Thursday 17 November 2011
The Writer
'I'm a writer now!' yelled Douglas Patrickson, jumping excitedly out of bed one morning. But before he'd had a chance to knock out so much as a word or two, he developed a case of writer's block so severe that it killed him there and then. So that was the end of that.
Wednesday 16 November 2011
A Regrettable Thirst for Sandwiches
One gloomy afternoon, I found myself standing at the front window of the house eating a sandwich and waiting for my mother-in-law to bring the children home. I ate hurriedly and somewhat disgustingly, as I knew that I'd have to rush to the bin to dispose of my snack as soon as I saw them rounding the corner of the street. Any alternative course of action would have been inconceivable, as it wasn't an appropriate time of day to be eating a sandwich.
As it happened, I had ample time to finish the sandwich and, still feeling a little peckish, decided to risk making myself another one.
It later transpired that my mother-in-law had been held up in traffic on the walk home (she has always been a firm opponent of pavements), and during the three quarters of an hour she was delayed I managed to eat a total of seven sandwiches. I was preparing the eighth when I was overcome by a powerful nausea and had to run to the toilet to throw them all up.
And this, of course, was the very moment my mother-in-law and three children arrived home, finding me on the floor of the bathroom cradling the toilet bowl with sandwich vomit all around my mouth. This scene fully justified my mother-in-law's cliched prejudice against me and created for my children a lasting image which encapsulates the disappointment of having me as their father.
I learnt nothing, and still eat shitloads of sandwiches at the expense of my dignity.
As it happened, I had ample time to finish the sandwich and, still feeling a little peckish, decided to risk making myself another one.
It later transpired that my mother-in-law had been held up in traffic on the walk home (she has always been a firm opponent of pavements), and during the three quarters of an hour she was delayed I managed to eat a total of seven sandwiches. I was preparing the eighth when I was overcome by a powerful nausea and had to run to the toilet to throw them all up.
And this, of course, was the very moment my mother-in-law and three children arrived home, finding me on the floor of the bathroom cradling the toilet bowl with sandwich vomit all around my mouth. This scene fully justified my mother-in-law's cliched prejudice against me and created for my children a lasting image which encapsulates the disappointment of having me as their father.
I learnt nothing, and still eat shitloads of sandwiches at the expense of my dignity.
Two Men Talk On The Internet
"So who's a cunt?"
"I'll tell you who. That Archbishop Desmond Tutu. He's a right cunt."
"Well of course, that goes without saying. So who else is a cunt?"
"That the Dalai Lama. He's an awful cunt."
"He certainly is. So who else is a cunt?"
"I'll tell you who was a cunt. That Leonardo da Vinci. A terrible cunt."
"Without question. So who else is a cunt?"
"Robbie Williams."
"No, you're wrong there. He's fucking brilliant."
"I'll tell you who. That Archbishop Desmond Tutu. He's a right cunt."
"Well of course, that goes without saying. So who else is a cunt?"
"That the Dalai Lama. He's an awful cunt."
"He certainly is. So who else is a cunt?"
"I'll tell you who was a cunt. That Leonardo da Vinci. A terrible cunt."
"Without question. So who else is a cunt?"
"Robbie Williams."
"No, you're wrong there. He's fucking brilliant."
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