Just a quick thing…

I have just watched the British Sky Sports television presenter Simon Thomas’ heartbreaking interview regarding the sudden death of his beloved wife through the bloody awful disease that is Cancer. I could not help but be anything other than moved to tears as he spoke in great depth of his feelings; of being heartbroken, of his utter helplessness and hopelessness and of not having the chance to say a proper final farewell to the woman he so obviously adored and loved.
He also spoke about how he had to break the devastating news to his young son, something he, “would not wish upon his greatest enemy”, and of his utter determination to protect and care for him as they move forward together, side by side.
Now, those who know me personally will already know that this is, of course, the total opposite of my experience, of when a once close member of my family took the completely opposite approach: that of total abandonment at the very first opportunity… Mind you, he did his leg-over in the process so, hey, everyone’s a winner! Except for the kids, of course.
If you haven’t yet seen Simon’s interview yet, or read of his situation, then please take a little time to look it up on You Tube, or to quickly Google his name, and let’s help him raise awareness for his cause and bring an end to the ignorance.
Thank you.


Extracts from Adolf Hitler’s long lost dairies…

And even a few pages from his long lost diaries.

As translated by Simon Gale

As I hope these diaries left to prosperity vill prove beyond all reasonable doubt, none of the var vas ever my fault. It vas the other three, I svear. I am not naming names, I am merely pointing out the truth. I had nothing to do vith it, and Adolf Hitler does not lie! You can ask my mum.

31st August 1939
The new edition of my Magnum Opus, now available in all good bookshops and given avay free in certain beer cellars, especially if you’re vearing leather shorts, is proving to be very popular: hurray for me! My publisher has informed me that it is currently outselling Dan Brown, although, in his opinion, if I could add a chapter solely concerned with bondage sex then sales would no doubt improve ten-fold. I’ll have to consult Goering as vhips and leather and all that sort of stuff seem to be clearly vithin his area of expertise.
A little later, sometime after cucumber sandwiches…
I have given a copy to the British Prime Minister who seemed very excited by one page in particular, vaving it about and around his head as soon as he landed back in the UK. How I love Britain, and all vings British.

3rd September 1939
Britain declared var on me this afternoon. Vhat’s that all about? Vhat did I do? Have ve stolen their towels again? So much for their legendary sense of humour, eh! I really hate Britain and all vings British. Especially Charlie Bloody Chaplin! The places I vould love to stick his frigging cane!
Oh look out, here comes little old Peg Leg, screaming and shouting and posturing again, ranting on and on about this and that. He really does bring the place down. Hess and Speer are right though, if you look at him from a certain angle and in just the right light, he really does look like a little gnome.
Must go now as Eva is calling me down for tea. My little vixen!

4th September 1939
It has been brought to my attention that France also declared var on me yesterday. Yesterday vas not a good day. (NOTE TO SELF, UNDERLINE THAT SENTENCE AT LEAST 3 TIMES LATER TO HIGHLIGHT THE MAGNITUDE!) They have taken my complete ignorance in the matter somevhat personally apparently, although, to be fair, It’s not really my fault I didn’t notice. I was kinda busy.

10th May 1940
Vas bored today, tired of just kicking around the old homestead, so decided, on some fink of a vim, to invade France. Vell, ve haven’t done it for ages now.

27th May 1940
Vatched a lovely little flotilla just off the coast of some beach called Dunkirk yesterday. Very pretty, although quite vindy and Eva lost her favourite hat. Of course this vas all my fault for bringing her here to this, and I quote: “God-forsaken little backwater, full of French people. Vy can’t ve go to London this year?”. Vhat does she fink I am trying to arrange, even as ve speak?
I also tried to point out, as patiently as I could, for I am nuffink if not patient, that the reason this place is full of French people is because ve vere in France, but she vasn’t having any of it. It’s not as though they smell that badly, or that much really, once you get used to them, and, on the upside, all this cheese is lovely, although the snails von’t keep still vhile I try my damnedest to prod them, and the little sods vill insist on escaping. Look! There goes one now. I bet they are English! They are really beginning to test my patients (sic).

28th May 1940
If Churchill flicks me off once more with that bloody v-sign I vill not be held accountable for my actions! Didn’t they teach him any manners at school, or the closest he could get vithout putting out his cigar and taking his hat off ? Mind you, on the plus side, he looks just like my little baby Godson.

25th October 1940
Have delayed the invasion of Britain until next weekend. For now though, I am going Line Dancing!

1st November 1940
Have decided I don’t want Britain after all. Far too troublesome. Did you realise that they have a vord for “fluffy” and that their so-called operas last barely an afternoon?
Peg Leg, or The Gerbil, as everyone else has taken to calling him lately, is bloody furious as he has ordered all the merchandise, including the special tour t-shirts to come in all colours, shapes and sizes, but it can’t be helped.
Maybe next year? I console him by reading his latest speech in my loudest voice and with my Mr Angry face.

20th April 1941
“Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me…” It’s not like anyone remembered. Not one bloody card! You know vho I blame? Jewry!
Oh, and Charlie bloody Chaplin of course, that goes vithout saying.

12th May 1941
Vhere the hell is Rudolf these days? I have looked and looked but can’t find him anyvhere. This is the best game of hide and seek, ever!

22nd June 1941
Vhere to go on holiday this year?
Eva wants to go to either the Caribbean or Scarborough but I have heard that Russia is nice at this time of year. Moscow’s nightlife is apparently something to be experienced, and the cheap Vodka… But vhat to pack? Decisions, decisions. No one understands the pressures on your average run-of-the-mill brutal dictator. I blame Charlie Chaplin.
And the jews… They’re not half as funny as they used to be!

21st January 1942
Himmler and old vhat’s-his-face came to see me today with the answer to the “Jewish question”.
Somefink of a surprise to me, I must admit, as I vas not avare the Jews had asked me anything to begin vith.

6th March 1944
Vhere have all those little people gone? No Goering, not the Smurfs! The ones with the perfectly manicured moustaches and the funny little walk. No, Himmler, I don’t mean Charlie bloody Chaplin! (It is quite apparent to anyone reading these diaries, that Hitler really despises Charlie Chaplin). I mean those with the pretty little yellow stars sewn onto their suits and/or jackets?
Talking of vhich, I haven’t been able to get a jacket tailor-made to fit me for years now! This bloody var. Himmler is such a dungcuff!

6th June 1944
Churchill, you bastard!
That just vasn’t fair. I so thought that the invasion vas going to be somevhere near the port of Calais – ve all know how much the British love their duty-free! – but oh no, that Sweinhunt plays a dirty underhand and rotten trick by invading France in some place called ‘Normandy’. Bloody Normandy? Who’d ever vant to land there? It’s a shithole! Even the bloody French vant shot of it. They must do really nice fish and chips there! The bloody English, leading those nice American chaps ash tray, (Whoops, sorry.) Astray.
Eva tells me, when she is sober, vich isn’t too often these days to be fair, that I shouldn’t be so surprised, for does not everyone invade France at least once every 3 or 4 years?

29th April 1945
Have just married her indoors – that should keep her happy for a bit, or quiet, although she’ll probably vant kids next! Vhat’s vrong with a golden retriever?
Oh, that reminds me. I must go and clean my pistol as I am expecting guests over any day now. I am so excited, as it’s been ages since ve’ve been able to throw a decent party, and I do so like a party and a quick game of charades.
Apparently, someone called Ivan is on his way to see me and, judging by his shouting, swearing, raping and pillaging, he sounds a tad over-excitable.
“Eva. Eva!” Bloody hell woman, she’s fallen asleep again. Must have been one hell of a vedding night, eh? Vink-vink! My one ball is vorking just fine, thank you Mr Churchill! And that’s bloody slander by the vay!
“Eva! Vhere’s my best suit?”

A Little Later, just after tea but before Coronation Street…
There seems to be somefink stuck in the barrel of my favourite pistol… I can see something in the barrel, just down there but… bollocks, if I can reach it. Vill nuffink go right for me lately? I vonder, if I press the trigger…
Nope. That didn’t vork.

For some reason the entries stop right about here… And over there on the wall.

Perhaps not quite the bees-knees after all?

Up until exactly 17 minutes ago, maybe 18, I thought that I was the bees-knees at this blogging lark.
“Look at me,” I hollered from my lofty vantage point on more than one occasion. “I have 33 followers, 2 from Somalia. Am I not the big cheese?”
Apparently not, for it has recently come to my attention, 19 minutes ago to be precise, that a girl in Oregon – very pretty, I must admit – had 178 people following her as she opened a box! Opened a box!!!
God, I’m rubbish!
Mind you, in my defence, she is very pretty so I’d probably watch her open a box as well. Hey ho!

Warning! Warning!

A brand new post, or rather a brand new inane rambling, will be appearing just about here very, very shortly… Just as soon as our wannabe author has stopped crying and screaming and hollering about turning 50, and wailing on and on about how now Death is the only thing that awaits him, whilst contemplating and dwelling on the meaning of what’s left of his life.

“Where has it all gone?”

You have been warned.

PS. There will also be a rather cute picture of a frog wearing a party hat, if all goes according to plan.

Thank you, you may now all return to your business.

Season’s Greetings

To all my loyal followers, and Mrs L. Grimshaw from Bolton who’s been a complete pain in the arse if I’m honest, have a very lovely Christmas and an amazing New Year, that I hope brings you everything you wish for.

Right, I’m off to get amazingly drunk, but have no fear for normal service will resume some time around about January… hopefully. Until then, have a good one.


A new post…

… will be appearing very shortly and just in time for Christmas, like a brand new puppy. I am sure that you will all be mightily releived, or even relieved.

I just have think of something first, anything really, and then scribble it down frantically before I forget what it was all about… Then reject it, erase it, brutally dump it, before starting something else complete different all over again – having had a nervous breakdown between countless cups of tea and questioning my decision to stop smoking – and then do about 16 rewrites before deciding that the original post was the best one after all but now I can’t find it because I erased it and oh look I’m having a panic attack!!!!

A writer’s life is simple, and it’s not like it’s a proper job after all, is it?

A Review… Of sorts.

A Brief History of 7 Killings
Books are sacred to me, to the almost O.C.D. extent where I regret creasing their spines. With “A Brief History…” though, winner of the 2015 Man Booker Prize and, according to the blurp, “The literary sensation of the year”, I didn’t so much want to crease it as to throw it repeatedly against a wall… Or stab it over and over again, as at the moment I don’t have easy access to a gun.

The book’s entirely ineligible. Unfathomable. Littered with words such as Bombocloth… What the hell is a “bombocloth”?
I kept reading it, often having to retrace my steps, ever quicker and quicker, in the vain bloody hope that my nightmare would soon be over, or praying for my life to end, whichever happened to come along faster.
“Please,” I begged of it. “For the love of all that is holy, please end!”

It’s totally incomprehensible.

It’s supposed to be a fictional account about the attempt on Bob Marley’s life in the late seventies, and especially about what happened to the 7 would-be assassins afterwards… Or at least that’s what it says in the synopsis on the back of the novel, and I use that word lightly, believe me. To be honest, it could have been about anything. I couldn’t understand a bloody word of it: words that are laced with and in a strong Jamaican accent and seemingly spoken by a whole confusing chorus of characters I never grew to care enough about to even loathe. Thanks Marlon bloody James. Thanks for taking a couple of precious weeks out of my life, precious weeks that I will never, ever get back!

But it does beg one simple question; why, how, did this book get accepted by a literary agent in the first place, never mind being successfully published and then shortlisted to eventually win the Man Booker Prize? And beating such brilliant novels as “A Little Life” and “The Year of the Runaways”?
Okay that’s three questions, mainly because I is hopping mad, but you get the drift.