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.


Celebrity Prancing, Part II

No, no, no guys, what have you done? And we so nearly had it all sorted…
A week after some manufactured boy-band wannabe was quite rightly escorted away by security and thrown headfirst from the BBC’s most lavish set, paid for by the British taxpayer, poor old Ruth what’s-her-face was somehow voted out of “Strictly Come Dancing” last Saturday. This was a woman who didn’t so much have two left feet as two completely wooden legs, with an artificial hip and the use of an iron lung thrown in just for good measure.
If you weren’t aware, Ruth Langsford is, or at least was, the woman who threw caution entirely to the wind and, with all the enthusiasm and grace she could summon up at such short notice, promptly fell over at the end of a dance a couple of weeks ago, thereby squashing and then accidentally sexually molesting her dancing partner in a move that, I am led to believe, is banned in twenty-two American states and the whole of Manilla… The actions of a worthy winner, if ever there was one!!!
What have you done? Now Debbie McGee is among the favourites to win; the classically trained dancer, former ballerina and ex-magician’s wife, Debbie McGee.
I’m going to vote for the fat one.

There are now 3 days, more or less, to go before ITV’s, “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here” starts all over again, and it has been revealed that one of the so-called “celebs” taking part is little cheekie-chappie Dennis Wise, the ex-footballer. Dennis, as footie fans will already know, is quite small and therefore, one would like to think with all fingers crossed, easy prey for all the Boa Constrictors that are already rumoured to be setting up home inside the camp and busy readying themselves with bibs, knives and forks. Yum, yum.

I’m A Celebrity on Strictly Come Prancing

For those of us currently residing in the UK and now hooked to our TV screens for the next few weekends, or at least until I’m A Celebrity… comes back on, can I just ask a quick question relating to the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing – for the rest of the world, ‘cos I’m popular in Somalia don’t you know, please bear with us or go and put the kettle on for the next few minutes, or pirate the next passing ship. Can we all, please, get together and cast our votes to send home the good dancers? The overly pretty ones with the long blond hair and the surgeon-created smiles stapled firmly into place. Those who have a performing background, or who were especially crafted and molded for the myriad of girl bands. The lovely mannequins who were, or are, regularly choreographed in or for performing careers, and those who were sent to various stage schools as soon as they emerged from the womb, by parents determined to live their lives through their precocious off-spring?

Can’t we vote them out so that the show consists of the more, shall we say, rotund and big-boned variety of our species, and those who have acquired at least two left feet somewhere along their journey? Those like the rest of us who are totally and utterly tone-deaf, and proud of it? The Ann Widdecombe’s of this land for example, who have absolutely no rhythm and who couldn’t carry a tune if it was nailed to their humped-over backs? Just think how much more fun and entertaining that would be as you eat your Saturday dinners in front of the gogglebox; people wobbling about the stage every weekend, dressed in nothing more than large smiles and gregarious sequins, with costumes bulging at the seams, their poor professional partners hanging on for dear life and who would pop a hernia at the mere thought of trying to perform one of those lift things on them. The poor mega-fit professionals struggling gamely to keep up as these celebs two-two wildly in zig-zags across the dance floor to the tune echoing around their head, a tune totally different to the one the band are currently destroying.

Louise Redknapp!

Well of course she was good, Mrs Brown from Scarborough. She went to an expensive stage school, to dance school. And she looks very pretty, granted… But she was in a manufactured girl band whose sole job was to frigging dance and prance about a stage. Bring back Brian Conley or even Ed Balls, anything to keep him away from any seat of power, and vote off Alexandra Burke and Aston Merry-something-or-other from some boy band I am proud to say I have never heard of.

And, speaking of I’m A Celebrity even if no one outside my immediate circle has ever heard of me before, let’s vote out the fearless ones as soon as is humanely possible, as soon as the “lines are open”. The brave ones who are up for everything and the ones who face an oncoming certain death with a quip and a devil-may-care smile, for what’s the worst that can happen? And let’s keep in the poor sods scared and scarred by their own shadows. Let’s make them scream and shriek as the spiders and creepy-crawlies are unleashed in their carnivorous swarms of thousands. So much more fun, I promise you.

So get voting folks and gather round with the popcorn.

Oh, as an aside, my lawyer has “suggested”, strongly, that I make it “abundantly clear” that I am not for 1 minute suggesting that all people from Cornwall are Pirates; just the odd few from Bude. I apologise if anyone was offended.