Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
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.
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.
I’ve been rather fixated with the weather recently, what with summer finally making its way to these delicate green shores of ours. It’s the perfect time of year to invite my most hated relatives around for a BBQ; I just love watching them gradually become more and more sunburnt as they gorge recklessly on a mountain of half raw chicken and limp pasta salad. Never let it be said that the sun ever fails to put a smile on my face.
Dear Nurse Ratched
Now that the warm weather has arrived, I’d like to buy some garden furniture so the family can eat outside. However, my husband wants to keep the old stuff we’ve had for years. Can you help?
Deary, in times like this you need to ask yourself just one question: “What would a football hooligan do?” And the answer to that is “throw bricks and knives until he gets what he wants.”
I recommend buying a set of darts and fixing them to the underside of the garden table. Look around in the charity shops first as they’ll be cheap and covered in rust if you’re lucky. When you get back home loosen the screws on the table and the whole lot will come crashing down on Hubby when he finally gets round to setting it all up! If you manage to pierce an eyeball or two then not only will it serve as ample punishment for his miserly ways, it’ll also leave you in full control of any further decisions about the garden furniture.
If that doesn’t work you should kill yourself.
Dear Nurse Ratched
I was looking forward to several weeks of drunken BBQs but my girlfriend has suddenly decided she wants to be a vegetarian. What can I do to salvage my summer?
Oh dear, this is serious business. I once briefly flirted with vegetarianism until I realised what would happen to all those poor, defenceless animals if no-one was willing to chop their flesh up into nice little steaks and shove them under a grill – they’d be left to starve and rot in the fields all on their little lonesome. Can you imagine the detrimental effect that would have on house prices? I suggest you alert your girlfriend to these pitfalls by leading a herd of bulls into her house in the middle of the night. Once they’ve torn up her carpets, defecated in her kitchen, and farted in her underwear drawer she’ll be more than thankful for your timely educational intervention. If the opportunity arises I recommend holding her down so that she can be gored once or twice, just to be sure that the message is driven home.
If that doesn’t work you should kill yourself.
This morning I woke up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth like mummy always tells me to do. Last night she told me that I was a big boy so I decided it was time to use a big boy’s toothbrush rather than the Buzz Lightyear one I got for my birthday. I started brushing the way daddy taught me but for some reason it really hurted and my gums started bleeding. Then mummy came in and shouted at me for putting the toilet brush in my mouth and when I asked her why the toothpaste tasted all nutty she sent me to my room and I did a cry.
In the afternoon I decided to play a game where I pretended to be an animal living on a farm. I got some of daddy’s porridge oats and poured them into mummy’s handbag and put it round my head so that I had a nosebag like a horse does when the farmer feeds him but the bag got stuck and I couldn’t see so I tripped over a hosepipe and got tangled up and I thought a snake was attacking me. This almost made me do a cry but then I remembered that snakes don’t live on farms and everything was okay again apart from the bag that was still stuck on my head.
The other day I drawed a picture of some birdies and when I looked out the window there were birdies eating worms in the garden. I went out to show them my picture but I don’t think they liked it because they all flied away whenever I got near them. I put some bread on my head and stood as still as a statue but none of the birds wanted to be my friend and I did a cry which scared them away again.
Later on in the evening I went to play on my Nintendo but it wasn’t there and I did a cry because I thought the birdies had stolen it but then mummy said she moved it when she was tidying up and so everything was okay again.
An Indian call centre worker reviews the Fisher Price Little People Fun Sounds Office Environment toy
Hello sirs and madams, my name is Srivathkananghm Nagmisrivithikan… or Trevor for short.
If one thing I believe about this globe, is having opportunity of good start in life. I remember when I six years old, I had never experience life in office before and so not know how use photocopy fax machine for sending emails. Is for this reason why I purchase new toy for nephew, Fisher Price Little People Fun Sounds Office Environment, so he have early advantage over others when he go for job applications.
Okay, first thing is that it arrive in box that is big, bright, and happy just like all other Fisher Price toys do. This is bad decision as most box that get delivery to office are brown, covered in bogeys, and sometimes have bad words written on by racist van driver. Is important to get all details right, so we off to bad start already, but things looking better after I finish unpacking. First thing that catch my eye are three plastic partition walls that clip together easily, which good for nephew small hands. I remember when Trevor in accounts department try commit suicide as he no like being lonely and neglect for most of day, so important that nephew get used to working long hours in office cubicle from early age.
Another nice feature is that there is button on top of toy that make noises when press. This mean nephew recognise sound of fire alarm test at 2:30pm each Tuesday afternoon, so he no panic thinking he burn to death when doing poops on lavatories after lunch.
Although toy is good, I wonder why no include fire extinguish? I know that Trevor in project department use extinguish to keep security door open when he go outside for smokings – is important that nephew realise that if he trapped during real fire then he may not be able to put out flames and that exit way might be blocked.
I thank Fisher Price for help give nephew exciting learnings for future.
Ever since I watch Peter Pan film, I been fascinate with idea of eternal youth. Peter Pan never have to worry about get hairy ears and nose due to getting old, and he also able to get in cinema for student price provide he has valid student college card. Downside is that he have to keep go to college and do homeworks, but I say is worthy trade. Also, having beautiful fairy in short skirt follow him around is good bonus too.
Dear King of Dubai
I’m thinking of taking my family on holiday to Dubai next year, but the possibility of being kidnapped, beaten, raped, and then thrown in jail is a cause of concern. Are these horror stories true?
My friend, I completely sympathise! There are bad peoples around, so is important for tourist to think before leaping. For instant, if wife wants to leave hotel then she at risk entire time she is in possession of a vagina so I recommend she leave it in reception safety box so no-one can touch it. Also, don’t leave things lying around that might tempt hotel cleaners to spread rumours – if they find female underwears whilst looking through your luggage then you only have yourselves to blame if sniffer dogs find wife.
Is just common sense, no?
Dear King of Dubai
I’m considering building a massive new hotel out in the desert next year, but I’ve heard rumours that the workers are starting to demand better working conditions. Is there any truth to what the doom-mongers are telling me?
My friend, I completely sympathise! Is well known that troublemakers are making troubles out here in the desert, so is important to stay vigilant. Some of enterprising managers have been handing out breathing masks to their workers, under excuse that it protects during sandstorms. However, under Dubai law, breathing mask is same as muzzle you put on noisy dogs, so technically it means that all workers only have rights of animals! Which is to say, no rights at all!
Is just common sense, no?
Hello, finest people of the British Empire, ‘tis Prince William here!
No doubt you’re all aware of the hullaballoo surrounding the expulsion of the Royal Foetus from within one’s wife’s womb. After all, pappa tells me that it’s been all over the BBC channels and it seems that even those ghastly perverts over on that Channel 4 thing are talking about it as well! Spiffo, I say! The Royal Bedding that took place nine months ago was a jolly frantic couple of minutes, and I’m awfully pleased that the entire country is as excited about it as I am – I simply cannot wait for the next one!
In the aftermath of all this frivolity, a frantic debate has arisen about who’s going to have the placenta. Now, although I have no doubt that it would make a splendid souvenir to remember the occasion by, I’ve decided not to place my hat into the ring – after all, I’ll be allowed to hold the baby on birthdays and during outings to Windsor Legoland, so there’s no point in being greedy whilst there’s still plenty to go round.
After a fair amount of consultation with the family, it’s been agreed that Grandmama’s little corgi dogs are the frontrunners in this race for ownership of the afterbirth. And why not? They put in a jolly good performance during their time in the maternity ward; whilst the doctors and nurses were running around like headless chickens, the good little doggies were as calm as a button as they played dead and rolled over on my command. You should have seen the look on Kate’s face when they started lapping up the mess she had left on the bed! Priceless!
I’m going to leave the decision for naming the baby down to Harry. He’s a real wag when it comes to things like that, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Gertrude or Biff.
Hello, dear subjects! I trust you are keeping well and taking good care of yourselves – after all, no-one else is going to bother doing it for you.
Anyway. The other day I was browsing the shelves of my local hardware store and came upon a delightful little stick with a fluffy thingy on the top. I was so impressed by it that I stuffed it up my skirt and walked briskly and purposefully towards the exit. The store is one of those daft local independent shops that can’t afford a security guard, so more fool them I say! Why should I bother putting my hard-earned pennies into the pot if I don’t have to?
It took me a good ten minutes to untangle the mop once I got back home. Lord only knows what hooks and splinters it was catching on, but my trusty old Swiss army penknife is perfect for getting in amongst all those troublesome nooks and crannies. Once I finally had my newly acquired mop standing tall in front of me, my attention was drawn to one particular little warning on the box: Not suitable for minors.
Which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Given that they’re a bunch of lazy, dirty men who would down tools and go on strike simply because their pick axes are loose and those pet canaries they love so much are dropping like flies, it comes as no surprise that they would be reluctant to spend a few minutes cleaning their square-tiled linoleum kitchen floor. No doubt they see it as someone else’s job to supply them with clean water that is free from cholera and other nastiness. I tell you, that sort of attitude gets right on my shit.
As for the mop itself… well, I dipped it into a bucket of water but wasn’t too sure what I was supposed to be doing with it after that. I called in David Cameron to do the rest, as everyone is always telling me he’s good for that wishy-washy type of nonsense.
He’s bloody useless at everything else, that’s for sure.
FAO Gas companies: Inspire confidence in your services by sending free ‘bite size’ samples of your product through the post. People would be thrilled to receive a small canister that contained just enough gas to grill a slice of cheese on toast.
If you’re planning on throwing a surprise party for your dad on Father’s Day, be sure to check that the dozy old sod hasn’t made an impromptu visit to his own parents. I was stuck out on the porch for ages and the kissogram refused to give me a refund.
Geoff R, Cambs
An assortment of cheerleader pom-poms scattered around your garden are ideal for fooling people into believing that the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader team practice their dance routines in your garden.
FAO Phone companies: Inspire confidence in your services by making it practically impossible to locate a contact telephone number anywhere on your website.
Susan T, Paris
FAO dog owners: next time you scoop up some poop, don’t throw the bag away. Instead, use it as convenient stress ball for when the little bastard ignores your calls when it’s time to go home.
John G, Pets r Us
FAO sluts in the Grimbledon area: I recently split up with my girlfriend, so I’m looking for an easy ride just after payday. I’ll be in the Dog and Duck from 7pm on Saturday. The sheets will be clean and the fridge will have plenty of Toblerone if the ‘buy one, get one free’ offer is still running at the corner shop.
Graham J, Grimbledon Upon Sea
Yo peeps! Time for yet another serious post whereby I whore myself out and go all self-promotiony on you.
Right then. Just over a year ago, some of you may recall that I published a book called Shades of Grey. It was a collection of three short stories that was only available in smelly ebook form (Kindle, Nook, etc.) Well, I’m pleased to announce that it is finally available in PAPERBACK form! YES! Down with all this digital nonsense I say, and onwards with pulped trees and physically vulnerable mediums. Apart from WordPress, of course; blogging would be a right kerfuffle if was all done via papyrus scrolls. Papyrus shops are a bit thin on the ground here in Blighty.
Anyway, to celebrate this truly momentous occasion I’m giving away a whole five copies to anyone who fancies one. This giveaway is open to anyone, anywhere in the world… providing Amazon deliver to you, that is. This goes doubly so for people in America as they buy far FAR more of my books than any of my smelly fellow Brits do. In fact, my fellow Brits should count themselves lucky that I’m even allowing them to enter. You bloody Brits with your wonky NHS dentisted teeth, daft accents, and the obsession with driving fuel-efficient cars.
I tell you, if I ever get rich and famous from this writing lark, I’ll definitely go and live in the US for a while. I’ll be able to eat hot grits for breakfast and have melted cheese on everything without anyone batting an eyelid. I won’t be going anywhere near their chocolate though, that really is ghastly stuff.
So, all you have to do is leave an email address in a comment below and I’ll contact you for your real address if you’re a winner.
For those that don’t believe I actually went ahead with this, it’s listed here on Amazon UK and here on Amazon US. For those that still don’t believe me, here is a picture of the aforementioned paperbacks on my bed. And yes, I did gather them up and cuddle them afterwards.
PS – although it shares a similar name, Shades of Grey has nothing to do with that erotic grot written by EL James.
PPS – for those wanting to know, I’m hard at work on another book. I decided to dip back into historical fiction again, and it’s a story set in the Warsaw Ghetto during WWII.
John is not a very nice man. He works for the government. So who has tied him to a chair and what do they want?
James is a British soldier during WWII. Tom is a young boy with a terrible secret.
Three stories. Three very different people. All of them battling to survive.