Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
01/12/2013Posted by on
Something that always shocks me is the reaction I get after telling someone that I like to tip my local doctor. As far as I’m concerned, a civilised country should strive to support the more vulnerable members of society and my experiences suggest that most doctors don’t have so much as two pennies to rub together.
For instance, when was the last time you saw a doctor listening to music? Pretty much never, right? And you want to know why? It’s because those headphone things they’re always wearing round their necks are the exact same ones that the medical world was using back in the 1950s. Take a look at any old hospital photos if you don’t believe me, but I’m telling you there’s no way that that big old-fashioned connector on the end will ever fit in any modern MP3 player.
Tipping your doc is also nice from a morale-boosting perspective. Just the other week, as I was pulling my trousers back up, I spotted a weary look on the doctor’s face as he peeled off his disposable gloves and threw them in the bin. Right there and then, I could see that he was in dire need of an extra little incentive to turn up for work the next day and that it was time for me to put my hand in my pocket. Knowing that I had to be quick, I waggled my finger around the inside of my wallet as expertly as he had rummaged around in my lower colon, before producing the princely sum of £2.45 and placing it on the table in front of him.
The look on his face was priceless!
Mind you, if there’s one thing that does annoy me about doctors, it’s the fact that the tight-arsed bastards never seem to have a bowl of complimentary mints in reception any more.
19/10/2013Posted by on
…it stands to reason that there’s simply no need for you to ever speak if I’m in the building.
Wsssht! Why are you talking? I already know what you’re going to say, so why bore everyone with your tedious prose? And even if it turns out that I was wrong about what you were going to chat about – which isn’t likely – I’ll simply TALK OVER THE TOP OF YOU UNTIL YOU REALISE HOW FUTILE YOUR VOCAL CHORDS ARE.
By the way, did you see the re-run of Santa Barbara on channel 125 last night? Oh, it was marvellous. Bridget was worried that Jerome was cheating on her again and there was another misunderstanding when… WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU USED TO WATCH IT BACK IN THE DAY? I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY BECAUSE I WATCHED IT LAST NIGHT.
I remember a few years ago when management were thinking about getting Neil Armstrong, the former astronaut, to come in and give a motivational talk to us. Can you believe it? Neil Armstrong! He’s a legend! A pioneer! And a complete waste of the annual entertainment budget.
I marched into their meeting and told them what a bunch of fools there were, explaining that I recently read two newspaper articles and recorded at least one documentary on the Apollo Moon Landings… so what the hell could Neil tell us that I didn’t already know? I even offered to do the talk myself but they declined the offer and ended up spending the cash on a staff BBQ instead.
It was horrendous, the caterers were cooking the sausages all wrong and wouldn’t listen to a word I said to them.
04/10/2013Posted by on
Hi, gang! My name is Jeremy Jez and I’m a member of the 23rd Alrdridge Scout Group.
Now, if there’s one thing that Akela is always telling me it’s that I should be going out and doing things for myself, and it’s for that reason that I’ve decided to become more independent. And what better way to do that than to take a close look at a tape measure? All the important people use them, like plumbers and electricians, and I once saw a car park attendant using one to see if someone had double-parked or not. Cool, eh?
After asking my mum to turn the light on for me, I went into the garage and found dad’s measuring tape on the shelf. It’s one of those special ones where the tape rolls back into the holster thing when you let go, so I’ve got to make sure I don’t cut myself on the sharp edges. Someone should invent a sellotape that can do that as well, ‘cos it always seems to get stuck to my fingers.
First of all I decided to try and measure the hallway, but it turns out that the tape wasn’t long enough which is a bit rubbish. Does that mean you have to buy two of them if you want to measure a room in your house? That must cost LOADS.
I then measured my Xbox, which was quite big, but not as big as my TV. I got out my sleeping bag that I took to summer camp and measured the wee stain from when I wet the bed because I thought I heard a bear outside the tent – turned out it was just the patrol leader coming back from the toilet.
Actually, that reminds me: my patrol leader is always boasting about how big his willy is, so this is a great chance to see if it’s true. Hmmm, the tape says mine is three inches long – that’s really good, right?
No way will anyone else be able to beat that!
27/09/2013Posted by on
People often say that Posh Spice, AKA Victoria Beckham, is nothing more than a clothes horse, which I think is unfair. If anything, she’s more like a giraffe.
Frank R, France.
Fool your neighbour into thinking he left the oven on by setting fire to his house when he’s out. The look on his face when he learns the truth will be priceless.
Geoff B, Worcs.
Is anyone else jealous of homeless people? It’s socially acceptable for them to get drunk during the day, and most of them seem to have a personal guide dog to help them across the busy roads.
Susan S, Surrey.
“The cat sat on the mat,” sang my five year old niece as she skipped around the garden. Yet I don’t even own a cat. It says a lot about modern society if children are being encouraged to tell such outrageous lies from a young age.
R Flops, Belgium.
Is anyone else worried about the ever-increasing encroachment of CCTV cameras on our lives? Last month I went to Disney Land Florida for the first time, yet when I arrived there was a map with a big arrow saying “You are here.” It’s the way they’re so blatant about it that scares me most.
S Patel, London.
Fool others into thinking you’re blind by randomly bumping into people and saying “Sorry, I’m blind” whilst wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses.
Terry W, Hull.
Banging two halves of an empty pistachio shell together is the perfect way to make people think that a herd of miniature horses are galloping up behind them.
Frank T, Bolton.
10/09/2013Posted by on
My newest book is finally available! Hurrah! And there’s free copies going, er, free.
For this particular book, I delved back into the realms of historical fiction. Set in the Warsaw Ghetto during World War II, it’s a story about the struggle for survival that the Jews had to endure every single day. At the hands of their Nazi tormentors they battled against starvation, disease, and deportations to concentration camps… until some of them decided to fight back.
Anyone willing to leave a review of some kind on Amazon can make use of the Smashwords code below for a free digital copy. I’m also giving away five paperback copies, so anyone who wants to be in with a chance of winning can leave their email address in a comment below.
As ever, I owe thanks to many people for helping me out with the editing. OCD Reader is one of them and she is bloomin’ marvellous, as are Patti, Ignite, Elle, Lindsay, Joo, Tonya, and Amy Hildebrand from Goodreads, along with many other people in the UK Amazon Kindle group.
Please feel free to help me spread the word by making liberal use of the Facebook, Twitter, etc. sharing buttons at the very bottom of this post…!
The book is available through these direct links:
Smashwords - code for a free copy is SB55G
Remember to leave your email address if you want to win a paperback copy!
You can get a taster for the book by scrolling down past the cover image and reading the post called Cattle.
Like any girl who is loved by her family, Abigail Nussbaum loves to chase butterflies, enjoys lying on her back looking for shapes in the clouds, and happily teaches young children to make daisy chains.
In the eyes of certain people, however, Abigail has committed a heinous crime. The year is 1940; the place is Poland; Abigail happens to be Jewish.
Along with half a million other Jews, Abigail and her family are evicted from their home and forced to live in the bombed out ruins of Warsaw, the Polish capital.
Although a handful decide to fight back, is the uprising strong enough to save Abigail’s spirit?
07/09/2013Posted by on
Although Abigail enjoyed train journeys, she hated it when there were busy crowds. The adults always towered high above her and their heavy overcoats wafted in front of her face, blocking out the light. She let out a sigh and wondered why no-one was talking.
After spotting a small gap, she squeezed into it to give herself some more room. The yellow badge that was pinned to her jacket ripped off and fell to the floor, causing someone above her to tut loudly; Abigail decided not to pick it up again.
She spotted a man in a smart uniform – surely, he must know where they were going.
“Excuse me,” she politely enquired. “Where are we going?”
The man’s expression was one of death. “Auschwitz,” he replied.
My new novel, Saying Goodbye to Warsaw, is due for release soon. Set in the Warsaw Ghetto during WWII, it is a story of tragedy and this is a little taster for what is to come.
03/09/2013Posted by on
Hai, is Beethoven of German classical musics here.
Other day I listen to radio when wonderful song come on that is full of energies and movements. It go like bip-bip, da-da, bip-bip, and had man sing “Pump up the volume, pump up the volume” all the way through. When song finish I wait see if radio DJ say who song was by, but he more interest in asking ladies to ring him to talk about what their favourite colour for underwear is. I throw shoe at radio in frustration, which fall over and scare family cat.
I was very excite to find out from daughter that nearby nightclub play bip-bip songs every Friday night. I ask if she take me clubbing and teach me how to dance but she laugh and say no. I tell her I plan to wear smart velvet jacket but she still say no. I explain that I can wear nice buckled shoes and freshly powdered wig, but she scream at me. I call her ungrateful Nazi bitch and she slam bedroom door in my face, so I decide go nightclub by myself.
I queue up outside nightclub and wait patient as big burly bouncer pat my bottom and check under collar for something. I think he looking for my Unfinished Symphony, so is good job I leave at home. Once inside I see lots of people jumping and moving like they have caught The Black Death but all seem to be having fun and enjoyment. I get talk with pretty girl and after buying her overpriced warm drink, she show me secret to dancing in nightclub. It go big fish, little fish, cardboard box, and after twisting my ankle a few time I get hang of it.
At 6am nightclub closes but I unable to find where I leave my smart velvet jacket. Bouncer tell me is home time so I call him ungrateful Nazi bastard. He grab me, throw me out, and slam door in my face.
Still, not all bad as I now have special green glowstick as secret souvenir. Maybe it make conducting orchestra more interesting, no?
28/08/2013Posted by on
Hey guys, it’s the Hulkster here!
Anyone else a fan of camping? I tells you, I love the entire experience – from the moment I lace up my thick leather walking boots, I look forward to that moment at the end of the day when I get to suffocate a small animal with my bare hands so it can be cooked on an open fire.
I remember I once forgot to pack my mallet, meaning I had nothing to bang the tent pegs in with. Luckily, I discovered that I could headbutt the cheeky little varmints into the ground and I’ve never bothered packing a mallet since then!
Now, after a hard day’s hiking around under the hot summer sun, there’s no better fruit to refresh yourself with than a satsuma. Not a lot of people agree, but as far as I’m concerned the satsuma is the best of all the citrus fruits that humanity has so far discovered, yet it’s the orange that tends to get all the praise and popularity these days. If you ask me, the orange is nothing more than a bully and can be a real mean son of a bitch to get into. I can make mincemeat out of a can of Dr Pepper, but for the life of me I can’t get into an orange without all the pips getting stuck in my ‘tache.
Limes ain’t too bad but they’re green and remind me of Brussels sprouts, which give me real bad indigestion and I don’t like having bad guts when I’m out in the middle of nowhere.
And lemons? Lemons are right sneaky assholes, constantly waiting for the right moment to squirt a bit of juice in your eye when you’re least expecting it. Hell, I remember the last time it happened to me I nearly passed out – getting a dollop of the bitter stuff down your Japseye ain’t no fun and I’ve been wary of handling lemons at bedtime ever since.
A sattsy, though? Thems are lovely things and they’re great for sharing around with your buddies. Whilst everyone else is guzzling down a Budweiser or two, me and the family are in the corner enjoying a delightful array of satsuma segments. Even the pets like a quick nibble on them, though you gotta be careful; I once petted next door’s dog a bit too hard and accidentally caved the poor little mite’s skull in.
Sometimes, I just don’t know my own strength.
22/08/2013Posted by on
G’day, mates! Alf Stewart here.
Now, as a proud no-nonsense Australian who doesn’t take a dingo bat’s whisker of nonsense from anyone, you can imagine how cheesed off I was when I found out that the old wife-aroo has been having an affair behind my back. Although I’ll be the first to admit that I’m perhaps a little hard on the silly little strumpetty slap, that’s still no excuse for her to go galloping off into the arms of the first two-bit dingo mongrel head that’s willing to blow a kind word and a compliment up her skirt.
“Oh, you don’t understand me!” is what she claimed when I spoke to her on the phone. Well, too damned right I don’t understand you, you bloody wombat! How am I supposed to know you don’t like it when I let rip with a heavy stonker from my backside if you don’t tell me? I’m no bloody mind reader, no matter what those carpet munching women’s magazines say. And what, exactly, is the problem with me checking out the young girl next door when she’s out sunbathing in the garden? That’s one fine pair of tambourines she’s got tucked up down under that blouse of hers, and I’m man enough to admit that I’d love nothing more than to take her backstage of Sydney Opera House and show her how a real man bangs away on a percussion instrument.
Since then, I’ve been doing what any bloke would do under the circumstances: whatever the hell damned hell of damn I want. At first I went into town and took in a few titty bars just to get the old didgeridoo back in action, but I had to stop all that when I caught sight of my little niece up on the main stage. I tell you, that was creepier than a dingo’s backside that’s been stuffed full of creepy crawlies and I hope to hell that she washes her hands before she slaps any more shrimps on any unsuspecting barbies – the flaming smell would carry for miles around, attracting God only knows what type of dirty dingo mongrels from all around here.
Mate, this world has gone to shit. Dingo shit.
14/08/2013Posted by on
Is Popes here and I have confess to make: I getting bored of Italy. Ever since I was child, I immerse in Italy cultures and Italy way of life. Was once source of pride to know that national sport for Italian men was to sleep with brother’s wife and spend all of monies on shampoo and hairsprays, but now I bored of same old same old every day and is time I experience new things from other places for once.
I start off by placing order for curry from nearby curry place. Man on other end of phone was hard to understand so I ask him his name in case I need to ring back. He say his name is Trevor which no sound Indian to me so I think he telling me porking pies. Anyway, food arrive 45 minutes later, deliver by skinny man on motorbike that make lots of noise but no go very fast. I was thinking of ask him if engine is about to fall off, but I end up slam door in his face as I no like his moustache. Already I have fun sample other ways of life.
Okay, so curry is packed into see-through plastic boxes which is very interest for people who like see inner workings of things. I remember I once had fish tank that was see-through, which very useful for watching little fishy swim to and fro. Unfortunate, I forgot feed fish and he suffer slow painful death like man condemned to die by crucifixion on top of hill.
There is two papadums in bag but I no sure what they for. Maybe for frisbees in garden? I pour curry out onto plate and it smell very nice. Now come to taste it and HOLY SHITS IS SPICY AND HOT! Jeezy Chreezy Christ, how is possible to eat when it burn as if devil is crawling around and doing big smelly fart in my throat? Good job I have some communion wafers and holy waters ready for times like this.
Hmmm after few more mouthfuls, I get used to spicy taste – it seem that Italian culture of drink aftershave finally come in handy, no?
For some reason I feeling urge to get drunk on cheap lager and be sick all over someone’s shoes after finishing curry. I think I save that for next week as don’t want to use up all excite at once.