives at the restaurant the sparks start to fly, the atmosphere is electric, and she even seem's to appreciate my somewhat laddish sense of humour.

It's all going brilliantly as we sit at our table, and I impress her with my in-depth knowledge of wine by ordering a bottle of 2006 Chateau Dornier, or house wine as they called it. The food arrives and we start happily chomping away, no heirs and graces here. I can't believe how well this is going. But it's at this point that thing's start to go a little "tits up".

As she tuck's into her quale egg salad, I notice a few spots of blood dripping on to her plate, I look up and i'm horrified to see blood streaming from her eyes, down her cheeks and onto her plate. "Always happens when I drink wine" she utters, and I think to myself "why the fuck didn't you tell me that earlier". "I'd better go and clean up" she says, and I summon the waiter to take away the blood salad.

Now I'm not disableist or anything (I once nursed an aunt of mine through an in-grown toe nail) but as she got up to head for the loo's I notice she is wearing a giant corrective shoe, how the fuck could I have missed that? the sole was the size of a circa 1983 video recorder. Now I'm not perfect by any means, but if I was gonna have to wear one of those I wouldn't cover it in reflective stickers. Anyway she headed off with her Noddy Holder style shoe, her foot glowing like a mirror ball and I think "ah well, she got a lovely nature".

When she returns to the table she look's a little sad, and she says "you seen it didn't you" and I say " no, I mean yes, what the giant shoe thing?" "yes", she replies. "Arrrr it doesn't matter to me that" I said, "I've been out with load's of girls who wear shoes" " yer, but not the size of a workies tool chest" she mumbled. And I try and placate her "like I said it's not an issue". "You really mean it" she enthused, "yes" I said. And a smile lit up her face like she'd won the Lotto.

It's at this point I find out why she has always smiled with her mouth closed, she's only got no fucking teeth!!! well thats not strictly true, she does have black stumps were they used to be. I'm now getting thouroughly pissed off with this caper. I think yes, okay the blood thing, just dont drink wine, the shoe thing, yer yer it's not the poor girls fault, but this? this is a step too fucking far, and I ask "what's with the teeth?" she replies "oh they fell out when I was addicted to heroine and methadone, oh and cocaine, and errrr ketamine, "what" I barked "your a fucking druggie?" "not so much now" she said "I only chase the dragon about 5 times a week now, my parole officer says I'm doing smashing" "parole officer?" I said "oh for fuck's sake, thats it I'm out of here, and you can pay half the bill you deceitful bitch".

Then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, she opens her handbag to reveal it's stuffed to the brim with nothing but corned beef, and was it fuck in a tin. "Here have this" she said, and she grabbed a massive handful and slapped it in my face.

"Fucking arsehole" she shouts as she inches out the restaurant door. "Video foot" I yell.

And as I sit there covered in corned beef counting out the tip, I think to myself " This dating lark's not all it's cracked up to be" I quite like being single anyway. ©

ROLLING BONES

It was revealed today that Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts has actually been dead since 1973. The Stones legend has apparently been operating on a bizaare marionette system ever since. The secret leaked out yesterday during an interview with Mick Jagger, when he broke down in tears proclaiming "I can't do this no more man", and confessed to the ghoulish situation.

Pierre Lorac, the french puppet master who has operated Mr Watts for the last 33 years said "It had to come out eventually, I love touring with the Stones, it's such a contrast with my Punch and Judy show, looks like i'll have to hang up my strings now".

Jagger continued "We thought it would be fun for a couple of gig's, and no one seemed to notice, so we just carried on, but it got out of hand man, so we had to tell his wife".

Loyal wife of 48 years Betty Watts said "I noticed he'd been a bit quieter than usual these last few decades, we spent many a sunday lunch in silence, I just thought he was tired from touring so much, but I have to chuckle now, that Jagger one hey? you've got to keep your eye on him".

Charlie Watts was unavailable for comment. ©

Nightmare

I was a little down the other day, so I decided to treat myself, and I thought "what haven't I had for ages? Corrnish pasty? Bottle of wine? Terrible piles? arrr I know, a nightmare, I hadn't had one of those for years. So I logged on to E-BAY to see if anyone was selling a good nightmare, and happened upon a terrible nightmare that involved evil rabbits, burning children, and acres of uncontrollable nasal hair, it sounded just the ticket, so I put in a bid of twenty quid, I didn't want to pay anymore than that for a nightmare, and as luck would have it, I won my bid.

Two days later my nightmare arrived, and I injected it into a piece of cheese for extra terror, and I must admit I hadn't looked forward to bedtime this much in many years, even going as far as to iron my pyjamas. As soon as night fell I prepared myself for a shocking time and went through my pre-nightmare checks, ensuring I put a rubber sheet on my bed in case I pissed myself. Anyway I was soon drifting into sleep, and then I hit the nightmare like a tonne of bricks. Initially it felt like I was being dragged to the floor by electricity through my teeth, kind of like chewing on a ball of tin foil, followed by a drowsy feeling, it was misty and dusty, and I couldn't see anything, but I could hear footsteps, and they wearn't human.

I was then dragged into a room, and I could smell fire, and as I looked up I could see burning children swinging from the ceiling, there was a massive throne at one end of the room with a giant evil rabbit sat upon it, i knew it was evil because it was wearing an "I love Cliff Richard tee-shirt". My heart was beating out of my chest as the evil rabbit fixed me in it's gaze, his eyes glowing as he laughed the most evil of laughs. It was at this point I burst into tears, like a little girl, but you weren't there, it was terrifying. His evil rabbit understudies were hopping around leaving droppings everywhere, which I kept crawling in, what seemed like a good idea initially was scaring the living daylights out of me now. perhaps next time I'll inject it into a peanut instead of cheese.

Suddenly I saw a sliver of light in one corner of the room and thought "this is my chance to get the hell out of here" it seemed to be my only chance of escape. So I dragged myself to my feet, and ran towards the light, but my nostril hair shot from my nose at an blistering pace, and formed a kind of cocoon around my body and legs, and I hit the deck like a sack of shit, totally wrapped up in my own nasal hair, this is a crazy situation. As I sat there trussed up, sobbing uncontrollably, evil rabbits closed in at every angle, humming like a swarm of bees, chanting "were gonna get yer, were gonna fucking get yer" with their large claws outstretched towards my face.

It was at this point, thank fuck, that I awoke from my nightmare, in a cold feverish sweat, snot dripping from my nose, in a puddle of wee. Glad it was finally over I turned over my soaking pillow to get some normal sleep, but as I turned over, a massive dead rabbit was rotting next to me in bed, with custard coming out of it's eyes, and maggots crawling all over it. And I thought to myself "does this nightmare ever bloody end?" I'm definitely leaving negative feedback.©

A heart warming tale

Years ago I was a homeless drifter desperatly addicted to crack cocaine. One day, whilst I was resting inside a council skip, I happened to notice a pigeon that was hobbling on one leg and appeared to have one eye, but it didn't stop that little fella from finding food to feed himself. That brave little pigeon had found an unopened packet of crisp, and I watched mesmerised for half an hour as he fought tooth and nail against disibility and man made plastic to get at his tasty treat, and eventually he got it open.
I was so engrossed by his inspirational battle against adversity that I thought to myself "if he can do it".
So I clasped my filthy little little fingers on the side of the skip, and dragged myself to my feet, and with a tear in my eye and a quivering lip, I reached deep into my pocket with with my trembling hand............and took a massive blast on my crack pipe, made the pigeon thing seem a little bit insignificant really.

The power of positive thinking

" Be positive" said my mum "look on the bright side, this could be a whole new beginning for you, you've always looked on the bad side of every bloody thing, your a negative, pessimistic sod, put a bloody smile on your face". Suddenly my double amputation seemed as if it could be remidied with a band aid and an asprin.

Classic tuna trap

Being on a diet, I asked my missus to pick up some tinned tuna fish from the supermarket. But she fell into the "classic tuna trap". She actually bought it in sunflower oil, explaining "I thought brine was the fattening one". To which I reply "when was the last time you cooked chips in brine"

Interview part 1

I was sick of not getting jobs, so for my latest interview I decided on a different stratergy. So I donned a smoking jacket, monacle, and painted a large black moustache on my face, reminiscent of groucho marx's. When I arrived at the office, I dropped onto one knee and yelled at the top of my voice "I'm here for the view".
My old technique was definitely better.

Interview part 2

For my latest interview I decided on a new approach. So I wore one of my wifes gypsy skirts with a formal jacket, and a tie made from a real fish. When I arrived I shot around the reception area doing cartwheels shouting "I'm here for the view", but it was at that moment I realised I'd forgotten to put any underwear on. DAMN!!! I'm so angry with myself, that tiny little oversight has cost me the job.

Interview part 3

Had an interview yesterday and decided to pull out all the stops, because I really neded this job. So I welded a ladder to the back of my raleigh chopper so it stood twelve feet in the air, and attatched a skull and crossbones flag to the top. I then strapped ten dead rabbits to the frame of the bike with a sign that said "meat is murder", slipped into a pink catsuit, and drenched myself in the blood of a thousand pigs.
When I arrived at the offices, I smashed through the front doors on my bike, and rode around the desks singing "Nut bush city limits" by tinna tuna, whilst throwing offal at people from a golden satchel, and spitting blood into their faces. I then screamed through gritted teeth "I'm here for the view".
Needless to say I didn't get the job, it's a real pity because i quite fancied one of the girls in the office. I'll just have to admit it, some people just aren't good at interviews

An uplifting tale

Years ago, I was huddled in a shop doorway dribbling and freezing, hopelessly addicted to crack cocaine, life couldn't have got much worse.
But out the corner of my crusty eye, I noticed a little spider trying to climb up the shop shutter, but he kept falling down. But do you know what, that little fella kept on going, and no matter how many times he fell down, he would just dust himself off and try and try again, until eventually he got to his web and the safety of his loving family, what an utter inspiration!!!
And i remember thinking to myself "fuck me I'm dying for a fix" and dribbled a little more.