Further to my last side splitting post or blog, call it what you will, a friend nonchalantly informed me at the weekend that I should consider myself somewhat fortunate: “Just count yourself lucky and be grateful for small mercies,” he informed me, with something of the wry smile of acceptance. “I’m getting bombarded by junk emails about erection problems.”
Well, maybe I am too but my memory’s now so shot I don’t recall them?
And double buggers!!!!!
I received an unsolicited piece of useless junk email the other day, advising me on how I can help to improve the terrible memory it insisted, over and over again, I now had. I ignored it at the time of course, but now that I want to read it can I remember where I put it?
Can I fu…!
I like to learn one new thing a week, it keeps me on my toes – although I do worry that the new thing has merely pushed out something else I learned a little while ago that might have been really important somewhere down the line? But I transgress.
What I learned the other week I thought I would share with you all today in the hope that it may come in useful, especially to you Mr Grimshaw from Charlton Hawthorne in Dorset. That thing is, drum roll please…
Don’t inadvertently slam your hand in a car door!
It really, really hurts.
Furthermore, as something of a surprise added bonus, I also learned that it is incredibly difficult to release said hand, especially if you happen to be holding your weekly shopping with the other hand. The effect, especially of having a finger trapped between the heavy door’s clunking locking system, is that your hand turns into a bruised and bloated claw for a few days, great at scaring nieces, while your nail slowly turns black before eventually falling away, great for scaring your sister-in-law.
Who knew that the web would become so educational?
I haven’t had a viewing for a few days now, three to be exact. Or, now that I come to think about it, it could be four. Four, for God’s sake! I’m flatlining. I’m yesterday’s news, the mere wrappings for someone’s fish and chips. I am old hat! Where’s that brown paper bag? I think I’m having a panic attack. I’m not taking this too seriously or anything like that, and God forbid that I am blowing this out of all proportion but, but it’s like I can’t breathe all of a sudden. And there are so many things now rushing through my brain; the instant realisation that I have suddenly gone from being massive down under, and ever-so-occasionally in Somalia, to now being completely and utterly alone all the way out here!
Bloody hell, it’s cold. Why is it so cold all the way out here? Is the window open?
“Hello? Is there anyone out there? Hello?” Bloody hell it’s dark.
Why is no one reading me anymore? Why does no one like me anymore? Oh, my, God! It’s just like that after-school club thing I attended just that once, before they inexplicably closed down and moved to another continent. It’s “Chess Club” all over again. What am I going to do?!
I have got to come up with another post and bloody quickly. But what? They don’t just grow on trees, do they? Do they? Where the hell can I find an “Ideas Tree”? Is it in the same garden as the fabled “Money Tree” politicians speak of all the time, whenever a microphone is thrust before their weasel-like faces come election time?
All this pressure. I can’t handle all this pressure. I’ve never been good under pressure. Please, someone, anyone, read me!
I’ve got a nosebleed now… And I’m having palpitations.
And they said that social media was fun. Oh yeah, this is a great laugh.
Hello? Is anyone there? Has she gone yet?
Are we alone? Is it safe to come out now?
Has Katie Price, also known as the “former Page Three glamour model, Jordan”, left the building and moved on to her next victim, I mean, next date yet?
Oh, thank God. That means I can get on with my life again, finally. It means I can now return to something resembling normality.
The fake buxom “model” has been loitering around outside for hours now, ringing my bell incessantly and tapping at her wristwatch, “coo-cooing” loudly at me through the letterbox and upsetting my poor little dog, who’s now a complete nervous wreck – not to mention the effect she’s had on the postman! But, ah, at last, it would appear to be over now and I can come out of hiding, and remove this rather itchy fake moustache.
Peering through my curtains, discreetly, it appears that she has finally given up and moved on, and my relief is palpable, as I am sure you’ll understand. But, with my relief comes, of course, the feeling of immense sorrow, as well as the intense agony of what they call, “survivor’s guilt”, and in particular for one Edmund Galiforth from Warminster, Wiltshire, who’s next on the “former Page Three model’s” to do list.
My thoughts are with you Edmund Galiforth, from Warminster, Wiltshire. May God take mercy on your soul, because the former Page Three model now rapidly heading your way determinedly ain’t half hungry now… And just ever-so-slightly bloody peeved.
Keep safe, my friend.
By my admittedly basic calculations, I have come to the inevitable, gut-wrenching conclusion that next Wednesday, at ten to three in the afternoon, it will be my turn to sleep with Katie Price, also known as the, “former Page Three glamour model, Jordan, aged 39.” Yeah, right.
Therefore, I have absolutely no alternative but to go into hiding immediately for my own well-being. Who knows how long I’ll be away for, or exactly how many weeks I’ll have to remain hidden behind this fake plastic moustache, but, until I return, keep well folks and keep ‘em peeled, just in case any big buxom “models” stagger your way. Oh, and if I should die, remember this of me… That, probably, without a doubt, I went out screaming!
You ain’t seen me, right?
It would appear that I am somewhat massive down under.
No, now stop that, that’s not what I meant at all and you know it… But thanks anyway.
No, what I meant is that I seem to be very popular amongst our Antipodean cousins! Perhaps, in me, they see something of a replacement at last for the legend that was Paul Hogan? Or Castlemaine 4X? He could tell a great joke, Castlemaine 4X. Not as funny as Fosters maybe, but, nevertheless, funny enough to have you rolling around the aisles with your sides aching; it made up somewhat for the fact that it tasted shit! Crocodile Dundee wasn’t too bad either: “That’s not a knife… This is a knife!” See, pissing yourself, aren’t you? Or have you just had too much 4X?
According to the stats WordPress so kindly provide regarding every posting I make, over the last few days they have shown that I have had 50-odd viewings and 5 comments from here in good old Blighty, thanks Mum, 17 viewings from the States, mostly from those incarcerated within their Penitentiaries – I always said that they were a discerning lot despite insisting on leaving the bosom of our great Colony – 7 viewings from South Africa, of which only 2 appear to be searching predominantly for free porn, 2 from India just yesterday, hurray!, and a whopping 23 from Australia!!!! Twenty bloody three! And they can’t all be from my mate Ali, surely? He doesn’t like me that much.
Who would have thought it, though? Who would have thought that so many kangaroos can read? Not to mention of course, the odd… (I was going to add ‘Koala’ to the punchline right about there, but I suddenly realised that I couldn’t spell it – damn! And I can’t replace it with Dingo, because that would just be stupid. We all know that Dingo’s can’t read. They’re far too busy eating babies).
Perhaps I should arrange a World Tour? Take a live version of this utter drivel out on the road for my now numerous fans? See how far you can get on an out-of-date Oyster Card during a heatwave?
I can see it now. “Hello, Adelaide! Good evening, Perth!” Being told to “sod off!” by the whole of Sydney.