Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Gorgeous Georges Nightmare.

 
     I have jumped a few years now; just to prove that those rumours about my having short term memory loss are a complete fabrication; as spread by myself when I forget someone’s birthday.
  A year after I lost my pretty wife to cancer I started going out and mixing with other people.

 I had not frequented the Bag 'o' Rats public house since my bachelor days.
 My old school mates were still using it because most of them were either lifelong bachelors or divorcees.
   Gorgeous George (so called because he thought he was!) was in there; his wife divorced him because of his roaming eyes.  I had my own squint operated on when I was 15 years old and it is now straight, but Georges are uncontrollable; unless the surgeons took them out all together.  However, he would still have his roving hands and a good excuse to touch every woman who spoke to him - accidentally on purpose of course-.  Anyway, we got talking about his favourite subject - women -.

 George has his own stalker...you may think he would like that, but if you saw Blodwin Sprig you would see why he wasn't happy about it.  Although there weren't any women in the bar, his eyes were roaming as he spoke to me; In between checking the bar mirror to see if his quiff was covering his bald spot, he was watching the car park through the window, in order to see if Blodwin’s red Mini arrived.  She wasn't too bad for her age but she smelt like a cheap scent factory, she plucked her eyebrows until they were nonexistent, and replaced them with pencilled ones that arched up into her forehead she had green eye shadow on her eyelids ruby red lipstick smeared on; to make her lips look thick; so that she could pout like Marylyn Monroe, false giraffe eyelashes with sparkly bits sprinkled on her rouged cheeks, all topped off with her thin hair died orange so as to look 'with it' like a young chick.  Instead she looked like she had been caught up in a paint factory explosion.
To George she resembled a clown and he had a phobia about clowns; they didn't make him laugh they gave him nightmares as a child.
 Blodwin once walked into a Bank to withdraw her pension and they brought the security shutters down on her arthritic hands because a young desk clerk thought that she was an armed robber wearing drag and a clown’s mask.
George told me and Phony Tony –the latter had just had an operation on his worn knee and told everyone that he was wounded in Northern Ireland although he didn't leave Aldershot in his two years national service - that he had a nightmare about Blodwin.  He dreamt that she was chasing him around an old folk’s home; Tony and I were in there too.  He couldn't move his legs as they felt like lead and she was gaining on him.  He turned to see where she was, Tony stuck his walking stick out as she passed by him and she tripped up.  She did a double somersault and landed in front of him legs akimbo and every thing on show because she had no knickers on.  "Well," he said,
 "I must admit that I woke up wet and I haven't done that since I was  a youngster."  Me and Tony said,
"What?" in unison.
"No, no!" he said in shock, at the thought of what we were thinking. "I didn't have a wet dream...No I pissed myself laughing!" 

Sneak Preview Of My Film Idea, 'THE TYPECASTS'.

This is written by a typical Englishman (Not got a Cockney accent. Not posh, unrecognisable as a Hollywood Englishman is, but a born Englishman; Me). I have noticed through the years that Hollywood often typecast us and other people around the world, for good or bad. I am not having a go at our American cousins, just Hollywood. 


 It is about 3 asshole villains and one asshole Ass who decide to steal children's presents' and booby trap them with high explosives. The 3 villains are led by a posh surly Englishman who says "Old boy" a lot, so that the ALL AMERICAN HERO can take the piss. The surly posh Englishman's right- hand man is an Arrogant Blond Haired German - with dueling scar -, who says, "Rouse" and "Nine a lot. They are followed by a scruffy little Mexican with a manic laugh and a twitchy eye who rides everywhere on a stubborn Ass that bites children.
 They are hunted by an L.A.P.D. Officer with the morally high standards of an ALL AMERICAN HERO (Nam Vet; No not a vet who cures Nam's; whatever they are, that is American speak for a veteran of that war what they lost although John Wain won all the battles). He also has a Purple Heart that he bought at a military medal auction, just to bring out to get the audiences admiration. He is out to kick Ass; so that nasty Mexican Hybrid Mule had better watch out. His right-hand man is a hard as rock Jock who played in Brave Heart and fought the Surly Posh and London accented Englishmen until the other clans (the Brave Highlanders) ran off and left him on his own. You may not recognise his accent as he is played by an Australian who only talks pigeon Scottish sort of crossed with Irish with a little Aus / America idea of Scots speak.  - that comes out when he gets excited. They are followed by an Affable Luvly, Luvly, Big Irishman who I cannot fault for his nature; he is so amusing with his witty quips that equal those of the ALL AMERICAN HERO'S, Nam vet etc. Although the Luvly, Luvly Irishman's quips are delivered in an irritating accent that no genuine Irishman will recognise, because his part is also taken by an American actor. The Surly Posh Englishman and his motherfucker pals ambush Jock whilst he is busy tossing his caber...er... at the American Scottish games where the Scottish, cross Red Indian, cross Mongolian, cross Eskimo and just that little bit of English that they don't mention Americans walk proudly in their kilts-sublimely unaware that some of their tartans belong to those clans that left Jock Wallis on his own-. The surly posh Englishman and his asshole motherfucking mates get the wrath of any audience watching because Jock was tossing his caber for an orphan children's charity. When his bullet riddled body was delivered to L.A.P.D Precinct the ALL AMERICAN WITTY ONE MAN ARMY (NAM VET etc etc) swears vengeance in a cool sort of super American hero way. and takes his best friend the Luvly, Luvly, Cuddly Irish married father of fifteen and owner of a Luvly Cuddly Fun Loving Irish Wolfhound with him.
  In the resultant battle, the nasty Mexican Ass savages the luvly Irish Wolfhound before the American Super Duper Hero, etc, etc can get their to kick ass. And the Luvly Irishman who isn't as clever as the American Super Duper Nam Vet with too many accolades to keep mentioning gets sneaked up on by the Manic Mexican  with the twitchy eye. He is delivered to the Surly Posh Englishman and the Arrogant Blond German with the duelling scar. They take turns to torture him and all they can get out of him is "Begoragh" which is a word that isn't in the English or Irish dictionary so they don't know what he is talking about. When the Luvly, Luvly Irishman dies under interrogation the asshole motherfucking trio strap him onto the back of the smart ass Ass who he-haws at the Super Duper too good for words American hero when he drops him off at the L.A.P.D Precinct. Now the Super Duper ALL American, NAM Vet, Purple Heart, Not so witty now American Hero swears vengeance again and go's it alone. The Asshole trio (minus the laughing Jack Ass as he is not around because the dastardly donkey is back at the precinct having an assignation with a police horse; without the horse;'s consent.) Of course the Asshole trio are not a match for an enraged Big headed wisecracking super - duper All American Hero with a purple heart, a rocket launcher hand grenades, two revolvers, a big automatic weapon and a bad temper. They die a terrible death, that, the audience must agree was well deserved having made them cry when they tortured such a Luvly Adorable Gentle Giant of an Irishman to death.  The All American Super Duper Hero who has collected many more accolades through the course of the film (Too many to mention here)    strikes up a platonic friendship with the Luvly cuddly, take it on the chin, strong willed Irish widow and organises an Irish orphans charity dance at an American Irish rebel singing jig dancing shindig where they all practice their Irish accents so that the songs sound better.


www.theoldie.co.uk

Uncle Cyril's War A fictional story with fictional people.

  Uncle Cyril was accidentally mentioned in dispatches. He wasn't a very good soldier, as he couldn't even grasp how to use a compass.
 Nevertheless, he was mentioned for a heroic act.
 He was always in trouble during training and tried to hide his fear by joking and laughing about everything. The drill sergeant hated him, 'That mans a crackpot!' he yelled to the commanding officer in his drill sergeants voice   The C.O's ears were ringing; but he thought he had heard him correctly and wrote down on Uncle Cyril's record "This man  is a Crack Shot". so with those words on his record he was presented with a cross rifles insignia to wear on his battledress sleeve and they made him company sniper.  He was given a choice of weapon and went for a Bren gun just so that he never missed. Although his superiors wondered why he wanted to run around with a bloody great Bren gun they let him have his own way.  The fateful day came when 'A' company The Royal Pioneer Corps Were dug in on a mist shrouded hillside somewhere in a foreign country in the year 1944. They were under heavy bombardment; It was surreal, when a red hot bullet pierced the front of Uncle Cyril's helmet skidded along his centre parting and out through the back, there was a distinct odour of burnt skin and boiling brylcream...Uncle Cyril panicked and tried to run off...However, he got the compass reading wrong and ran towards -rather than away from- the enemy, screaming like a banshee with the devil on his heels. He tripped on a tree root and banged his Bren gun on the ground; the safety catch was not engaged so it went off and he killed 13 enemy soldiers, one monkey and three parrots. The company made use of the latter four, because they were bored with plain army rations...Well that is it really the last family hero... Private Cyril Pratt.
  My cousin Cedric -his son- was in a specialist army unit... but he didn't have such a distinguished career as his father, as they only specialised in making fancy cakes for the Officers Mess.

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