Scrumping for Apples

On special weekends, Father would allow us to go scrumping for apples from Mr Hitler’s concrete trees. My brother, Dorigen, would fire as many arrows at the stems of the apples as his battered hands could manage. He was an ace shot and the apples always landed on the razor-sharp grass with a satisfying groan.

   It was then my job to knock on Mr Hitler’s front door to ask for the arrows back. “Excuse me, Mr Hitler, but Dorigen was practising for next week’s Junior Olympics and I think that one of his arrows might have accidentally landed in your garden. Please could I go and get it?”

   Mr Hitler (“Call me Martin!”) was very obliging and would always let me try and negotiate my way through his booby-trapped garden, while he watched from a safe distance behind his favourite shaking bush. I’d usually come away needing a few stitches, and on more than one occasion I lost an eye, but it was always worth it for one of Mr Hitler’s concrete apples.

   As Dorigen and I bit hard into them, teeth would go flying everywhere, and Mother would run into the kitchen wearing her paramedic outfit, sometimes leaving Father in the dungeon for several hours before remembering to untie him.

   Nowadays, parents are far too over-protective and won’t let their children anywhere near television presenters.

Mood Diary, Week 1

For my psychiatrist

Monday: I am too

Tuesday: disorganized to do

Wednesday: this every day

Thursday: Uh-oh.

Friday: moody bastard.

Saturday: you can all fuck off and die; I'm spending the day hiding in a cloud.

Sunday 7 am: HAPPY-HAPPY-HAPPY-TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA! Let's cook all day long and ignore what really needs doing.

A Discarded Rant

Stumbled across this unfinished rant today (written 28th August, 2011, apparently). According to the title, I was going to offer some solutions. Maybe that was why I abandoned it: there weren't any?

"Three Idiotic Groups and Some Solutions to Their Malaise"

Wherever I look these days, England seems to be populated by A-List Idiots 

   who all have Ph.Ds in being moronic.

You may well glibly counter by saying, “Oh, it’s not that bad,” but it is: the 

   idiotic situation in certain quarters is beyond chronic.

There’s an epidemic of two short planks,

As evidenced by the weapons-grade fuckwits who’ve been too-long in charge 

   of our banks,

All merrily bowdlerizing this island’s fiscal security,

By behaving as if common sense represented some sort of disgusting, 

   intellectual impurity.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the task of spending the vast monies raised in 

   taxes by the Inland Revenue,

Has somehow been given to a bunch of fatheaded, nouveaux parvenus,

Each one an insufferable crook, whose pitifully insincere defence is,

“That it’s a regrettable error of judgement, to steal a million or two on 

   expenses.”

And yet, like a capricious teenager – cheerful one minute, the next 

   unaccountably moody and quiet –

They abandon their charade of contrition, the second they hear there’s a riot,

And rancorously denounce the despicable behaviour of the amoral, 

   criminal underclass,

While the rest of us are sitting here thinking: they shouldn’t throw stones, 

   whose second houses are made of glass.

On top of which, we are inescapably bombarded at every turn by the gurning 

   images of celebrities, for whom the only surety,

Is that they all deserve to languish, in ignominious obscurity.

Morticia von Hapsburg-Carrot-Cake’s Conversational Facts

Why not try one of these the next time that you are stuck for something to talk about?  

The first draft of “The Communist Manifesto” was an elaborate Knock, knock joke.

Optimism is a form of mental illness.

Paul McCartney forgot to write the lyrics for the chorus of “Hey Jude” and has been too embarrassed to mention it ever since.

The Barclays Premiership Manager of the Month is won by whichever manager can piss the highest.

The Hammerhead Shark is a type of bee.

The last note which Mozart ever wrote was a reminder to his wife not to forget to buy some pop tarts.

Up until 1972, the word ‘villain’ appeared in Swiss marriage vows.

Sofas are more comfortable than settees.

“Hey Jude” was banned in Germany in 1936.

Academies

People who hate subtlety and wit will be familiar with the “Police Academy” series of films from the 80s. The premise for the original film was that, as part of a recruitment drive, or possibly a modernization process, the Police Force of an American City would do away with barriers which had hitherto prevented certain people from being police officers (certain people being previously too small, weird, unassertive, drug-addled, etc.). Hence, a class of useless misfits caused havoc for 90 minutes. Oh, how we yawned.

   The BBC stole half the title for their festival of dullards, “Fame Academy”.

   I think that “Fame Academy” should be relaunched, but taking the spirit of the American film franchise as their guiding principle, i.e. people who previously could not be famous due to lack of talent, beauty, intellect, etc., vie with similarly talentless, ugly, stupid people to become famous.

    The winner gets to be the next Manchester United manager.