Monday, 28 February 2011

Nothing Happened


Nothing happened today.

I stayed up half the night writing a skewed view of the Oscars for the Spoof.

Then slept half the day.

Then got up and yawned a lot.

Now I'm off back to bed.

Sunday, 27 February 2011

Days 3 & 4

Late Sunday night, 27/28th Feb 2011

Funny old weekend.

Weather's all over the shop.

Had a bugger of a hailstorm Saturday morning - size of basketballs they were. Not really. More like the size of hundreds and thousands, or Sprinkles as I believe our American brethren call them.

Made quite a racket pounding the windows though.

Then we got rain. A lot of it. Same sunday. Rain, rain, and then more rain, with sunny spells in between.

My Nan used to blame the space rockets. She said they punched holes in the atmosphere every time a man went to the moon. Maybe she was right.

United won yesterday. I wrote a nonsensical article about Wayne Rooney's elbow. It did quite well.

Fucking boring as arseholes weekend really.

Went shopping today. The wife wanted some bread and some veg. It only took an hour. That's pretty good for her - she usually squeezes every loaf in the bread aisle testing them for freshness. Takes an eternity just getting past the bread.

She did a new one today. Picked up one of those plastic bags of pre-weighed potatoes - and then started shuffling the spuds around in the bag! She claimed she was testing them for freshness.

When we got back, we watched the Carling Cup Final on the box. Birmingham City upset the odds and beat the Arsenal. Which was nice. I've got relatives in Birmingham. They'll all be out on the town tonight supping ale and going for a dippy (balti)

.They likes their grub up there in Brum.

Speaking of which, we had this mad seafood thing in bechamel sauce with fancy mashed spuds and veg for tea. The wife's got indigestion now. I'm alright though.

She's on her laptop as I write this...learning Spanish again. God knows why. She's not too bad at it really - when in Rome, she speaks a bit of Spanish. Same in France....

It's the Oscars in a couple of hours - I'm kind of debating whether to stay up and watch it or not.

Interesting about Banksy, the Bristol street artist who won't allow his face to be shown in the media. He's up for a gong, but the powers that be have told him that they won't let him in if he shows up in disguise, so I did a Spoof news article about him turning up in a burkha.

Be fucking brilliant if he does!

Martin Shuttlecock.

Friday, 25 February 2011

Here We Are Again!

Day 2

Pretty uneventful really.

Wish I had something really exciting to report, but alas, I haven't.

The thing is, that I'm kind of inbetween things at the moment. Without wishing to appear overly secretive, there's not much I can do until somebody else makes a move. In the meantime, everything's in limbo.

It's like today - nothing arranged. It's been quite tedious really. Highlight of the day was getting up at 04:30 with the wife as she was getting ready for work. I was bloody starving. Fancied something quick. Bunged a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, and fried a couple of eggs. Buttered me toast, lobbed the eggs on there, and added a great big squirt of HP sauce.

Now, this is not recommended.

Mind you - it's my own fault for being a gutsy bastard.

Polished the lot off in less than two minutes. Lit a fag, drank some coffee - and then - oh fucking HELL!

Me guts went mental. I got some kind of insight into how John Hurt must have felt in ALIEN had it been real of course.

Wifey asked me if I was all right.

"Yes," I croaked. "Apart from the bastard Battle Of Tianenmen Square going on in me innards!"

Gave up, I did. Went back to bed. Feeling all sorry for meself.

And then...

Got up a bit later and decided that eggs on toast - maybe not such a good idea. Opted instead for a proper full English breakfast - a cup of coffee and a fag. Not too healthy, admittedly, but infinitely easier on the old guts.

Had a look on t'interweb then. Usual shite in the papers - Katie fucking Price saying Peter Andre's evil, like I give a toss, and a fox caught up the top of that Shard building in London. Absolute crap.

So then I had a look at me favourite website: - and that was a load of shite too.

So I fannied about for a bit, fed the cat, heard next door's fucking mad dog trying to break the fence down in order to maul the postman, and I contemplated the meaning of life.

After about seventy nine seconds of deep contemplation, I concluded that life just is - and that some days good things happen, and some days shit happens. In my case, nothing happened.

Then wifey came home from work. She rattled on for about twenty minutes, then announced that she was going for a nap.

Having fuck all else to do, I smacked down a couple of spoof news articles. They won't get many views, because they aren't about teen celebrity stars or genitalia. They're about socks. And why not? Socks could become really big in cyberspace. Plus, it's more fun writing about socks, than writing about gobshite American teen stars.

Anyway - I'm watching Benidorm on me telly now. They're talking about the nutritional value of sausages and wholemeal bread...

Laters...Oh for fuck's sake NO! - Cilla bastard Black's in it...


Thursday, 24 February 2011

Starting Out

Is that it? Well, that was easy enough. And they didn't even ask me for me bank account PIN number. Which leads me to...erm...I dunno really...

I only started a blog because birbee's got one, and he seems to have fun with it.

So, as I've basically got not much else to do right now...I thought I'd have a a go at a blog.

Brave really, considering I haven't got a clue why I'm doing this...

I mean, it's not like I've been involved in anything dramatic today. Oh! Apart from bringing the recycle bin in. Bit scary that. What happened was, I went up the shops for some eggs and a loaf (somehow some beer slipped in there - I blame a reverse polarity shoplifter) then came back and went to bring the recycle bin in. the house next door, they've got a devil dog. Fucking evil bastard thing it is. Like a pit bull terrier, but bigger, and nastier. Anyway, as I was bringing the bin in, this thing was howling, barking and growling and hurling itself at my back fence.

Bastard thing. It's already caused grief in our house by killing one of our cats last summer. But the authorities insist it isn't dangerous. Yeah...right. You try telling the postman that. He goes up and down the back alley like Usain Bolt when that thing's out.

Still, it isn't the dog to blame - it's the owners. Right? Wrong. In this instance, the owners are less intelligent than the mutt.

My question to anybody idiotic enough to be reading this, is:

Should I plot to kill the owners, or the dog?

Or just get one of those devices that emits a high pitched scream in the back garden? Hmmm...that's an idea.

As they never take the dog out for walks and leave it barking its stupid canine head off in the back garden all day...if the noise from the device makes it stay indoors - it'll shit all over the house.

Their house, not mine.

Couldn't happen to nicer people.

I'll get back to you.

Martin Shuttlecock.