Barbed

The Dwyers

2010-10-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged about family history for a while - so I thought I'd rectify that tonight with a little entry on my Dwyer research.

One of the first rules of family history that you're always told when you're starting out is to 'speak to any living relatives about what you want to know of' as a starting point. When I started my research sadly my Dwyer grandparents had died and my Father was confused about any possible living relations and knew nothing about his background other than his name was 'Dwyer' and it was Irish in origin (great help!). He had told me though, that my Grandad Dwyer had said the family were originally from County Clare in Southern Ireland and came over during the late 1800s. But that was of little help when I knew nothing else. All I had to go off was that my Grandad Dwyer was called William James and his father was called William too.

Grandad Dwyer was born in Leigh, in 1912. He was (as I just mentioned) the son of William Dwyer and Sarah Jane Gillespie who were both the children of Irish immigrants to Wigan - both born in 1892. Grandad's father was a Coal Pit Sinker and helped to sink the mine shaft at Gin Pit Village in Astley. They had originally lived in Ince, Wigan - moved to Leigh so William could get work and then moved back in 1913. William took over the running of an Pub and Off License and Grandad Dwyer was brought up there. The Pub was situated near Wigan Coal and Iron Company's Forge. Thus they stayed open 24 hours to provide men who were working with somewhere to 'rehydrate' themselves after their shift - they could go and slake their thirst with a pint or two.

I knew very little about William Dwyer's family. However, I was lucky enough to discover we had a copy of his marriage certificate to Sarah Jane Gillespie. This would tell me who his father was - and lo and behold his father was William too. He was a furnaceman at the forge. So next I had to turn to the census to find out more.

I located a William Dwyer born in 1861 in Ireland with a wife Bridget (also born in Ireland) and children Bridget, Margaret, William, Owen and Catherine on the 1901 census in Ince, Wigan. So now I knew William had 4 other siblings and that his parents were from Ireland, but unhelpfully not whereabouts in Ireland. I went back a decade further to 1891 and again found the family in the same location in Ince, but again no location in Ireland given.

Again I went back to the family paper's to see if there were any more clues and managed to find my Great Grandfather's birth certificate. This gave me his mother's maiden name - so I now knew his mother was called Bridget Calland.

I took this information and decided to go and look on St Catherine's Index to try and find a marriage between a William Dwyer and a Bridget Calland sometime between 1880 and 1886 (their first child had been born that year). But no luck - so I tried all the surname variants I could think of. Still no luck. I had a friend who knew more about Family History than me to check - she couldn't find anything either. I started to wonder whether they'd maybe got married in Ireland rather than over here. But as I had no clue where in Ireland they were from, and such records are at best patchy online I left things alone.

In the meantime I concentrated on other parts of my family tree and getting it uploaded to one of the family history websites. A few weeks later I received a message from someone on the site saying they were a descendant of William's sister Bridget (he was her Grandson) and could we perhaps swap information. I knew very little - but what he told me opened up a new lot of research possibilities.

Apparently, he'd been told by his Grandmother that the family came from Kildare - a little village called Rathangan and that he'd been there to visit Dwyer relatives in the 1960s. He thought they lived near the Curragh but it was all a bit hazy and he wasn't too sure. I told him my Grandfather had said County Clare, but he said definitely not - it was Kildare.

I managed to find a website called IFHF which carries online BMD records for a lot of the counties in Ireland. Kildare records were patchy at best - and I really struggled to find anything. After exhaustively searching all Dwyer and Calland records I was about to give up. I decided once again to try the old trick of using surname variations - and to cut a very long story short found the marriage of William Dwyer and Bridget Callan in 1885 in the Parish of Allen, Kildare. Only it was recorded as William Wyer and Brigid Callan. Getting a copy of the certificate took a while as I sent off to the GRO in Ireland. But it eventually came and I found that William's father was called Owen and Bridget's father was called William. The marriage had taken place in 1885 and their first child was born over here in 1886 so they obviously wasted no time in a)procreating and b)moving.

So now I had the next generation of Dwyers going back. Only they didn't seem to be called Dwyer at all. William was called Wyer and even more confusingly his father was listed as Owen Wyse on the certifcate. Hopefully a transcribing error. One of the witnesses at the wedding was Patrick Wyer - probably William's brother, and indeed on searching FamilySearch.org was found to be the case. Patrick Dwyer, born 1864 son of Owen Wyer and Brigid Deegan. So not only had I found William's brother, but also the maiden name of his mother.

So now I had William Wyer born in 1861, Rathangan and Patrick Wyer born 1864 in the same place. But there must have been more children - so back to IFHF I went. I found 4 more. Catherine Wyer born 1856, Ellen Wyer born 1858, John Wyer born 1862 and James Wyer born 1866. All children of Owen and Bridget Wyer/Wyse/Dwyer/Weir/Wyre or whatever or however they felt like spelling their names at the time.

The family resided not in a place called Bostoncommon, I'm not sure whether that still is Rathangan or whether it's somwehere nearby but anyhow there you go. So I knew what had happened to William. But what happened to the other children?

Catherine and Patrick I haven't so far been able to trace - I'm wondering whether they may have died in infancy.

John Wyer married Elizabeth Cleary in 1884 and they lived with Elizabeth's mother in Bostoncommon, they had children, Lizzie and Willie.

James Wyer married Kate Morrisey in 1895 and they had one child Owen, before Kate died. James is shown on the 1901 and 1911 Irish census as widowed and living with his son.

Finally Ellen.

Ellen Wyer married Harry Wills in 1881 - at Newbridge Army Barracks. Harry was a Sergeant with the Royal Artillery. But I could find nothing of them on the Irish census. I wondered if they had maybe moved to England too (I was of course assuming they were both Irish...) and to my surprise found them in Smethwick in the West Midlands in 1891. Harry, it turned out was English. The family settled and stayed in that area for the rest of their lives. They had a number of children. Clement, Ellen, John Owen, Richard and Margaret.

John Owen joined the Rifle Brigade during World War One. He was killed in action in 1915 at the age of 24 and is buried at Ypres.

There is still a long way to go with my research. I want to try and get as far back as I can and find out about Owen Wyer - the father of William, Catherine, Ellen et al. But I think that is going to be tough going as I'd actually physically need to go to Ireland to research him. I'm looking at potentially going back to the 1830s at least.

But it's interesting how one small message on a family history site can lead to such discoveries. OK, so they're not earth shattering,but it's fun to find out about your roots and where you came from - though I'm still no nearer finding out whether I'm really a Dwyer or a Wyer or a Wyse or a Weir...

The Squiffy Letters

2010-10-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

During the period 1914-1950 Nancy 'Squiffy' Featherington-Gusset communicated via the medium of written letter to many people who eventually ended up influencing her own, prolific writing career. Indeed, some of the 756 books Nancy eventually wrote (under the pen-name Elizabeth Squint) are wholly based on these musings. Upon Nancy's death last year at the ripe old age of 112, her Great Grandson Hugo Trinking-Featherington-Gusset acquired these precious documents and spent the next six months collating them into several volumes of now publishable reading material - serialised here for the first time. Nancy's letters are at once, heartwarming, illuminating and humourous but still remain an important record of the morals and social mores of the early 20th Century.

September 1914 - shortly after the outbreak of World War 1. Nancy writes the first of her many letters to her childhood friend and companion Willoughby 'Chuffy' Brandon-Spinks - later immortalised as the womanising character William Brantub-Sphincter in Nancy's debut novel 'Fair Humours' published by Grenville-Woodhouse in 1932.

Dear Chuffy

I was most alarmed when mama informed me over the kedgeree at breakfast that you were being sent away to fight in this blessed war. You and I are the same age, we played pooh sticks on the moat in our back yard. To think that you are going to have wear khaki and submit to a man with a handlebar moustache is quite simply unthinkable and has quite frankly put me right off my second glass of Dubonnet (papa now allows me to have a small snifter at lunch - on the proviso I let him thoroughly thrash me at croquet). Dear heart, I find it unbearable to imagine you suffering away from home and with all those sweaty oiks from places like Wigan (I had to look it up on papa's atlas in the Drawing Room and indeed such a place exists...) and do hope that you manage to at least find a clean spot away from the Northern smuts in which to park your trunk. Mama seems to think that this whole nasty business will all be over by Christmas - so with any luck you shall be joining us around the hearthstone for a light sherry and toasted crumpets as you always do every year. I simply dread to think of it lasting longer - for we all have Ariadne Tempest's New Year Ball to attend on 31st December, so if this business isn't settled by then I shall jolly well have a new taffetta gown left over which by this time next year will be the old style.
Chuffy, is it dreadful out there? Pray tell me in the nicest possible way that it's horrid. My brother Percival sends his fondest regards to you - and wishes he was there, but as you know he is indisposed after a freak accident in our Groundsman's toolshed (Papa has since dismissed said Groundsman and had the toolshed burned) and is currently finding it hard to sit down without wincing. No doubt he shall be sent for, but we hope this to not be the case and that Dr Spinnot will write him a sick note.
Well, I must sign off for now - the bell has just tinkled for dinner, we are having devilled servants with creamed potatoes and I should hate to miss it. Write to me soon, dear fellow

Your beloved Squiffy
x

October 1914

Dear Squiffy

Many, varied and humble thanks for your missive dated September. I crave your pardon for leaving it so long to reply to you but things out here are rather slapdash to say the least. My writing supplies have dwindled and I am frantically scribbling this to you on the last of my regulation lavatory paper. But, fear not. I have chummed up as t'were with a young fellow from Belper called Smithers who has promised to go halves on his providing I share out my hamper of treats with him and the boys in the barracks. They're a lovely bunch I must say, and thoroughly accomodating of such a foolhardy primp as me. They've even included me in on their various sports at night - our current favourite game is called 'Scrum The Todger' and involves several lengths of twine, a yard brush and an enamel dish of mutton fat scrounged from the kitchens. Most fun.
I'm sorry to report to you that as things stand I gravely doubt I shall be home at Christmas for Crumpet and Sherry. Reports from the 'big guns' suggest that we are all in for a sustained sojourn here. But, no matter - as things stand it's not too bad (loo paper aside) we're comfortable, in clean beds and the khaki isn't so bad you know - not saying it doesn't entirely clash with my eyes, but such trifles need to be dealt with in such hostile times.
Bid your mama and papa (and Percival) good day from me. I do hope Percival isn't chafing too much from the toolshed incident. Something similar happened to me with our Groundsman - Watters, some three summers ago. Father simply brushed it aside (but Watters was severely reprimanded for his lacklustre ways) though I was banned from Rugger practice for several weeks.
I should sign off for now, dear girl. I hope you're not too sore disappointed about the dress - these things cannot be helped, if needs must and times are tight, cut it for pan scrubs.

Pip pip
Your dearest Chuffy

November 1914

Dear Petronella

My dear girl, I have just heard you have been sent home from Uffingham in disgrace - Debo wrote to Emily, who wrote to Eleanor who wrote to Anna and Mary who passed the news to me via a series of pips through the partition wall in my dorm at Elsingham. I know not why this has happened though, as before Anna and Mary could pip further, Matron burst into the room demanding silence on pain of death. I tried to gen up at breakfast but I was on second sitting and therefore missed out on the news. Petronells, it is simply dreadful here - the porridge is prepared 3 days in advance, I haven't seen any fresh bread since Bonfire Night and I suspect the roast beef we've been eating is actually from some other beast (possibly the school pony, who mysteriously disappeared last week). Mama and Papa are still on board the Megantic and en route from Canada so I cannot contact them but I would simply give my right thigh for an eccles cake. I do miss them so. Percival is still at home pleading merry cricket over his injuries - but he can't be trusted to butter a vienesse roll, never mind pack up an eccles cake so I cannot ask him. Do you think you could be a dear and send me some - now you're back in the bosom of your family you should have more time to think of your friends...

God bless you
Squiffy
x

November 1914

Dear Squiffy

It's been a most frightful few days since landing back home. Ma and Pa have been in a most monstrous mood with me and have locked me in my room with only that irritating old wretch of a Maid, Elsie for company. She is to supervise me at all times - I can't even visit the bogotry without her lurking in the environs. I am on a strict bread, water and venison pasty diet and in no way allowed any sweet treats or somesuch. Quite frankly I too, could kill for an eccles cake but no such luck unless Pa relents and lets me out into the gardens for a stroll and I can sneak off to the bakers.
All this just because I dared to jam a dead frog in the divided skirts of our Latin Mistress Miss Featherstonehaulgh. How was I to know she'd faint and knock out the first row of scholars from form 2M? The cottage hospital was apparently inundated with patients seeking concussion treatment and milk of magnesia for 'gusset rub'
If you see or hear from Debo, please can you tell her to try and put a word in with the Headmistress for me? I am going, quite frankly, barmy here and cannot wait to get back to the relative sanity of my dorm. I know I share it with two of the worst snorers in history (Whiffo and Gertie) and across the way Mildred and Lilian keep everyone awake with their endless sleep singing and midnight feasts (on my last night they amassed quite a collection of sugar mice and liquorice bootlaces in their petticoats and made sure my send off was a good one...) but anything is preferable to having Elsie tutting over me and telling me what a wasitrel I am.
I am sorry about the eccles cakes - but hopefully I'll be free to come to Ariadne's somewhat scaled down Ball this new year. I believe she's making everyone dress in Khaki and splash their shoes in trench mud (her brother Phillip sent some home in a jam jar) so they they can recreate what 'our lads' are out there experiencing right now.
Write back soon,

Much love
Petronella

BBC Autumn Season Preview

2010-09-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Autumn. The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness - something the British Broadcasting Corporation are taking to heart for the 2010 schedules. We are proud to present and unveil our comprehensive programming list and are sure that you and your family will find something to warm the cockles of your cockles this year whether it be current affairs, comedy, drama, entertainment, news, soaps.

Current Affairs

2009 saw News 24 our digital rolling news channel go from strength to strength. We increased our viewership by one and as a result of this momentous happening are proud to reveal increased funding for the channel which will let us bring you more pointless and empty debate on meaningless stories that haven't happened yet.

BBC news are also excited to introduce to you our newest team member. Broadcaster and journalist Richard Littlejohn joins out news team - showing us that there are, indeed, many ways to polish a turd.

Content across our mainstream channels will remain the same - apart from the 1, 6 and 10 O'Clock News slot being reduced from half an hour to 7 and a quarter minutes, this means we can bring you a faster paced, excitement driven angle on all the latest wrold happenings.

Comedy

The BBC firmly believes that comedy has a natural home here. Across our 4 channels (5 if you count News 24 when that fella who won Stricly Dance Coming is on...) we are committed to bring you the latest sitcoms as well as some brilliantly derivative panel games and some old favourites too.

Our Autumn schedule on BBC1 features a reprieve for the much loved and never worsened Last Of The Summer Wine - writer Roy Clarke agreed to come and write another 30 episode series for us featuring all your well loved favourites and some hilarious new storylines. In a radical new twist it is discovered that Norman Clegg has indeed been running an illegal crack den from his little Yorskhire stone terrace all these years and that the entire cast have been tripping their tits off the whole time. Howard and Marina finally get past first base and Ivy's Cafe gets a radical make-over to become Ivy's Bordello and Bun Shop.

We'll be bringing you an exciting new comedy panel game show this season - entitled Would I Buzzcocks Over The Week For You? Presented by Rob Brydon and with regular panel members Russell Howard, Phill Jupitus and Lee Mack it casts a wry eye over the week's current affairs, pop music and fart gags. Sure to be a big hit with boorish thirtysomething males who won't laugh at anything the token female panel member of the week says.

A bold new sitcom comes to BBC4. Gravediggers written by and starring Tim Key as a know it who doesn't poet forced to take a job in the local cemetery gravedigging when his writing career fails to take off. 6 half hour episodes also star a load of other jobbing actors who really want to be in My Family and Jessie Wallace.

Drama

It's going to be a big season in terms of Drama here at the BBC. We've got a wonderful line up of old and new sure to delight.

Casualty still reigns supreme - now entering it's 143rd year. Stalwart Charlie Fairhead heads up the cast yet again, and yet again has no storylines to get his teeth into. He'll just moon around talking in a low voice and looking into middle distance while a team of scatty Doctors and Nurses shag each other and let patients die.

A bold new Police drama starts too. Expect fireworks in Sergeant Clunge - a new 4 part series starring Martin Shaw as a tough talking copper crimefighting in the Cotswolds. The series charts Clunge's arrival and messy personal life as he comes to terms with starting afresh in a sleepy village where the locals are all stuck up and he can't get into the posh totty's knickers. Also in the cast are Barbara Windsor as Clunge's mouthy wife Betty and Ross Kemp as their son Nigel.

We have an exciting new costume drama season beginning - with Andrew Davies' bold new adaptation of the little known Dicken's classic Mr Widgygog starring Michael Gambon as the eponymous hero Ezekiel Widgygog and his troubled menagerie. A stellar cast including Penelope Wilton as his wife Betsy Widgygog and Martin Shaw as his brother Zaccheus. The story revolves around Widgygog's disenchantment with his life running Widgygog's Apothecary and Jam Shop, when a young rapscallion by the name of Tobias Tiddlypop steals a pennorth o'laudanum from his counter top one morning - instead of punishing the young ne'er do well Widgygog takes him under his wing and shows him the gentle art of poisoning the Victorian upper classes. My Widgygog is in 97 half hour episodes starting September 65th.

Entertainment

The entertainment roster is packed to the rafters this season - Tonight's The Night is back for a new run with the irrepresible John Barrowman hosting. Expect tears and laughter aplenty as he surprises the mentally ill and lets them be a star for a few vomit inducing minutes.

Total Wipeout also returns. But, well. Meh.

An exciting new entertainment show heads to BBC1 in the shape of The Pyramid. Presented by Richard Hammond playing a scruffbag - each week two teams of four contestants battle it out to scale a pyramid made of empty toblerone packets and claim a prize fund of £1,000 whilst answering questions on a number of general knowledge topics. The task is made all the sterner when at every turn the teams will be pelted with various noxious substances including Jeremy Clarkson's urine. Martin Shaw's brylcreem and John Barrowman's knacker sweat.

Soaps

Eastenders is going to have a stellar year and no mistaking. Following the departure of Peggy Mitchell the Vic will be under new management (contrary to what the paper's say Kat and Alfe are actually going to be taken on by Mr Popadopalous to iron Dot's bloomers in the launderette) - and the new Landlord is revealed after weeks of furious bidding as one Frankie 'The Fist' McFarland played by Martin Shaw - he brings with him his brood - wife Marge played by Helen Mirren and children Bobby and Kazza played by two precocious bastards from the Sylvia Young theatre school. Their move is anything but smooth after much resistance from the locals - but they soon lay down the law and Frankie's fist finds its way into a few fizzoggs. Expect fireworks. Elsewhere Phil Mitchell is completely cured of his crack addiction, takes up macrame - and tries to make amends for his past misdemeanours by knitting a new Youth Centre for the kids to firebomb.

ITV Autumn Season Preview

2010-09-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

It's going to be an exciting and challenging Autumn 2010 here at ITV - across our four channels we're going to be bringing you the finest in comedy, soaps, drama, entertainment and gameshows not to mention first class journalism and current affairs. Here's a little preview of what to expect from us - ITV - The Brighter Side.

Comedy

ITV1 are proud to be bringing you some top flight comedy this season - and heading it all up is one of our most beloved entertainers, Christopher Biggins in his first starring role for a number of years. He's heading up the cast of brand new sitcom 'Birdcage' in which he plays ex-con and womaniser Charlie Bird, who leaves behind his long suffering partner Ba and his dull day job at the Chicken Factory and trains to be a Cage Fighter. This six parter - written by Si Nobb also stars Dame Maggie Smith as Ba and Stephen Berkoff as Charlie's trainer Tank. 'Birdcage' also marks the acting debut of Alex Reid, Katie Price's beloved spouse who will play drastically against type as a Cage Fighter with a gormless expression on his face and all the allure of a Mr Potato Head action figure.

Also on the comedy roster this year we're bringing back a much loved 70s institution 'The Comedians' updated and refreshed for the new season. Expect hilarious and cutting edge routines from superb comics such as the late Lennie Bennett, Peter Andre, Adrian Chiles and Christine Bleakley and Gavin from Autoglass. The series will be compered by Alastair Stewart.

Continuing Drama

It's our commitment to bring you the best in Continuing Drama (Soaps) throughout the next twelve months and our remit is to make sure that both Emmerdale and Coronation Street are on on an almost continuous loop every single night on ITV.

Emmerdale is certainly shaking off it's reputation as being a 'boring programme about farming' with some hotter than hot storylines approaching. It's no secret than no less than 35 of the current cast members are being killed off in a massive storyline in December when a Meteorite hits The Woolpack on Christmas Eve just as Diane is serving the Blue Bols after Midnight Mass. It's being kept under wraps exactly who is going - but expect drama aplenty and that life in Emmerdale village will never be the same again.
Coronation Street is in similarly dramatic mode this season. It's no secret that it's Corrie's 50th Birthday this year - but the main storyline (not the crappy Tram derailment one) has been kept secret until now. We can exclusively reveal that it will involve Ken Barlow's struggle to come to terms with the fact that he has been living in the body of a woman for the last 50 years, and his ultimate salvation on New Years Eve when for the first time he pops on a pair of stilettos and an A line skirt before nipping to The Rovers for a swift half as Kathleen Barlow the woman he has so longed to be for all those years. Will his relationship to Dreary Diedre survive this latest cataclysmic bombshell - or whill she simply just throw herself and her knickers at any passing man that so much as breathes in her direction?

Drama

ITV strives to produce the best in Drama always - and we're committed to delivering exciting new series and one off productions that will delight and thrill you all. This year is no exception and we're starting on a high note with a brand new Police drama sure to grab your hearts and minds.
In a bold new series 'Felch' Shane Richie stars as DCI John 'Frenchie' Felch a maverick cop from the school of hard knocks - who is uncompromising in his attitude to work. He brings with him the baggage of a complicated private life - a stubborn ex wife (played by Dame Maggie Smith) who refuses to leave him alone and a mistress (played by Una Stubbs) who wants him to commit to her, add into the mix his two children Lizzie and Alfie Felch - played by Katie Price and Alex Reid, making their prime time Drama acting debuts and it's a recipe for a superbly gripping story. The 6 episode series charts Felch's investigations into various grisly murders that all take place on his patch. Will he be able to solve the cases or will he get garotted by the murderer (each week played by that fellow who always plays creepy pervs in these things - you know the one we mean, he's thin with dark hair and stary eyes...)

Also this year we'll be bringing you a brand new Police drama 'Community Cops' a partly improvised, mostly rubbish series which will replace The Bill unsuccessfully. Community Cops will centre around the team of Community Police Officers in the fictional town of Bun Hill. Christopher Biggins and Martin Kemp head up the cast as CPOs Bob Toms and Tom Bobs - men with a tough stance on crime, but true hearts. They are supported by a team of officers who not only have true hearts and a tough stance on crime, but true hearts and a cough tance on srimes. Completing the cast are Dame Maggie Smith as WPC Barbara Shirley and Una Stubbs as WPC Shirley Barbara.

Finally in our Drama Unit we'll be bringing you a lavish new costume drama serial sure to brighten up your Sunday evening viewing. Written by seasoned period writer Persephone Jammington-JammySod 'Beauclerc Court' charts the fortunes of Sir Lackland Beauclerc and his wife Lady Edith from their arrival at Beauclerc Court in the heart of London in 1765 and the trials and tribulations of their life together contrasted with the fortunes of their 'down below staff'. Featuring an all-star cast it stars Ken Stott as the complex southern landowner Lackland Beauclerc and Dame Maggie Smith as his wife Lady Edith. It also features Chrisopher Biggins as their manservant George Darnley and Una Stubbs as his wife Mary. Running for 75 weeks, Beauclerc Court is sure to find a place in your hearts.

Entertainment and Game Shows

The finest nailbiting entertainment and gameshows are sure to be found on ITV this season.

We introduce to you 'The Maximiser' presented by Shane Richie and Christopher Biggins - a thrilling and amazing game show in which contestants must battle against the clock to maximise their potential prize money, while all the time answering general knowledge questions on a chosen specialised subject and not losing the lifelines they have been given. All this takes place inside a perspex cube which - as the clock ticks down - is filled with quick drying cement. Will the contestants get out before they are sent to their concrete-y grave?

In a bold new series we send Peter Andre to interview stars on lovely surroundings who have had a profound influence on his life in a series imaginatively titles 'Andre Asks'. Subjects for the series are Shane Richie, Martin Kemp, Dame Maggie Smith and Christopher Biggins.

Finally, we attempt to plug the hole left by the departure of The X Factor by filling it with something that is exactly the same. A shitty talent show that enables Simon Cowell to laugh all the way to the bank whilst mocking the mentally ill.

Current Affairs

ITV are more than ever committed to bringing you the most up to date news and current affairs possible on a daily basis. With this in mind we are increasing our remit to do just that by commissioning a brand new hard hitting consumer journalism series called 'DogWatch' in which every week Katie Price and Alex Reid investigate the matters that matter to the mattering consumer. Each week viewers will be asked to e-mail in a long moaning story about how their kettle spat boiling water over them or how their deep fat fryer flicked boiling oil over their Birkenstocks and Katie Price will sort it out for them. To add a new dimension to this format - all this will be done while Katie is filmed at her home in a selection of velour lounge suits while she ignores her children and scolds her potato faced husband.

In a brand new series of hard hitting political interviews 'HardLine' - we send Christopher Biggins to interrogate the political leaders of this country on their portfolios and manifestos, their ideas for helping to keep Britain great and whether or not they like Brussel Sprouts.

ITV - THE BRIGHTER SIDE.

Slapper Magazine - Your BEST EVER Sex Tips

2010-09-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Words: Felicity Gusset
Pictures: Man with a stiffy

We here at Slapper Magazine always want to provide you, our readers, with the latest and greatest ideas for spicing up your love life and keeping your significant other/partner du jour interested in you. We believe that relationships are worth investing in (or if you read my last piece, not worth investing in - but I had a deadline and 1,000 words to write - so I made a load of crud up)and that you all deserve the best in relationship advice, so with that in mind we are proud to unveil our BEST EVER Sex Tips Guide - sure to give both you and your significant other/partner du jour the time of your life. We surveyed well over 3 people (and the man who came to unblock the third floor loo on Tuesday week) in order to compile this list - so we hope you enjoy it.

1. Be Clean!

There is no point putting all the effort into being sexual and doing naughties with your beau if your daintiness of self is sadly lacking. It's no good turning your pants inside out 'so they'll do another day' or spraying your tights with deodorant to give them that 'washing line fresh' smell even when they aren't, you need to make sure that those bikini spiders are whisked away at every available opportunity and your pubic topiary arrangements are kept on top of. Your frou-frou is a sacred thing, it needs sacred attention - not just a wipe over with a damp flannel. We suggest you use a special made for purpose ladygarden cleanser like 'Clunge!' by Johnson & Johnson (99p for 250mls) that will ensure you're sparkly pine fresh at all times. It's added bonus is that it's suitable for both sexes, so why not suggest you rub your other half down with it while you're doing your own - surely a perfect prelude to bedroom hijinks?

2. Be Protected!

OK, OK, we know this is boring - but we can't do an item on sex tips without mentioning the need to be togged up at all times. This is especially important if you are one of our more forward thinking, 21st Century Girls (a real slapper in every sense of the word) who likes to engage in jiggy-jigs with more than one partner. There's no point inviting mi-laddo to point Percy at the Pagoda if you're not entirely sure where Percy's been before (or indeed if the Pagoda needs a good fumigating) so please make sure you have the right protection to hand. If you haven't, and you really really can't stop yourself from 'having it off' then you can rig your own up by saving the cling-wrap from your lunchtime sandwiches and double wrapping it round his 'you-know-what', obviously taking care to remove any crumbs and stray bits of cheese.

3. Be Adventurous!

Sometimes you need to do something a bit out of the ordinary - a little unexpected to keep the home fires burning. It's nice to have mashed potato for your tea, but not every night. Sometimes you might want pasta. Or a boiled egg. Have these things. In fact, go one step further and incorporate them into your sex play. Although make sure the eggs aren't scrambled. Hardboiled is always best. Take things out of the bedroom and into other, more inventive areas. One person we surveyed suggested trying the Utility Room, or indeed the Cubbyhole neath the stairs. These are all valid suggestions - though make sure you've move the ironing board first. There are many ways to spice things up. A curry first, perhaps? Or you could even try DURING the curry - though be prepared for some funny looks during the peshwari naan.

4. Be Bold!

The results of our survey reveal that men simply love being surprised unexpectedly. This is quite surprising given that we only surveyed one man. Give your man a treat by jamming your finger up his bumhole in public - it will drive him wild. It's daring acts like this that can really give added interest and meaning to your relationship however old or new it is. Guaranteed to raise a smile - or at least an eyebrow.

5. Be Creative!

Women love the written word. It's a known fact. We are stimulated more by an erotic story or image than we are by any amount of literal actual sex with any man. Why bother engaging yourself in a meaningful relationship when you can sit at home and pause/rewind Colin Firth coming out of 'that lake' in 'those breeches' again and again and again. Charm your other half therefore by being creative and wearing Jane Austen style frock and your hair in ringlets - or getting your man to put on a pair of leather riding boots in an attempt to create an historical feel to the proceedings. Never be afraid to experiment with history. Unless of course, your partner is into Weapons and Warfare. Under no circumstances try and introduce mustard gas or an unexploded hand grenade into your love life - unless you know the number of the nearest fracture clinic.

6. Be happy!

Paint that smile on! Even if you don't feel like it! It's amazing what forcing a grin on your face, gritting your teeth and just getting on with it does for your love life. Smile! Even though you're lying there like a stunned hyena. It will make him love you more and you feel like you're doing a good turn for humankind. And if you do that for him, it might make him keener to wash your car for you when you ask. Or finally get that ring on your finger - just to please your parents!

7. Be aware!

Just like us (though obviously not in anyway as seriously or inportantly) men have hormonal ebbs and flows which need to be factored into lovemaking. Beer and crisps are the best medicine for this. In fact, why not kill two birds with one stone and incorporate these two comestibles into the act itself. You could try licking beer out of the cleft of his left buttock - and keep a packet of Smoky Bacon secreted about your personage for a mid bonk snackette.

and finally...

8. Be yourself...

Your partner is with you because of you. He might still fantasise about Julie Goodyear. But it's you he's with. Never forget this, even when he's forgotten your orgasm for the umpteenth time and got up immediately after the act, farted and jumped in the shower. It's these little things that mean he's really into you and not at all preoccupied with other things or bored in any way. Keep on being you. Carry on picking your corns in bed, wiping you lippy off on the pillows and bleaching your moustache in his presence. It's these comforting little things that keep you together and assure that he will not run off with your best friend ever.

Slapper Magazine - Sex and the 21st Century Girl

2010-09-18T09:19:00.000-07:00

Words: Felicity Gusset
Pictures: Man with an enormous stiffy

The other night, me and my girlfriends Araminta, Stink and Fiddle were having Tapas at Greasy Joe's when we got onto (as we ALWAYS do)the issue of sexual pentecost. That is, the act of carnival lustification with the opposite males. As ever it's a contentious issue with many disparate views. Stink and Fiddle are the two of our team who are in long term relationships - whilst Araminta and myself are both single (Araminta and I have both been single since we started work at Slapper magazine, coinkydinky surely?). Stink's partner Mephistopheles works as an Investment Banker for KFC and Fiddle's other half Inigo is a dot.com millionaire and owner of the website PimpMyPimple.co.uk.

Both Araminta and I have been out on the razz as t'were a lot during the course of our jobs. We very often are to be seen trying out the latest dating crazes and reporting on them. Just last week we were sent undercover to investigate the latest speed dating craze sweeping the country - participants are blindfolded and gagged and driven 300 miles down the M6 to be dumped by the sliproad at Junction 32 (Garstang) and left to fend for themselves and get back to London whilst getting to know each other in random three minute bursts.

Stink and Fiddle are perpetually highly amused at our high jinks and always keen to take the mickey (gently of course) out of us. Just as we are to them, when they are seen spending their weekends stripping the lino off their kitchen floors and arguing about whose turn it is to scrape the cheese off the grill pan. Araminta once remarked that if they were using Italian Buffalo Mozerrella then it should neither burn nor stick in the first place and I tend to agree.

The vexed issue of sex is something that troubles us all, whether single, attached or limpet. If you're single, how do you attract and keep a man with sexual allure? If you're attached, how do you keep the spark alive without resorting to covering each other in Big Top and licking it off?

Araminta's last partner Francois left her after a row about J Cloths. The relationship had been breaking down for sometime but that was the last straw. She was perpetually fed up with him coming to bed wearing woolly socks and a Dr Who t-shirt, whilst he said he could no longer stand her five hour beauty routine every night before she would even get under the duvet. Sex for them had become very routine - a simple case of a quick twiddle upstairs, a dip in and out down below and lights off.

In my last relationship with a hockey instructor called Devon the sex started out all guns blazing but petered out after a weekend away at Devon's parent's house when we were forced to sleep under his old Superted Duvet set in his only recently vacated bedroom. Somehow the sight of a superhero stuffed toy failed to set my knickers wagging, and I terminated proceedings shortly after.

For Stink and Fiddle things are quite different. Long term partnerings seems to suit the both of them. Stink reports that since she has been in a stable relationship her ability to eat Doritos 'till her stretch pants burst' and still feel in the mood despite cheesy orange fingers is a sign that she is settled and happy. Whereas for Fiddle it's a simple case of knowing she can get away with only shaving the fronts of her legs and not having her partner mind that keeps her going. Sex for both of them is a settled, happy event - usually taking place on Sunday evening after Roast Beef and the Antique Roadshow but before Inspector George Gently.

Araminta and I both agree that this is dull in the extreme. For us, the more unplanned and extreme the better. Araminta once did it on the Giant's Causeway on a Finn McCoull tea-towel and I was taken from behind on the log flume at Chessington World of Adventures - both experiences we thoroughly enjoyed - and not an 18th Century Chamber Pot in sight.

So why do we differ so much? Why is the comfort of a big meaty dinner and some tepid pork afterwards so off putting to us - while the idea of a cheap thrill and a hotdog so delightful?

The simple answer is that we just don't know. By the time we'd got round to trying to find an answer we'd consumed four bottles of Lambrini, Araminta had hitched her skirt up and shown everyone her birthmark (in the shape of Stevie Wonder) and Stink had nodded off in a cheap alcoholic fug on the table. Which just leaves it to me to ponder the question over the next two paragraphs.

What us singletons tend to forget is that being in a relationship IS exciting at first. It's only after the initial few months that it becomes boring, stale and not worth the beermats. Whereas what attached people forget is the excitement of sex in new places (spaghetti junction).

So what CAN we do about this age old phenomena? (I wondered, padding madly). Is it really that a single life is for some, and a life filled with garden centres and teacakes is for others? I have no answers.

However, next week I have a date with Jez. An IT consultant from Milford Haven. We met in Snappy Snaps the night George Michael rammed it with his Range Rover and swapped numbers. Initial texts between us have been positive and a meet up has been arranged. I'm hoping it might be the start of my Antiques Roadshow epiphany. Araminta is hoping it isn't as she doesn't want to be left on the shelf. She's coming with me, but is going to sit two tables away and flick the interior of bread rolls at me all night. Then after we'll debrief over Machelachechoccylattefrappes at Costa. And I'll fill another empty column with meaningless blether.

A Victorian Love Story - Part Eight

2010-09-12T09:18:00.000-07:00

Mary Anne Crookback wended her way up the stairs to his Lordship's Writing Room. Hopefully he would be nice and hungry after a heady day's writing on his epic tome 'A History of Flatulence'. He had been writing the confounded thing when she'd arrived here age 12 to begin her service. She was now 18 and he was no further on with the blessed nuisance. He'd travelled the length and breadth of the country via Horse and Carriage in an effort to discover regional variations in wind but had always come back peturbed and fretful. It seemed the good people of Britain did not take kindly to having their bowels probed by this curmudgeonly old duffer in a waistcoat.

She stopped briefly outside the door before she knocked and waited to be beckoned inside to serve his Lordship. She knocked. There was no reply. She knocked again but this time listened at the door. She was sure she could hear faint murmurs and groaning coming from within. She put the tray down on the floor, gently pushed the door ajar and looked within.

'Oh - saints preserve us all!' she exclaimed and ran away hurriedly.

****

Cook Martha and Lady Shazza were following a similar path to that of young Mary Anne, and headed up the stairs to his Lordship's Writing Room. Lady Shazza was also heartily sick of his Lordship's weighty book. She wished she could clout him round the kopf with it. But it had been his life's work since he partially retired from t'Mill and it kept him out of the way. She so wished he could have written about flowers, plants or ickle haminals though and not bottom matters. She would be the laughing stock of the Courtly Women's Guild when the book finally saw the light of day - though she cared not for the trappings of the society.

Cook was similarly musing on what had happened previous in Lady Shazza'a Reading Room. What on earth had young Jem Milner been doing behind her Ladyship's Curtains? Surely, surely they hadn't been about to 'Get Yon On' - not whilst Lady Shazza was still a married woman? Jem was headstrong and could be petulant and flighty - but he was no Court Wrecker. Lady Shazza, although prone to bouts of romaticism was far too sensible to let her heart rule her head - or was she? Matters spoke to Cook differently. She felt for Lady Shazza - betrothed to an old man while herself a young dolt. Jem had similarly had little luck in the romantical department, never seeming to find the right blossom to cultivate. They were of the same age, though from completely different backgrounds - Jem being the son of the trouble making Mill worker Isiah Milner - Chief upriser when the Cotton Spinners revolted and locked his Lordship in the Mill (remember - from chapter something or other - the dinner party one, Jeez - I can't remember...). His Lordship had not forgiven his father, but had seen something in Jem and continued to employ him despite the fracas.

There were obviously a lot of stairs at Curtmantle Court - which lent itself to this much pontificating.

Lady Shazza and Cook turned the corner and looked on horrified - to discover his Lordship's tea tray on the floor and his door wide open.

Cook led the way, gently peering round the corner of the door.

'Oh. Saints preserve us!' she exclaimed, in a similar way to Mary Anne Crookback. 'My lady, send for a Vetinary Surgeon. And bring some string with you whence you return...'

****

Curtmantle Court was in a sombre mood. Jem was still indisposed after his dose of Kipper Bloat. The garden had gone to rack and ruin without his tender loving care. Mary Anne Crookback was still missing, no-one had seen her since she dropped the tea tray on the floor outside the Writing Room some four days ago. Lady Shazza had taken to her own bed with a fit of the vapours. Cook had been drafted in to waft her continually up the cleavage with back issues of 'Court and Courtiers' magazine.

His Lordship was hovering somewhere between life and death. Telford.

No-one knew if he would recover. The Vetinary surgeon hadn't been able to help remove the cow's head from his Lordship's posterior and they were no nearer finding how in the name of figgy heck it had got there in the first place.

Thus the days were passing in a maelstrom of tedium, broth and wafting.

****

On the fifth day, Jem rose from his sick bed and felt well enough to peruse the lawns. Cook brought him some restoring broth which he felt much better for - and by tea time he was able to partake of a little light weeding.

'How ist mi'lady?' he nervously enquired to Cook over tea

'Bearing up considering - she won't touch a morsel of unchecked food though, for fear of Kipper Bloat. I have to taste everything first before she will even administer it to her own mouth' said Cook, wearily.

'What of his Lordship?'

'Still hovering round Telford...'

'Will he live to write another chapter of his book?'

'I do not know Master Jem. I do not know...and we're a kitchen hand down since Mary Anne 'did one' I believe is the parley...'

'I wonder where she went?'

'I don't know Jem, but sometimes it's best not to know...' said Cook, realising the writer had absolutely no idea what to do with Mary Anne's character.

They were interrupted by a lissome white figure entering the Kitchen, It was her Ladyship, up and about finally for the first time in days. Cook noticed the look that passed between the two, a nervous yet excitedly moist look of desire. She wondered how long it would be before these two people could hide their passion no longer...

TBC

A Victorian Love Story - Part Seven

2010-09-09T09:20:00.000-07:00

The door to the Reading Room was being assaulted by the hand of someone. Lady Shazza took a deep breath and from within opened it.

'Jem!' she exclaimed 'Please do come in...'

Jem took off his cap, placing it gingergly over his chest lest Lady Shazza should feel how fast his heart was beating

'Mi'lady'

'Please, Jem - it's Shazza. Not Lady Shazza. I care not for the trappings of money and titles. Would that you would call me by my name and no other esteemed patronage'

'As you wish, Ma'a...Shazza'

'Crusty Almond Finger?' Shazza said

'No, I'm just nervous...' said Jem hastily looking at his flies - not realising Shazza was before him proffering a plate of sweet treats 'Oh, I see..no thank you'

'But you will take a sweet sherry?'

'Aye, 'appen ah will...' he said taking the delicate glass and sipping from it. The sweet nectary liquid stinging his throat.

'Well, this is cordial...' said Shazza sitting down and offering Jem a seat

'I thought it wa' Sherry...?'

'No, I mean this is nice - we're having a nice time...'

'Oh yes. Yes we are.' He shifted nervously in the pristine chair

'The garden seems to be fairing well at the moment, I've never seen such big blooms on the roses...'

'Indeed. I've been using a new fertilizer this year and it seems to be doing t'trick. It's really brought them on...'

'You have the magic touch, Jem.'

Just then there was another frantic knock at the door - Jem and Lady Shazza looked at each other nervously.

'Blood and stomach pills - who on earth?' said Shazza 'Quick, you'll have to hide...'

'Where?' he said panicking

'Oh...oh...behind the curtain at the window...'

The knocking grew more frantic

Smoothing her hair down and fanning her face, Lady Shazza checked Jem was safely hidden before opening the door

'Cook Martha? Whatever is afoot?'

'Ma'am I must speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency, if I may?'

'Of course, Cook - come in my dear - what is troubling you?'

Lady Shazza shut the door and proffered Cook a seat, she took it gladly, her legs did verily feel shaky with the news she was about to impart.

'Cook, you seem most peturbed - can I offer you a glass of something to steady you?'

'I had better not Ma'am - I am on celery duty in the morning and need to keep a clear head..'

'Tell me what is wrong...'

'Ma'am - I made a most frightful discovery while I was mincing your aubergines this very morning. I feel I must speak out most heartily'

'Indeed, please do so'

'I think I have discovered what is at the root of your husband's current malady, mi'lady. I found that our servant girl Mary Anne Crookback had in her over satchel a bottle containing a fishy irritant, desgined for the poisoning of Lordships thereof...'

'Cook, I am most stunned.'

'I believe, though cannot be certain that it was her that introduced the dose of Kipper Bloat to his Lordship these past few days and thought it only fair to tell you of this before any more harm was done...'

Lady Shazza said nought, her countenance became pale and drawn. Surely not one of her own trusted staff could have done something so heartless as to try to attempt the life of her goodly (if horrible) husband?

'Did you take the bottle from the posession of Miss Crookback?'

'I did not, Ma'am, I put it back lest she discovered and took it out on me...did I do wrong?'

'Where is she now? Not in the kitchen? She must be prevented from handling our food lest we all get fishy bloat...'

'Oh my lordy loo loo - I left her by the pig bin scraping the carrots.'

They made haste for the door - but before they could leave there was a sickening thud by the window. A mans legs slumped forward through the curtains and a pair of perfectly clean hob nail boots poked through. Cook looked on aghast and Lady Shazza shifted nervously in her crinoline.

'Why those look like the boots of our very own Jem Milner...' said Cook 'Whatever is he doing by your bay window with a curtain wrapped round him, Ma'am?'

'Oh. Cook...I...' Lady Shazza knew not how to answer. She repaired to the window to see Jem, face flushed in a clean faint

'Why he's out cold...' said Cook, she sniffed the air. 'Ma'am, can you smell that?' she leant forward further still 'Ma'am sniff his jerkin. I do believe we have another case of fishy bloat on our hands...'

Lady Shazza did as she was bidded and sniffed Jem's jerkin. 'Cook, I do believe you're right. Prop him up by the bookcase and I shall ring for assistance...

****

Down in the kitchen Mary Anne Crookback was engaged in scraping carrots by the pig bin as instructed by Cook just an hour or two earlier. There were bajillions of them and she was quite quite bored with it all. She already memorised the ingredients on the Gravy Browning bottle and taken apart and reassembled the broiler on the Range. She yawned with indifference. She'd need to get started on chopping and boiling these orangey little blighters soon in order to have them ready for tomorrow night's dinner, Mrs Beeton instructed no less than 24 hours hard simmering in salted water to make sure they were completely inedible.
She thought about the bottle of Crippen's Patented Arsenic Squash in her satchel. She'd really only meant to put a tiny dash in his Lordship's tea and not the capful he eventually ingested, but the hoary old carbuncle had been sturdier than she imagined and seemed to have withstood the effects quite well. Certainly there had been no ill reports coming from the direction of Jem Milner's shed yet either - and he had had a similar dose poured onto his slice of madeira cake earlier on. Maybe it was a duff batch - she would have to go and have a stern word with her dealer Ezekiel Widgygog. She would have one more try with his Lordship. He after all did verily deserve it after the manner in which he had spoken to her. Jem was a different story. She had seen the way he looked at Lady Shazza. She had been carrying a flamethrower for him since she first came to work at Curtmantle Court not two summers hence. He had barely noticed her except to take a well earned cup o' char from her or a vienesse whirl. If she couldn't have him, she was going to make damned sure Lady Shazza wasn't going to either - especially seeing as she was already bethrothed and married to another.

She put the carrots on to boil, whilst preparing a light snack for his lordship - into which she was going to slip another light dose of Kipper Cordial...

****

Lady Shazza and Cook made haste down the stairs into the lower quarters of the house and to the Kitchen. They had propped Jem up by the bookshelf - he seemed to be coming round and was asking for a Crusty Almond Slice to go with his cup of tea. Cook had obliged. Lady Shazza had been unable to do as she wished and mop his fevered brow in the presence of Cook, but the look that passed between them said it all.

They reached the kitchen just too late. Mary Anne was nowhere to be seen.

Evidently she had gone to take his Lordship a snack. The smell of Kipper was rife in the air.

Would they reach his Lordship before it was too late?

TBC...

A Victorian Love Story - Part Six

2010-09-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

Cook nearly fell into a cold faint when she gently perambulated back the flap of the satchel to reveal a glass bottle, the contents of which shocked her to the very marrow (which is just an enlarged courgette). She read aloud:

'Crippen's Patented Arsenic Squash - Kipper Flavour: Dilution instructions, 1 capful to every 2 litres of still water. Caution: May cause death if ingested in this way'.

'Oh my Good Lord. Blood and stomach pills!' she expectorated. 'Mary Anne Crookback, what hast thou been and gone and done?'

She heard footsteps approaching the skullery - she carefully tucked the bottle back inside the satchel and went back to mincing her now rapidly air exposed and browning aubergine. Mary Anne bobbed her head round the door.

'Did I be a-leavin' me satchel in here?' she said sweetly

'You did my girl' said Cook, trying not to sound too shocked, or nasty - just in case she was proffered a Kippery treat in her morning tea. 'Thous shouldst not leave thine own personal belongings in the skullery - it is quite without hygiene...'

'I am sorry, Cook - I got distracted earlier on when I was scraping the celery..'

'Well you make sure it doesn't happen again my girl, otherwise his Lordship will be having words with you again...'

'Please don't tell him, Cook - Please...I can't be affordin' to be out of doins' again. My mother would be ever so cross, inbetween coughing up blood...' said Mary Anne.

'Think on and look sharp' said Cook.

Mary Anne picked up her satchel and made haste to start her duties. Cook looked on, most very vexed-ly

****

Lady Shazza was outside, taking in the air - it was a blessed relief to be away from the sickbed of her husband and smelling the sweet scent of the roses again. She gently meandered along the path, breathing deeply and calming herself in preparation for her return to feed her husband his broth. In the near distance she espied Jem - hard at work as always, his muscles lightly dappled with sweat and his duds covered in soil from all his hard digging. She had to stop herself from dashing over to him to wipe his brow and cover him in light kisses such was his gentle, yet still very manly beauty. She was wondering whether or not to make haste and approach him - but afore she could ponder some more Jem had spotted her, had placed his tool on the verge and was making his way to greet her.

'Your Ladyship - any news on t'Maister?' he said northernly

'How now, Jem - he faireth a little better today, he will take some broth shortly. He has requested his writing materials so I think all will be well'

'That's grand news' he said, with a slight air of disappointment

'Isn't it' she said, none to thrilled either

'How is your little prick?' enquired Jem

'I just told you...he is going to have some bro...Oh my goodness, you mean my finger don't you? I do so humbly crave your pardon. It is fine, nothing a little bath in rosewater and a dressing wouldn't fix...' she said, blushing.

'I am glad, my Lady...I...I am so sorry for the mess you have lately found yourself in'

'Why Jem, you have nothing to be sorry for - none of this is your doing...'

'I know that, I just. I just...I'd better get back to my hoeing...' he trailed off sadly

'Jem...please...I...please come to the reading room tonight after dinner. I should like to talk to you...'

Jem said nothing, he merely nodded and agreed.

****

Cook was still mincing her aubergines and wondering what to do about Mary Anne Crookback. She'd been mincing so long she hadn't even noticed she'd started to take the skin off her knuckles. Meanwhile Mary Anne was on her hands and knees donkeystoning the steps blissfully unaware that Cook knew her sordid little fishy secret.

She must tell Lady Shazza her suspicionies

She would do it tonight...

****

Lady Shazza was dressed in her finest ivory coloured kirtle. She had brushed out her plaits with 100 strokes of the brush and her hair was gleaming in the gaslight. She had completed a meticulous toilette and smelled deliciously of rosewater. All she needed was for Jem to come to her.

****

Jem was lacing his boots up in the shed. He was wearing his second best pants (the ones with a picture of the Duke of Wellington on the crutch). He had shaved by candlelight and smelled deliciously of camphorated oil. All he needed was to sneak in by the kitchens and not be seen, so he could make his way to his one true love, Lady Shazza.

****

Cook was smearing her rosy apple cheeks with lard. She had taken off her apron and dusted under her armpits with icing sugar (a little tip she'd picked up from Mrs Beeton's Book of Modern Beauty). All she needed to do was to sneak out of the kitchen after dinner when the pots had been washed and get to the reading room to speak with Lady Shazza.

TBC....

A Victorian Love Story - Part Five

2010-09-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

'Martha - what on earth is wrong?' said Lady Shazza.

'Oh, mi'Lady - I bring grave tidings. Young Mary Anne Crookback was just about to set to with the Borax in the Orangery when she heard a most frightful kerfuffle coming from the room next door. She pushed through the doorway and found mi'Lordship sprawled on the floor, frothing at the mouth and shouting about Pitt the Younger...' wailed Cook, dabbing at her eyes with her stained pinny.

'Where is his Lordship now?' said Lady Shazza setting down her basket of roses and making haste for the main house with Cook and Jem following

'Mary Anne and I managed to hoist him into the four poster with the help of the coal man and some little urchins who were wandering by asking for crumbs. He is resting now - and we've sent for Dr Crump...'

Jem gulped hard. Lady Shazza was practically running through the corridors of Curtmantle Court to find her grumpy, fat husband. He could hardly keep pace with her. When they reached the bedroom - she asked them both to wait outside while she went in - and to notify her immediately of Dr Crump's arrival.

Lady Shazza entered the room

'Husband - it is I - your wife, Lady Shazza...' she said, stating the bleeding obvious

Lord Stanley opened his eyes briefly - he was pale and drawn, lips were dry and cracked and his pupils were shrunken and ghostly.

'Good wife, you come to me...' he said 'I am afeared I have not long left to live...'

'We have sent for Dr Crump, he should be here soon...'

'It is too late for Crump. Too late...' said Lord Stanley, coughing a phlegmy globule out of his bouche.

'Husband - do not say that, why you were perfectly fine at our breakfast repast...what has happened to make you so?' she opined

'I know not, one minute I was merrily writing my next chapter of 'The History of Flatulence' and the next minute I was falling to the floor in a fit of something most uncharacteristically uncharacteristic. My chest hurts and my head it aches so...'

'Hush now husband dear. Try and rest...' she soothed, all the while wondering whether he had made his will out yet.

****

'Will he live?' said Jem, shifting nervously whilst leaning on the architrave

'I knowest not Jem - he's taken a nasty tumble, and a man his age doesn't froth at the mouth unless there's trouble at t'mill somewhere in his being...' said Cook.

'How old is he?' he asked

'Well, I know not exactly, though he is most definitely a good twenty or more years older than her Ladyship. She was only a slip of a girl at 16 when they were married, and he was still in mourning for the previous Lady Curtmantle, after she fell in the threshing machine after turnip plucking in the fields went awry...'

'How does someone so young and beautiful come to be in the possession of such an elderly man?' Jem enquired

'Money' said Cook simply. 'She had it, he didn't. Lady Shazza's father - the Right Honourable Hardicanute Bolingbroke offered her to him in an alliance which would see his money united with the Curtmantle Mill Empire - Lord Stanley needed the money to keep his Mills afloat, Bolingbroke needed his daughter married off and the prestige of a possible male grandchild with a Lordly title...'

'Damnation!' shouted Jem - banging his fists on the plasterwork 'Is no-one safe from the machinations of the upper classes?'

'Hold your tongue, young Jem. Lest her Ladyship hears you...'

'I am sorry, Cook - but that young woman, that fine young woman in there is being held against her will by that flabby...monstrous....mutton chop in there...it isn't right...she should be with someone that can love her properly...someone like...'

'You?' said Cook 'You need to be very careful here Jem...'

'Or what?'

They were interrupted by Lady Shazza emerging from the bedchamber.

'How is his Lordship?' asked Cook

'He is sleeping, will you send Dr Crump in when he arrives? I fear I must repair to my rooms and lie for a while...'

Cook curtseyed in response and went to the hall to wait for the Doctor.

****

'I diagnose an acute case of Kipper Bloat' said Doctor Crump 'Plenty of rest and beef tea should see him right - and a complete avoidance of bony fish'

'Thank you Doctor' said Lady Shazza wearily 'He will be ok?'

'But of course, send for me at once if his condition worsens - or he coughs up any more Omega 3 oils...'

The good Doctor packed his case and left by the main entrance - he was late for his dinner engagement at the Cock Club and they would be onto the Figgy Pudding if he didn't get a wriggle on.

'Well...?' said Cook 'Have I to set another place at the dinner table?'

'I think so Cook - Kipper Bloat apparently. He should be fine in a day or two - but I think we need to stick to Codballs in future...' Said Lady Shazza

****

Lord Stanley sat up for the first time in 24 hours to partake of beef tea and pottage. Lady Shazza spoonfed him every mouthful until he could take no more vegetably goodness and begged to be left alone. Doctor Crump had insisted the windows be left ajar so that the cooling air could be left into the room to revive Lord Stanley further. Underneath the windowledge, Jem sat listening in and weeping...weeping for Lady Shazza's plight.

****

Cook was in the skullery mincing an aubergine. 'What a trying time' she thought to herself as she passed the purple skin through the...mincer...something caught her line of vision and she looked to her left. Mary Anne Crookback's satchel was on the pine dresser. But something in it was glinting in the sunlight that was dappling the room...Cook put down the aubergine and went to investigate

What she discovered would have repercussions for years to come...

TBC

A Victorian Love Story - Part Four

2010-09-01T09:19:00.000-07:00

Lord Stanley did not come to the Curtmantle bedchamber that night. He chose to sleep in his long johns on the Lazy Susan. Lady Shazza felt she should have been more upset about this slight upon her person, but instead she secretly revelled in the freedom of the feather bed, lolling with gay abandon on the eiderdown.

Over the breakfast table, Lord Stanley curtly spread his kipper with marmalade and ate in silence - taking in world events from the newspaper, whilst Lady Shazza delicately nibbled on her transparent toast and butter looking into space. The little servant girl Mary Anne Crookback was severely reproached for her laxity of knife buffing skills - and was sent crying into the kitchens. But not before she had noticed the chill in the air between the couple.

Snorting back snot and tears she spilled all to Cook Martha over their morning gruel and bovril.

'...and then he said I was a childish squib, not fit to be seen in 'oooman company...Lady Shazza just looked on as though she didn't care, but when I took the tea in, there was a definite nip in the atmos...' she blew her nose loudly on her apron.

Cook looked on disdain at this rather feeble specimen. True she was slight of frame and jaundiced from years of living up a chimney with her seventeen brothers and tuburcular mother - but she was not silly of mind, nor stupid and could spot 'a situation' as soon as donkeystone a front step.

'Here my love - have another cup of Bovril, try not to get too upset. These things are sent to try us...' Cook said, soothingly.

'I'm not going to lose my job am I, ma'am? I should never go back to living up that chimberly again, it was so cramped and I kept scrawpin' my knees on the breast...' opined Mary.

'I shall see that this whole business is smoothed over...don't you worry' said Cook

'Business? What business?' Said Jem, fresh from his morning pluckings in the garden, and bringing a basket full of freshly picked doings for the kitchen. 'Is there a brew going, I'm parching...'

Cook patted Mary Anne on the head and beckoned Jem over to the Range for tea and gossip.

'Mary Anne had a tell off this morning from his Lordship over a badly buffed butterknife. But she says there is summat afoot with his Lordship and Mi'Lady'

'Afoot?' said Jem

'Yes, afoot' said Cook 'She said they weren't speakin' and when she went to turn the bed out this morning there was only one dent in the pillow - the side Lady Shazza sleeps on. She nipped into the reading room to scrape out the grate and found his Lordship drivin' 'em on the Lazy Susan...'

'Did his Lordship see?' said Jem, suddenly a-prick

'Well, I don't know - it might explain the tell off if he did - those knives were buffed to within an inch of their life last night...so there was no way on God's green earth he could have had cause for complaint...'

'So all is not roses round the cottage door with m'Lord and Lady after all...?'

'Sit thee down, Jem - and I'll make you a cup of char...' said Cook.

****

Lady Shazza was taking a leisurely stroll round the grounds. Anything to escape the stifling stiflement of Curtmantle Court and the foetid air of the breakfast room. She could not believe that she was being treated so for merely opening her delicate rosebud mouth and speaking at last night's soiree. The Mrs'Cocksniff and Snofle could barely contain their disgust with her, and thanked her not for the evening's food and entertainment. Lord Stanley was being particularly arsey. What sort of a world was it in whence a woman could not speak her mind at the dinner table?

A Victorian one.

She bent down to inspect the roses. They were looking lovely in bloom this year, their delicate perfume and myriad petals were such a comfort in these disease ridden and stinking times. Taking her little pinking shears from her basket she stooped to cut some for the vases in the Receiving Room.

'Ouch!' she exclaimed, exclaimingly

'Mi'Lady! Is all not well?' said Jem, rushing over, rushingly...

'Oh, it's nothing, I appear to have caught my finger on this little prick...' she proffered the bleeding finger to Jem to show him

'You're bleeding mi'Lady...' he said, pulling out his handkerchief to wrap around her lissome finger 'Here, this should help stop it...'

He held onto her hand, just a little longer than he should have done. Lady Shazza swallowed hard. She's still got a toast crust stuck in her clack from breakfast. Jem looked into her eyes. She stared back deeply. For a moment, Curtmantle Court stopped spinning on its axis.

They were pulled to by a shout from the kitchen door...it was Cook

'My Lady - you must come quick, there is trouble afoot...'

Jem let go of her hand

They went to see what was wrong

TBC

Slapper Magazine - The Style File

2010-08-31T09:18:00.000-07:00

Gen up on the latest Autumn trends and latest hot looks with our Style Editor Araminta Toxic's Style File!

Words: Araminta Toxic
Pictures: Man With a Stiffy

Well, there's no doubting that Autumn is once again upon us - as we wave ba-bye to the sun, blue sky and summer holidays in Torremonelisos and usher in the tights, heavy weight coats and steak puddings. I won't be indulging in steak puddings of course. I might occasionally lick one though.
This Summer saw a particularly eclectic mix of fabrics, designs and toe-posts in the arena of fashion arena. June saw the launch of feted designer Gerry Tosspiece's avante garde Flump'n'Slump collection. A delightful array of swimwear which doubled up as a gusset enhancing toast rack, for a more relaxed evening look. All made from the slinkiest crepe paper. This was fo' sho' the highlight of my Summer and oft commented on as I sipped my Malibu and Absinthe by the pool.
However, I digress. Here in the fashion world we've known about 2010's Autumn trends since June 1997. It has taken years and years of planning to enable us to get to the stage we are at now. We are finally able to unveil this years hottest trends and catwalk collections (not to mention the latest make up and skin care must haves!)

Fashion-wise the biggest name to watch this Autumn is going to be the ever engaging Aethelstan Flibb, former in-house designer to 'House of Quim'. His first solo collection made big waves on the catwalk when it was premiered in April. He places emphasis on the 'unwearable' and has made supreme effort to make sure that the cut, the fabric and the styling are utterly impossible to carry off for the modern woman. Particular highlights of his portfolio were the 'Bodybag Dress' - seventeen binbags glued together with UHU and a touch of sequin embellishment around the crotch area. This dress won plaudits for its inaccessibility and complete avoidance of zips rendering it impossible to get on or off. Thus he shunted the models down the catwalk in their knicks and vest instead, whilst carrying an A1 glossy picture of the dress down the runway himself.

Also making waves is the young upstart Shelly Egwina, at just 12 years of age - her inspirational and not to mention highly fashionable first collection simply entitled 'Li' is going to become a firm favourite amongst fashionistas old and new. Her particular innovation is in utilising the technique of double dipping her fabrics in toothpaste and chip fat, to obtain a hitherto unseen yet delightfully startling mottled effect on all her clothes. It's been a real talking point amongst us all in the office - not to mention the fact we all stink.

Trend wise, we're seeing a real surge in slinky, sexy, clingy fabrics - perfect for no-one. Well, no-one in their right mind. There is going to be real emphasis on crocheted crotches and sequin embellished nipple pads, all in delicate pastel shades - a stark contrast to the summer trend of flourescent day glo camis and waistcoats. The passe Maxi dress as worn by all the WAGS is going to be phased out over time and replaced by another new fashion statement - the blouson bottomed dungaree slack. We cannot wait to see the likes of Abbey Clancey and Colleen Rooney wearing these out on the high street, as they surely will. Current reports from the big fashion houses suggest that the main fabrics being used for these wonderful creations will be gingham and a new denim/lycra hybrid - a slight modification on the jegging fabric, but worse.

Footwear is usually more difficult to predict - last year's autumn trend was the peep-toed fleece lined goblin bootee which much to the chagrin of it's designer Provence Trumpington failed to take off. She's hoping that this year's offering - the slouchy hobo slipper sandal with ankle cuff and brass embellishments will fare better. We've been clopping round the office in them and so far the omens are good.

Heels seem to be a distant memory as we schlepp into the new season - flats are in as are the good old comfort loafer - albeit with a new twist. Shoe stylist extraordinaire Beauclerc Blois has given them a radical overhaul in his new Autumn collection, not only doing away with the comfort aspect, but also the loafer theme too - turning them into a quite literally startling buckled affair with taffetta carnations and a five inch heel, studded with swarovski crystals, thus ushering heels in as the new shoe story.

Make up trends are similarly on the move! Mauve, mauve and more mauve...is not what the beauty writers and make up artists are making waves about this year. We're shifting back into puddle territory with the emphasis on brown, black and marl grey for lips - and delicate shades of sage, moss and verdigris on the eyes. Cheeks are sunken and likely to be kissed with all tones of marbled raspberry - while nail lacquer's hottest and funkiest new colour is going to be 'Crushed Soggy Biscuit' from the Shit! Nail Emporium - indeed as we go to press the waiting list for a coveted bottle of this precious varnish is currently 35 years long. Nail length is predicted to be fair to middling whilst toes should be left unadorned, and preferably with a fungal foot infection from being crammed into your beach jellies.

Colour palettes from the make up artist Woodville Strelitz' collection suggest that these themes will carry on into Winter. His top tip for applying these puddly, mouldy colours is to 'whack it on with a trowel' for maximum impact and wearability. His new Autumn shades are currently available from most bad department stores - and a portfolio of his most popular shades for the season - including his eye colours 'Dog Shit', 'Plucked Sweater' and 'Mouldy Loaf', complete with complimentary lipstick in 'Uterus Lining'.

Happy Shopping - and see you in October for Spring 2011's round up!

Araminta
x

A Victorian Love Story - Part Three

2010-08-29T09:21:00.000-07:00

Lady Shazza Curtmantle sat mournfully around the dinner table, casting a sallow eye over the scene. Lord Stanley had noticed not her countenance and indeed was too busy masticating a boiled mutton chop to engage her in badinage. He was merrily discussing the finer points of the newly installed water wheel at t'mill with their dinner companions Messrs Cocksniff and Snofle, most esteemed local businessmen. Lady Shazza took heart in the fact that Messrs Cocksniff and Snofle's wives looked similarly underwhelmed. Mrs Persephone Cocksniff was picking the embroidery off her napkin and Mrs Maria Snofle had slipped a nip of laudanum into her pea soup and was at that precise point tracing the outline of Anglesey with a fountain pen on the ornamental ceiling. Neither husband batted an eyelid.

'Of course what one must remember is that with the advent of the railway coming to Curtmantle village, the water wheel and indeed the Mill will eventually become redundant...we shall be able to source better materials elsewhere...' opined Lord Stanley, licking the last of the mutton fat from his moustache.

'Indeed so, Lord Stanley' Cocksniff chimed in 'But for the now we must continue to provide the means of work for the humble proletariat of the village, lest we are accuss'd of leaving them to rack and ruin...'

'And lest we not forget the last time we temporarily stopped work at the mill...' Snofle added, draining the last of his portwine and raising his not inconsiderable eyebrow

Lady Shazza was startled from her dream by the mention of the doings that had happened not 2 years hence at Curtmantle Mill. It had been a dreadful, dreadful time. The poor wretches at the looms had rebelled at the suspension of work, knowing they would be unable to feed their families (already forced to subsist on bread made from their heavy woven duds and gruel made from their urine) they locked themselves in the mill - took Lord Stanley hostage, daubed him in UHU, covered him in cotton thread and propped him up against the window for the whole village to see. Messrs Cocksniff and Scrofle had to break the lock with one of her hairpins to get in, set Lord Stanley free and pacify the grieved workers.

'Surely that shall not happen again?' said a startled Lady Shazza - immediately realising she had broken the cardinal sin of speaking at a dinner party, something women were strictly forbidden from doing under a statute issues by Queen Victoria in 1843. The Mrs' Cocksniff and Scrofle looked on in horror. Lord Stanley folded up his napkin in disgust.

'Be silent, Woman!' he demanded, demandingly. 'This is neither the time nor the place for woman to chelp!'

'Forgive me, my Lord' said Lady Shazza, and she bowed her head bowingly.

'Send for the Trifle...' said Lord Stanley

And Lady Shazza bid as she was bidded and rang for the creamy confection.

****

Jem Milner kicked off his boots in the skullery, just as the bell rang for the trifle to be sent up. He'd not been able to resist picking at the cherries on it, and had had to do a hasty patch up job with his trowel. Hopefully Cook Martha would not notice this misappropriation of fruit.

Indeed, such was Cook Martha's moral melee, she did indeed not notice the mishap with the fruit and jelee. She bundled the dessert into the serving hatch and hoisted it upwards in the direction of Lord Stanley and his tiresome dining companions.

Jem meanwhile settled at the front of the range, and awaited the remains of the mutton chops and a good strong cup of properly brewed char. His manly, strong legs ached after a day weeding in the borders and creating the beginnings of the Lord and Ladyship's Water Feature and Decking as seen in Alan Pitchfork's column in the Curtmantle Courier. He should be glad to get back to his shed to bed down for the night after a good rub down with the pumice stone later on.

'There's a right to do and hoo-ha in the dining room apparently...' opined Cook - apparently Lady Shazza SPOKE during the mutton chops...

'Bourgeois pillocks' said Jem, sinking his teeth into a chop and smearing gravy over his sideboards 'It's comin' to summat when t'lady o't'house can't speak at her own dinner table...that Lady Shazza's bin be'olden t'that stuffy old horse for too long...' he violently slammed down the remains of his chop - much to his own - and Cook Martha's surprise.

'You ought to watch your tongue in front of t'Kitchen hands Master Milner - careless talk costs gardeners their jobs...' she intoned - shooing them out of the way, sensing there was summat - I mean something, afoot. 'Now - what's to do...?'

'Nowt. Only there's nowt so fickle as folk and monny a mickle meks a muckle...' said Jem wryly.

'How long have I known thee, Jem Milner? Since tha was knee high to a thresher. Tha' can't be fooling me. I reckon tha's soft on mi'lady...'

Jem said nothing, he merely began demolishing a plate of pobs - he wouldn't be drawn. Cook knew better though.

****

Lady Shazza was at her dressing table, gently combing out the plaits she had ministered earlier. Her waist length hair shone in the gaslight and her new linen shift (£2.99 from Dunelm Mill) was starched and pressed to perfection. She knew she shouldn't, but whilst she was waiting for his Lordship to finish his reading and come to bed - she stepped across to the window to look out upon the fair evening sky. The moon shone brightly over her perfectly manicured lawns - and in the dim distance she could see the candle light from Jem's shed gently flickering. Jem appeared not to be in the shed - she could tell, as normally his manly shape could be seen in shadow against the back panels. She longed for those moments when his rippling torso and bulging...braces...were exposed to her, albeit in the negative. Where could he be?

Lady Shazza had not reckoned on Jem being underneath her window, hiding in the rhododendron. For he too, had had a similar routine on certain nights. He loved to sit under her trellis and look up at her while she brushed her hair and splashed her face with Rosewater - completing her meticulous toilette was something Jem craved to see time and time again. He now cared not that she was well posh, was married and knew nothing about the cultivation of soft fruit. He just wanted to stroke her shift.

How his heart ached for her.

How her heart ached for him.

But how could it ever be...?

TBC

:/

2010-08-26T09:47:00.001-07:00

There is nothing like trying clothes on to make you remember (in case you had forgotten) that YES you still have an eating disorder and YES you look like absolute shite in everything you try on.

I mean, you never DO forget what's wrong with you - I guess it's just that sometimes you forget how bad you are.

I have this pair of jeans - and I hate wearing them because they make me look even more emaciated than my other ones, which are a bit of a looser fit but make my legs look fatter (if that makes any sense). I usually always try and wear long tunic-type tops/blouses/shirts with everything, just so that my waist (such as it is) and arse are covered up at all times. Ditto my arms. This week I decided to wear something a bit shorter fitting.

Then I turned sideways.

I look fucking horrendous.

If ever there was a case for what my Dad calls 'falling down the grid' then I am it. I just despair of myself. No matter how hard I try it just is never good enough. And every time I get a knock back I just fall that little bit more underweight.

My mood is very very low now and in all honesty I just want out. I mean, in all seriousness I know I am way too lame to ever do anything about it, but the thoughts are there and very strong and I can't really fight them. Getting a GP appointment is proving hard and I've no other support at all and not really anyone to talk to. I'm ashamed that I'm still living - because by rights I shouldn't be. I seriously can't take much more of this anxiety or being like this anymore. I try and be up and happy - but it's just wearing me down. I am so tired. I don't want to be around people while I'm like this, because I don't want either anyone's sympathy or to drag anyone else down. Sympathy doesn't do any good and making other people feel bad is not what I want to do either.

Anyway, so that's all really. Not much else to say today. I don't want anyone to worry for me because I doubt I ever would do anything stupid, but I can't help the way I feel at the moment. So I am really sorry to not be producing a very happy blog entry.

Katie Price - An Exclusive

2010-08-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

In a moving new innervoo with The Guardian newspaper, Katie Price exclusively reveals exclusively her tender, softer and intelligent side as she invites innervooer Phil Trendylefty into the home she shares with that meathead bloke she's currently knobbing - the one who looks like a Cabbage Patch Doll in a windtunnel.

Words: Phil Trendylefty
Pics: Phil Space

'I got sick of doin' stories with some of the papers. I can exclusively reveal t'you that I ain't gonna do any more now. I done the Jungle again last year innit - when I come out I heard that someone who knew someone else who was a friend of Alex's Mother's sister's cousin's dogwalker had like gone to the paps with like a picture of me pickin' my nose on the backseat of the number 57 bus goin' up into town. That was like the last needle of straw in the haystack innit, and it decided me that I wasn't gonna do no more stories. So that's it. I can exclusively reveal I ain't gonna do no more of 'em now.

I want like people to see the real me innit. I ain't just a muvver, top business woman and all round glamour star - I'm a real hooman wiv feelins and shit. And I ain't thick like what some of the stories what I done in the papers before have made out I am. OK so I might like not have read Jane Bronte or Charlotte Austen much in school - but that don't mean I'm stupid. Since I like done married Alex and that we've been tryin' to improve ourselves and do more readins and writins. Alex is doin' really well with it - I bought him a Speak and Spell with some of my winnins from my court case against 'Slapper' magazine who told a load o lies about me, bein' a bad mum and not knowing who my kids were. Of course I know who my kids are, I like gave birth to 'em and shit. I got three innit - one of each. I've been startin' to read a bit more and I'm learnin all about history and stuff. I bin paying this teacher to come to my house and learn me all about olden days when people didn't have TVs and they wiped their bums and wrapped their fish and chips in newspaper instead of readin' them. I can't imagine what that must have been like - imagine like, if people had to wipe their bums on my face...hahaha...

So like I bin learnin all about when Queen Elizabeth 1 was Prime Minister and she married Elton John. King Elton was like on the throne (or it might have bin his piano stool - I think I felled asleep when we was doin' that bit...) for like loads of years and he was responsible for inventing the potato (what we get chips from) and also tabacca (what we get smokes from) so he was proper clever and that. Queen Elizabeth had red hairs and a white face what she painted with Wickes Emulsion every day and she never done botox - I think she coulda done with some tho, she had proper bad lines, and her tits were right saggy...

I also bin readin about other stuff too. I got this book from the library (my teacher made us join - you can get like ten books and stuff all on one ticket, Alex likes Topsy and Tim and I likes Jackie Collins) about this dude called like Karl Marx or something - I think he was like the dude who invented Marks and Spencers, and designed their pants and that. I did some fashion designin once, but I lost my crayons and had to give it up...anyway, yeah so this Karl Marx dude he like went to Manchester and stuff when Queen Victoria 1 was like Queen and on the throne and that, and he probably done clubbin and stuff but he went like round people's houses and nosied into their jobs and stuff - probably a bit like what Loyd Grossman does on Through The Keyhole (me and Pete was gonna do that when we was married but then we like split up and he got custody of the fake tan so we like didn't) but yeah he like found out that people were like dead poor and dyin of stuff that I never even heard of and they was like all dirty and covered in poo (I don't fink they had like St Tropez tan did they?)but it was dead sad. People didn't like have proper toilets or even have anywhere to like wash and they all ate just bread and porridge and that. I've bin like thinkin about doin' a new fitness and diet DVD for like after Christmas when everyone's like trynna lose weight and shit and I'm gonna like put all my learnins to good use by doin 'Price's Victorian 'Porium' 'sgonna be like a gruel, pottage and bread diet with like loads of Victorian prison type exercise, like I've already worked out my costume what I'm gonna wear and that, I got my favourite designer Ida Spider to make me up a bra and pant set from coarse linen with horsehair gussets. I lost like 17 stone when I tried it, and got rickets and that but it was worf it when I got into like a bra I hadn't worn since I was like 5. Them Victorians had the right idea like starvin' themselves and dying young and that...

I want people to see the real me, that I ain't just a thick bint. I am doin learnins and stuff and trynna improve myself and that's why I'm like talkin' to you from a posh paper now...I got a special pair of linen hotpants made up, cos I know your readers are like well posh and that, and linen's dead classy innit?...where do I pose...?...'

'Y'got a'nitch that needs scratchin...'

2010-08-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

Not long ago I watched this programme on More4 - which was called 'Time Warp Housewives'. It was basically a short documentary on three women that shunned most aspects of modern life in order to recreate certain decades of the 20th Century. They were 30s,40s and 50s respectively. Their homes, their attire, their make up etc all was painstakingly recreated to reflect the exact standards of their chosen eras. It was actually incredibly impressive.

Besides looking utterly stunning and fabulous in all the period fashions and having their homes looking really elegant and timeless (some of the Art Deco furniture and ornaments were just beautiful) the women seemed to want to adopt the social mores and values of the eras too - in as much as the men went out to work and the women either stayed home to cook and clean 'keeping house' or only had very menial jobs. One of the women however, was actually a singer and spent her spare time booking gigs in which she performed wartime songs and classic crooning type numbers.

The only nods they made to modern life were shopping at the supermarket (but for as little as possible - really just essentials) and having an internet connection. One of the ladies never read or saw the news, and had no clue what date or month they were in most of the time...

The youngest of all the women was only around 20 - but she spent all her time living in the 1940s. During the course of the programme it turned out she was living with her father after his divorce from her mother and was desperate to kind of try and re-create some stability - she felt that by transporting herself back to the 1940s and a time when 'family' was perhaps of more importance than it seemingly is today she'd feel more secure.

It's a nice idea.

I've lately become really interested in exploring this idea more. I am (obviously as you can see by the picture that heads my blog and also from my Twitter account) very much in love with everything 1920s. The fashions, the music, the films and particularly the actresses of those years hold such a fascination for me. But how much would I be willing to turn my life into a shrine to that decade and all it entailed?

I had a little notion a while ago to try and turn myself into my idol Louise Brooks - not completely (I wasn't about to become a gin soaked sexual predator...there's time before I hit 31 though...)so got my long, layered shoulder length hair chopped into a very short pageboy bob with bangs and a shingle. I dyed it shellac black for a time - but soon got tired with the upkeep and left it. I read all about Brooksy. I devoured her films. I became obsessed with her (in a good way). Just recently I turned my attention to Clara Bow. Though I fear my hair is actually more like hers than Brooksys in real life (fluffy and curly rather than sleek and straight) I similarly fell in love with her too. Next on my hit list are Pola Negri, Colleen Moore, Lilian Gish and Mary Pickford. Not to mention the men - Valentino, Chaplin, Fairbanks et al...Chaplin genuinely was a very beautiful man.

There is something so butterfly like about this generation of women. They were the winged creatures that became liberated for the first time. They screwed around, they drank, they swore, they wore TROUSERS for the first time. They cut their hair short and painted their faces thickly with Leichner grease paint. Mothers and Fathers warned their sons about mixing with these women as nice girls 'had no need of make up'. But they didn't care - they did it anyway, and to hell and to fuck with anyone that disagreed.

I love it.

So in my quest to try and find happiness - I'm going all out 1920s. The hair's there, the make up is on its way (panda black eyes, red lips). I ain't gonna wear flapper dresses 24/7 - no way, I haven't got the figure - but I can wear the boyish suits and shirts, plus they had shoes to DIE FOR. I found this photo of my Grama in her youth wearing this amazing pair of little round glasses. I found some similar on e-bay, so I'm going to exchange my reading glasses for those.

But it really isn't just about appearance (you thought I was all shallow, didn't you - admit it?). I want to use this as a positive change for my life - I suppose to make me feel better about myself and hopefully aid some sort of a recovery.

I'm not about to start being all screwy, don't worry. But something particularly about these feisty film stars - Bow and Brooksy really impresses me. Bow came from such a tough, upsetting background - but had such a wonderful cheeky image, despite being a nervous despressive. She had such a way with words - you can just see and hear her in her broad Brooklyn accent bein' all cooky and sexy whilst chewing gum furiously and winking at anything that moved. Brooksy was a tough cookie. Took no prisoners (not unless she could keep them as a sex slave) and was frequently rude and curt to anyone that crossed her - or indeed just happened to be in the same room, but she entranced people and had them eating out the palm of her hand. In later years she became a drunken, bedridden atrhritic recluse (again, not something I seek to emulate - that said I make a pretty good fist of being reclusive now as it is...) with only her upstairs neighbour for company and a cat. But during her time she had it all.

The point is they lived fast, they did what they wanted and they didn't really much care for thinking of the future.

I've started to feel like this. I've started to feel like I need to throw caution to the wind and misbehave. Not in a bad way - but in my own coquettish little impy way. Just do things, throw things into the mix that people just wouldn't expect from me. I don't know why. I think I just need to do SOMETHING. Clara would prob'ly tell me 'Y'got a'nitch that needs scratchin', well dam' well scratchit...'

It's either this, or have a nervous breakdown.

Or I could already be having one.

I dunno

This started out as a simple exploration of why some women felt the need to travel back in time to improve their lives. I waffled off the point, I know. But it's my blog. I can do what I like.

Simple Pleasures

2010-08-19T09:29:00.000-07:00

OK - I'm going to stop dicking around for one blog entry. Surprised?

I try not to write in too depressing a fashion anymore, because for me personally it no longer serves any purpose other than highlight how sad/lonely/upsetting my existence really is.

But it's fair to say that at the moment, in terms of depression I am very low. However, I am trying to just ignore it, work through and battle on - just to keep going. I don't know what's causing it - I think a number of factors have snowballed recently and just turned it into one almighty kicking. Whatever, I'm finding it heard to sleep, eating has gotten worse and in all honesty salf harm and thoughts of wanting to 'slip away' are there and gnawing at me. For anyone reading and worrying - please do not. I am not about to do anything silly. But the thoughts are there and and such I am writing of them.

When I woke up this morning from another fitful night - my first thought was just 'Oh what's the fucking point?' There is just no joy anymore, I have nothing to carry on for and am just too tired to keep going. All I could see was just this endless drudge in front of me and nothing new or exciting on the horizon - I am quite physically unwell at the moment and in discomfort and pain, so another day of that wasn't filling me with too much unbridled ecstasy either.

Anyhow - this afternoon, I was slumped on the sofa feeling too tired to move - I just wanted to sit in, drink tea and watch telly all afternoon, but I knew it would be counterproductive and also would just make me feel even shittier (especially given as they were selling storage boxes on QVC and fucking horrible polyester clothes on Ideal World)so I put my walking shoes on, my little green flasher mac (thank you Centigrade at QVC) and took some plastic freezer bags out (Yes, plastic freezer bags - keep UP!) with me.

After about 30 seconds of being outdoors my initial desire was to run back inside, take off my flasher mac and make that brew (suddenly the lure of polyester was much safer than being out in the big bad world) but I fought it. I walked down my street and up onto the lodge near where I live and there sought solace in something I haven't done in years.

Picking blackberries.

Yes - SEE! That was why I needed the freezer bags! I did NOT have a dog poo fetish which I wished to fulfill.

Over on the lodge there are masses and masses of bramble hedges - untouched, but perfectly accessible to the public, and all free! Free as the wind, sister...so I set to. Within an hour I'd filled up my bags with perfect, plumptious fruit and got completely filthy and covered in juice. I was scratched and splintered with the brambles themselves and my arms were aching from all the reaching - but you know what? It was fun. It was such a simple thing to do - it cost me nothing, but I was out in the fresh air, the sun was out (for some of the time) and it took me back to being a small child and being taken out by my mother to do the same thing in the woods at the front of our house.

Just for that short time things felt ok, Yeah sure I was still anxious and not entirely confortable and yeah, the depression was still gnawing at me - but it was nice to be doing something happy. I was alone - no-one breathing down my neck or making me feel bad. Oh, and to cap it all off I got well over a pound of fresh fruit for free. That's a lot of f's, but fuck it.

It's very often the simple things that give us the most pleasure and keep us going when we need it*

Well I think so anyway - you can call me sad, call me anything you want (as I'm sure most of you do when my back is turned) but I enjoyed it and for that one moment in time I was, effectively 'A Normal'. It won't last. This time next week I'll be back to bibbling on about all sorts of shit no-one wants to hear about.

*Disclaimer: IamnotforoneminutesuggestingthatpickingblackberriesisacurefordepressionandanxietynotwouldIsuggestotherwise,pleaseseeatrainedmedicalprofessionalifyouthinkyouaresufferingfromtheaboveconditionstermsandconditionsapply

A Victorian Love Story - Part Two

2010-08-16T09:33:00.001-07:00

Cook Matilda was in the foulest of disagreeable moods. Her order for 17 bloaters and a brace of Pheasant had not turned up, Lady Shazza had gone missing with her best whicker basket and there was no trace of any soft fruit for the coulis to be seen anywhere. Verily, she vented her frustration by wicking away the verdigris from the heavy copper bottoms saucepans in the pantry. There was a heavy, thudding knock at the oak door - which roused her from her black mood. She wiped her hands across the pinny which covered her ample frontage and made haste for the entry.

"Why Master Milner - tis you..." Cook said, glad to see Jem, but still perplexed as to where her order had got to. She would be having words with Messrs Biddle and Darnley - Purveyors of Meat, Fish and Feminine Hygiene Products.

"I'm fair clemmed and parching for a cup o'char..." he said

"Sit thee deawn, I've just put t'kettle on t'range" said Cook, invitingly "Garibaldi while you wait?"

"Ah'st not say nay" Jem said

"I don't suppose you saw the Lady of the House on your travels? She owes me a basket of soft fruit which I've yet t'see..."

"I can help thee there" Jem disappeared off for a moment and came back in brandishing a brimming basket "this what tha's looking for?"

"Aye, that it is Jem Milner - how d'ya come to haves't that in thine own posession?"

"'Appen Mistress had a funny turn in t'garden and I said I'd er...bring it in for her..."

"What's happened to yon Lady then?"

"I sent her back in for a lie down and a rum truffle..."

Cook placed a brimming mug of tea in Jem's hard, calloused hands. She noticed that even though they were careworn and the skin brittle - they were youthful, full of vigour and looked like they would be really good at caressing her...

"Is summat up? Tha's gone as red as a hoor's flange..." Jem said, slurping his brew loudly.

"Desist your tongue young man!" Cook bellowed. "Or I shall report you to his Lordship for insolence!"

"Alreet, alreet, calm thi'sen"

"No - forgive me, Jem. I hast had a bugger of a day, and I hast this dreadful meal to prepare for tonight for which my bloaters have yet to arrive" Cook intoned

Jem took Cook by the hand, sat her down at the pine table and proffered her a brimming mug of the hottest tea he could muster. Then he set to in the skullery, scraping the potatoes and hulling the strawberries with as much gusto as he could manage. Cook Matilda looked on in awe...

****

Lady Shazza hastened her approach to the front of the house, smoothing our her rumpled petticoats and hurriedly trying to repin her bun. What a to-do and a hoo-ha. What was this most perplexing of emotion she was feeling in her bosom? In all her years married to the ageing and withered Lord Stanley she had never had this fluttery light feeling in her head once - surely this could not be - and surely not with Jem, who was but a common gardener, rough, calloused and careworn. She must try and put this situation a right and push away these feelings. She had an early evening soiree to attend and must be the dutiful wife. She sighed sighingly.

****

Lord Stanley was in his chamber - working on yet another chapter of his book 'The History of Flatulence'. It was trapping him to his desk most days and he was beholden to complete the work come hell or high water. His research had take him to many far reaching places in the world in his quest to trace this most perplexing of subjects. Indeed, he had been asked to present himself to the good Queen Vicky herself whence the tome was published to explain his findings. This pleased him greatly. The Queen was verily a fine figure of rumpy and someone he admired enormously.

He replaced his nib and began to ponder the happenings at Curtmantle House tonight. This was a most important occasion on which the funding and printing of his book depended on - Lady Shazza would be of utmost use to him in beguiling the publishers into investing sums of money into his weighty manuscript. He hoped she would wear her kirtle of red scarlet for the occasion, and had already asked her to loosen her bun (three weeks notice was required for the slackening of the kirbies) in order to charm and seduce these fine fellows.

He hoped she would do him proud

****

Curtmantle House was in a state of hushed expectoration - the dining room was sparkling, the cutlery was set and the best crystal glasses were chafing the polished oak table with their clarity. Lady Shazza delicately stepped out to check and inspect this most delicate arrangement and give nod of her approval to the staff. She duly did so and the staff were dismissed to the kitchen to receive the instruction to bowl up the pea soup and slice the baps.
She sighed again, something she was becoming most adept at. This was going to be one of the worst nights of her life - being used as some sort of a pawn in a delicate business scented game of chess. How she wished she could run, run free and be away from it all. But she could not. She had soup and bloaters to serve and comment on. She dashed away a tear from the corner of her eye, smoothed down her scarlet kirtle and stepped away to wait for her Lord's guests to arrive. Would she be able to make it through - or would the memory and thoughts of Jem that had been pervading her every waking moment threaten to ruin this most auspicious of occasions...?

TBC

A Victorian Love Story - Part One

2010-08-14T10:17:00.000-07:00

As twilight fell in the walled garden that contained within it the abode of residence of one Lord Stanley Curtmantle and his wife Lady Shazza, a weak shaft of sunlight hit the furrowed brow of Jem Milner - still hard at work, ploughing a rich furrow amongst the cabbages and leeks. Jem was not yet 25, but had the countenance and demeanour of one several years advanced. His strong, muscular frame was cloched within heavy duds and a shirt made of cambric - his sturdy boots taking the force of his diligently crafted bones.
These cloistered garden walls contained the very lifeblood and beating heart of the Curtmantle home. The old house had been in the family since the reign of Henry II, rebuilt and repositioned in the new Gothic style, but still very much in keeping with the ancient and bygone generations of hundreds of years passed by.
As the sunlight finally did fade and the velvet nightsky embraced every contour of the buildings surrounding him, Jem sat awhile to pause and reflect on another day that God had seen fit to bless him with. He cared not for the fripperies of high living, nor indeed the lifestyle of the rich and ennobled gentleman he worked for. He preferred nature - to be at one with the elements, to feel the heat of the sun on his weathered skin, the gentle caress of each little raindrop as it skimmed his angular features. He paused in his musing, sensing he was no longer alone - carefully placing the remnants of his bread and cheese in his beaten tin he looked about him but could see no-one. Feeling unease he decided to finish his repast away - back in the safety of the family kitchen, whence he was guaranteed hot tea to slake his not inconsiderable thirst.

****

Lady Shazza stepped away from the architrave lest she was seen. She gently fingered the bindings of the heavy draped curtains back into place and looked down uneasily. She hadn't realised she had gathered up a whole fistful of her green silk gown in her hand and had rumpled it beyond any pure recognition. Lord Stanley would be most cross to see such tardiness about her person. Doing her best to smooth out the creases, she belayed fear in her eyes as the door to the sitting room opened, and in strode Lord Stanley himself - replete with a hearty glass of port or two, taken in his chamber whilst writing another chapter of the latest wretched novel he was working on. Affecting - or at least trying to, given the circumstance - calm, Lady Shazza lowered her eyes in his presence and bowed her head in greeting.
"Damned fine supper tonight, Shazza - relay my heartiest thanks to Cook on the morrow..."
Shazza so wished with all her heart Lord Stanley would refrain from blaspheming in her presence. She found it almost as distasteful as his lately rotund and balding visage was becoming. She had choked on the veal knuckle stew, served at supper and had to feign a fit of the vapours to be excused from the table to weep, weep against the cold marble of the bathroom wall. Lord Stanley had of course, had no idea - he was so engrossed in his writing he had time for little else. So little else he had not noticed his errant, yet comely wife's attentions being diverted away from himself and secretly onto another.

****

It had begun not three months hence. Lady Shazza had been perambulating in the gardens one fine afternoon in the month of May. The heat was just beginning to make its first, hesitant, encroaching steps. Summer would soon be a-coming in - as the ancient medieval song Lady Shazza was so fond of, said. It was this very song she gaily sang as she strolled delicately around,

'Sumer is icumen in
Sing cuckoo, sing cuckoo...'

She trilled in her mellifluous and perfectly pitched dulcet soprano voice. She knew all the old English, and delighted in relaying the entire song over and over and over. And over, until even the cuckoos had tired and begun pecking their very own feathers out with anger of a most disproportionate measure.
It was as she was turning the corner into the walled garden she espied him for the first time. She had been making her merry way henceforth to pick the first offering of soft summer fruits to go into Cooks fruit coulis, made in her Mrs Beeton Express Smoothie Maker. Something about this figure, this fine, sundappled body stopped her. Her breath was all at once taken from her lungs, squeezed tightly and let go in a shrill fit of pique. She dropped her - thankfully empty - basket and clasped her hand to her breast. Crouching down she stopped to espy this heaven sent angel toiling in front of her. His cambric shirt taut against his chest, the way he handled his pitchfork - turning it in the mulch - was a sight to behold. He stopped, as if sure someone was watching him, but looking around could see no-one.
Lady Shazza knew she had to move - Cook was already impatiently waiting and her ire would be raised further if she returned empty handed. Steeling herself, she picked up her basket, smoothed down her linen dress, adjusted her sun hat and tried to make haste.
On reaching the soft fruits of the garden she was now within touching distance of this man mountain. This must be Jem. The Jem her husband Lord Stanley had mentioned some months ago during one of their simply interminable dinner parties. Referring to him as 'some country bumpkin rough' he'd hired to do the garden now he was unable to tend it himself - Shazza had thought nothing more of it, she left all the running of the estate to her husband. In his view all women were good for was 'embroidering and embrocation' and this he valiantly stuck to. She wondered whether to speak to him or not. But as she tried to her lissome voice caught, caught fast in her genteel windpipe. Jem looked up from his mulching and broke the silence:
"You'm must be mi'lady?" he said in a virtually unintelligible low growl, which Shazza found distasteful yet simultaneously ravishing.
"I crave your pardon?" she replied, not having a figgy clue what he'd said
"You'm...must...be...mi'lady?" he repeated
"Oh - with you now, cock" she said "Yes, yes I am mi'lady...I mean, yes, yes I am the lady of the house...and you must be Jem?" she brayed, brayingly.
"Aye, 'appen as mebbe. 'Appen as mebbe. I 'ope you've not come round a-beggin' for soft fruits for the coulis, there's none to be 'ad - birds 'ave 'ad the lot..." he said, with a not inconsiderable smirk
"Oh - oh no, and Cook was so looking forward to them...Oh, what's to be done?" she panicked, panicking.
"I know some other places..." he said, beguilgingly "leave me t'basket, and I'll return it to t'cook in but an hour's time..."
"I humbly thank you" said Lady Shazza, her crinoline in her throat as she handed him her wicker basket and their hands brushed. Jem looked into her eyes, he felt something - he must have done, she felt the hairs on the back of his wrist bristling against her Accurist, and it was heaven to behold.
And that was their first meeting. Lady Shazza had known not what it meant, nor what it would hold, but she knew in her heart that things should never ever be the same at Curtmantle House ever again....

TBC

Ernesta Sveinforkbeard - Rising Hollywood Starlet

2010-08-12T09:24:00.000-07:00

From her inauspicious beginnings starring in the ill-fated US Sitcom Junkie Whores, Ernesta Sveinforkbeard has managed to claw her way up from Unclassified to A Grade in the space of two short years. Her meteoric rise to fame has been nothing short of meteoric - and she's here talking exclusively to Amanda Dullard at Bonk Magazine about life, love and her new movie 'Omg, I'm Like So Ditzy And Stuff...!!!!!'

Words: Amanda Dullard
Pictures: A Pervy Man With A Semi-On.

Ernesta Sveinforkbeard is late for our meeting - this is no surprise, you show me a Hollywood actress that was ever on time for an interview and I'll show my ass at the Free Trade Hall. But when she finally does show up to meet me (at Bernie's Snack 'n' Burger, 57 East Todger Street, Chicago) she is unusually apologetic and profusely sorry. Looking utterly stunning in velour sweatpants and jog top (Roberto Cavalli - $2333) and a pair of kitten heels (Manolo Blahnik $7865) she is every inch the small town girl made good. Her hair is loosely tied up with a scrunchie (from the Karl Lagerfeld 'Hello Kitty' collection $546) and her skin clean of any make up at all - unusual in this day and age to see such a young thing unadorned and with peachy fresh features...it's clear she wants to get straight on with the questions and is not in much of a mood for small talk. We order our food (I had the Bernie Whopper Double Bacon, Cheese and Child Burger, Fries and Black Coffee 99 cents - and Ernesta chose a paper plate with a slice of gherkin and a serviette...) and set to business

So Ernesta, your rise to fame has been nothing short of meteoric - how does it feel to have this much fame in such a short space of time?

"It's like totally amazing and stuff. Really totally amazing and stuff. I never, like, imagined that I'd like, be where I am now in like such a short space of time and stuff. Totally amazing. Like, 6 months ago I could still like go to the movies and not be recognised and stuff, and now I have to like be chaperoned and stuff cos people want to like pull my hair and lick my uvula...totally weird but like totally cool and stuff..."

How did it feel when your first sitcom Junkie Whores didn't do so well in the ratings - it must have been a body blow?

"Um...yeah, sure it was totally bad at the time, and I freaked out majorly and stuff when it got cancelled I was like 'Oh no - I'm so not gonna be able to have the money to get my hair extensions now...' but it was all good in the end, I mean it worked out cool and I still speak to like some of the guys from the show and it's all fine and stuff...maybe having my first role as like a hooker and stuff wasn't so cool and idea but it made me like incredibly grounded and centred and like prepared me for all this now and stuff"

You've so far had a really interesting time in films - you played a bubble headed air hostess in 'Take Flight with Flighty' and an air headed bubble in 'Goofing Around with Charlie Schlepper' do you worry about being typecast?

"Yeah, sure I mean it's a worry and stuff - but I'm pretty level headed. This business is so fickle so you gotta take what you can when you can and stuff. I like to play air heads and bubble heads, they're about as like far removed from me as you can get and I like to really, as an actor, stretch myself and stuff. People like, think I'm really stooopid in real life cuz I play all these like stoopid characters, but I'm so totally not - my favourite thing ever to do when I'm not on set is to kick back and read. I love to like read and stuff. I'm like really heavily into Mister Men books at the moment - that English dude Roger Hargreaves sure knew how to spin a really complex tale..."

So tell us all about your new movie 'Omg, I'm like - So Ditzy And Stuff...' what can we expect?

"Um, it's been like such an intense experience filming this movie and stuff. Like just so totally unexpected and stuff. Totally emotional and completely different from anything I've like ever done before and stuff. The director J. Arse Titmonkey made the whole thing a complete bunch of fun to be in. I play Ditzy McBraindead - like this college dropout and stuff who is working on the counter at a drugstore selling like make up and stuff. She's like totally bored and really regretting her decision to like not carry on at college - she meets this guy um, called Eugene Planetbrain who like encourages her to go back and learn new stuff and it's about how their relationship develops totally over time..."

It sounds deep - and a big challenge for you. What's next acting wise?

"I'm about to like start filming a film with the director Bobby Penis - based on the life and times of Lindsay Lohan. So totally looking forward to it. And stuff"

You're something of an icon to young girls the world over. How do you maintain your svelte figure and keep looking so good?

"I try to not like, diet and stuff - cuz I don't wanna like send out the wrong message to like girls and stuff who think I'm like cool. I just like eat sensible and totally avoid all wheat, dairy, red meat, chicken, fish and stuff. I tend to like just eat a rye crispbread every other weekend and if I'm like hungry inbetween times I'll try and force down a little lettuce or something totally naughty like a cucumber slice - that's like so a total treat for me. I really sometimes like cut loose when I got to the movies and lick a hot dog, but if I do I make sure I like work out for 17 hours afterward and stuff..."

What's your skincare regime?

"Again, like a totally simple one. I use like um, Creme De La Fromage by Yves Saint Laurent three times a day ($987 for 1ml) and always try to like get 8 hours sleep a night and stuff. That like totally helps me stay looking young. But I truly believe that you can like do skincare on a budget - really, just slap any onld thing on and like it'll do the same job as the really 'spensive one like I buy and stuff"

How hard is it to maintain a lovelife with all the press attention?

"It's totally hard, I've been with my boyfriend (the actor Phillipe Breasts) for like 3 weeks now and we're like totally in love. He's totally hard for me all the time and stuff but with like all the press intrusion and stuff it sometimes goes a bit floppy. But we always like try and work through everything cos I believe in like one true love and totally like all that stuff and stuff. We're like totally in love and will be together forever. I wanna like have kids and stuff one day. Like totally"

It's been great to talk to you Ernesta - thanks

"Um. yeah like totally..."

Minutes from our AGM 2010 -Part One, January thru June

2010-08-11T09:20:00.000-07:00

"Welcome to the AGM of the Associated and Allied Branch of the Amalgamated Society of Family Historians, Genealogists and Beige Car Coat Wearers United.

2010 has been a very successful year in terms of Society News and Developments. In January our long awaited A-Z Directory of Biscuit Merchants in Rutland 1342-1789 was finally uploaded to the Interwebs by our IT Consultant Reg Phipps. This has been an enormous and thankless task - and Reg (who incidentally celebrated his 89th birthday during the project) has made a sterling effort in order to make sure these valuable and irreplaceable records are not destroyed. Particular highlights of the Merchant Registers are one Messrs. Fanthorpe and Horrobin, of 64 High Street Rutland Vale who specialised solely in the retail of Isinglass Creams, a delightful yet sadly now unavailable biscuit made solely from Sturgeon. We thank Reg for his utmost care in his work and wish him all the best as he recovers from the chill on his prostate.

Jan Smetherby sadly stood down as our Chairwoman in February this year after 547 loyal years service. She will be much missed by us all - but we hope to see her at all future AGMs and indeed she will still be manning the Branch Phones every other Wednesday thru Sunday and alternate Mondays and Tuesdays - so it's not au revoir for too long, eh Jan? We wish her all the best in retirement with her husband of 900 years, Jim. Jan often remarked that she would finally have the time to 'paint my coving' now. A task that has sadly passed by the wayside since her involvement with us. Good luck with that, Jan. Remember to sand it down first.

March saw the appointment of our new Chairman Bill Middly who comes direct to us from a previous role as Chief Executive of the family history website 'Pimp My Ancestry'. We are delighted to have Bill on board - and he shall be bringing with him a wealth of expertise on Genealogy online as well as a new stainless steel kettle for the tea room, which we badly needed after Noreen Timpson blew our last one up trying to make Cup A Soup in it...(thanks for that, Noreen). Bill's first job as Chairman will be to source and buy a new set of biros for the Branch Office draw. We've asked him to prepare and print out a detailed database of all potential shops and suppliers within a 150 mile radius and present his findings at the bi-monthly Branch meeting in Clitheroe. We look forward to hearing his results.

As ever, April was a fairly middling month. The end of the tax year always brings it's difficulties - especially when it comes to drumming up membership money and recruiting new members for the year ahead. This year we sent out branch volunteer and senior membership officer Val Hamper to canvas in the high street. Val reported a mildly disinterested to lukewarm response to her proddings - though she did manage to recruit 3 new volunteers and someone to stack the meeting room chairs on a Thursday night. Membership on the whole seems to be slightly up by one on last year. If we carry on this same vein, this time next year we may reach the grand total of 20 members - which would be an utter thrill.

May brought fresh challenges. Inclement weather and heavy rain meant that sadly our basement was flooded with the unfortunate and upsetting destruction of our lever arch files containing the indexed original Victorian Chripodist and Associated Corn Peelers records. These precious, precious documents - dating back to 1852 when the Victorian Chiropody and Association of Corn Peelers was founded are irreplacable. We are currently still trying to dry them out with the help of Mrs Tuttle's Moulinex Fan Heater and some paper towels but it's proving a delicate task. Bill Middly - incoming chairman has suggested that there may be some new fangled infra-red technology that can photograph and preserve what is left of the water and poo damaged ephemera. We hope that we have enough funds in the kitty to pay for this expensive procedure. If not, a fundraising initiative will be undertaken. Current suggestions include a Curd Tart Bake Off or a Sponsored Rug Weaving Extravanagza with Pasty and Pea supper.

Thus we hurtled to the middle of the year, and the jolly month of June. A very exciting time of year for holidaying Family Historians - many of whom travel from as far away as Axminster to research their roots. Val Hamper reported the Branch Office as particularly busy during this time, with the Public Computer sometimes being solidly booked for one whole hour a day. This is most encouraging. Our Branch subscription to 'Pimp My Ancestry.co.uk' has therefore not been wasted - and now with Bill Middly incharge we might even be able to scrounge a free license. Holidaying genealogists provide much of our income at this time and we are always delighted and thrilled to welcome travellers to our humble little office. Current records currently viewable are the complete census returns of England from 1841-1851, Parish Registers of Births, Marriages and Deaths in the town of Mytholmroyd for the year 1765 and a highly exciting database of Corpses and their various uses, compiled by Doctor Theophilus M Greengage an eminent Physic from the Georgian era who practised medicine during the late 18th century. We would ask visitors to kindly not leave pubic hairs in the microfilm reader and to not eat their sandwiches by the Trade Directories. Noreen Timpson reports that she spent the best part of August removing the contents of 3 cheese and pickle sandwiches from the 1876 volumes.

There will now be a short pause for refreshments - tea, biscuits and a selection of dilutet squashes are available over by the radiator. Help yourselves and please return to your seats no later than 7.56 pm.

Who Do You Think You Are?

2010-08-10T09:19:00.000-07:00

Petronella Squib is the critically acclaimed stage and screen actress best known for her role in the 1970's David Croft and Jimmy Perry scripted sitcom 'Oops, There's a Darkie Lives Next Door' in which she played Mavis Davis, put upon wife to her on-screen husband Bob, played by the late John Fondue. Their on-screen partnership bubbled over into real life and the two were married in 1976, with two children - the actors Winthropp Fondue and his sister Pertrina following shortly after. Petronella knows very little of her roots, only what family lore has told her. The most important story being that she is descended from the wealthy mercantile Boob-Fiddlestick family, famous in the 18th century for the invention and production of the world's first patented Hair Straighteners.

Petronella: "I'm very much looking forward to this journey - and confident that I'll be happy with what I find out, God willing no mass murderers!!"

Voice over: Petronella's acting career took a backseat when she had her two children, she stayed out of the limelight while her husband John Fondue continued to act in critically successful series such as the 1980 drama set in an underwear factory, 'Boobs, Bumps and Bulges' and a touring production of 'Shakespeare: The Lloyd Webber Years'. Does she ever wonder about why she didn't look into her roots sooner?

Petronella :"Well, not really - I wasn't interested until the BBC rang and offered me a huge sum of money to cry on camera. Then I thought 'There's a whole rich seam of untapped memories in your life, Petronella - seek them out and ye shall find...' so here I am. I'm actually just driving to my mother's now to have a chat with her and see if she can shed any light on potentially interesting ancestors..."

Voice Over: Petronella's mother is the screenwriter and novelist Bessy Thribb, now well into her 80s and suffering with some memory loss - Petronella must tread carefully to ascertain fact from fiction...

Petronella: "So mummy, what do you know about my grandparents - your mother and father, and any further back?...'

Bessy: "Well, my mother - Ailsa Thribb was one of the first women in Britain to be top of the bill at the Hackney Empire, this was right at the very end of the Victorian era and she was packing them in long before that bitch Marie Lloyd came along and shat all over her act...my father was the Great Great Grandson of Edwin Boob-Fiddlestick, patenter of the original 18th Century Heated Wig Straightener - we still have the patent form somewhere amongst all our things...very proud, very proud indeed"

Petronella: "I never knew my Grandmamma or Grandpappa though..."

Bessy: "No - they both died young - when I was 7. Mother caught a chill after one too many high kicks during her rendition of 'Take Me Up The Alleyway, Brother John' and died in her dressing room, and father took his own life not long after. He couldn't live without her, and had no idea how to even make toast. So they found him in his long johns in our bedsitter, with a loaf in one hand and the breadknife in his jugular..."

Voice Over: Petronella is meeting with Genealogist and Family Historian Bob Timperly at the National Archives where he has some really interesting developments for her.

Bob Timperly: "Well, we've been doing some research and have some really interesting developments for you...if you take a look at this document here, it's the actual birth certificate of your Mother, Bessy Thribb..."

Petronella: "Just better put my specs on so I can look intelligent and interested, even though I'm not. Right, so what do we have here. Bessy Thribb...born...November 1923, daughter of - oh...wait...what's this? I can't quite make it out?..."

Bob: "Well, your mother's mother - your grandmother, was actually called Margaret Gripe, and not Ailsa Thribb as you were told. And your father was one Henry Allan Boggs, an apprentice Toilet Fitter from Crouch End. If you look here, it suggests on the certificate that mother and father weren't married - and also it gives your grandmother's address as 57 Stew Street. Now, we've done a little research on this area in the past. Stew Street was actually the area of town where men went to procure women - so I'm sorry to say it looks like your Grandmother was a prozzy...'

Petronella: "Well, there's a shock and a half. So I'm not actually descended from a music hall acting dynasty at all?"

Bob: "Not unless Margaret sang while she sucked your Grandfather off..."

Petronella: "Oh...."

Voice over: "Petronella now has a bit more work to do, the very foundations on which she believed she was raised have been altered drastically. Not only is she NOT the grandaughter of a famous music hall actress, but now it would seem she is NOT the heir to the Boob-Fiddlestick Hair Straightener empire either...instead, she finds herself the lowly descendent of a prostitute and a faceless toilet fitter from Crouch End..."

Petronella: "Well obviously I'm shocked. Not only am I NOT the grandaughter of a famous music hall actress, but now it would seem I am NOT the heir to the Boob-Fiddlestick Hair Straightener empire either...instead, I finds myself the lowly descendent of a prostitute and a faceless toilet fitter from Crouch End...it's just a bit much to take in. I just sometimes wonder where Mummy got all this from...I suppose I'd better try and make some inroads into finding these people I come from...hey ho..."

Voice Over: "Petronella's next step is to try and find her Great Grandparents on the 1881 Census. To do this, she's enlisted the help of Family Historian and Guardian of the Precious Things of the Museum, Marjorie Plippton and is meeting her in the local library..."

Marjorie: "Delighted to meet you Patronilly - How art thou? I believe you've come to access the 1881 census with me?"

Patronilly: "Indeed so, Marjoram - I've come to try and find out a bit more about my Great-Grandparents who I know care not a jot for anymore since they are not famous or rich..."

Marjorie: "Well, if you'd like to take a seat I'll guide you through the processement, as t'were. Now then, I believe your grandparents were one Margaret Gripe and Henry Allan Bogg? Locating Margaret has been quite easy. It seems she was born in 1878 just down the road from here in Turnip Street. If we take a look at the census return it shows her as being 3 years old and living at number 32 with her mother Arthur Ellen and her father, Nancy Robert. Closer inspection shows that your Great Grandfather Nancy's occupation was 'Steam Folder at the Blast Furnace' basically a highly dangerous job, he would have had to carry buckets of steaming hot steam to the furnace to cook the coals with, that heated the water that the rest of the men made their mid-morning Bovril with. A skilled position.
Now, moving on to your Great Grandmother Arthur Ellen - her occupation is given as 'Stocking Topper' again, another highly skilled yet rarely seen job. She would be the woman you went to if you had a raging dose of clap, but couldn't face the exhorbitant Doctor's fees or didn't want to end up in the workhouse. She would have had access to a number of different potions and lotions which she would have applied topically to your topic parts in order to stop the spread. Women like Arthur were in much demand at this time. In fact we've actually managed to find this newspaper clipping from the local press collection dated to 1885, in which it would seem Arthur was brought to the Assizes after a slight accident with one of her bottles of 'Gripe's Patented Tripe and Stripe Mix - For All Your Cock's Ills'. It seems that she became a bit over zealous during one particular application and left her client - one Edwin J Stroob with a scalded bollock. In the end, the jury found her guilty and she was sentenced to transportation to Australia..."

Petronella: "Great Grandmamma was sent to Australia for scalding someone's bollock?"

Marjorie: "Yais"

Petronella: "Goodness me...do we know what happened to her while she was out there?"

Marjorie: "Well, we did find a series of documents relating to her departure and life out there. She actually wrote a memoir on prison toilet roll called 'It Wasn't Me, I Dind't Do It...' but it looks like she ended her days in Tasmania as a sheep herder called Bob.

Petronella: "So with Great Grandmamma gone, what would have happened to her husband and children?"

Marjorie: "Well, now here's the thing. Your Grandma Margaret had 34 brothers and sisters all aged between 6 months and 59 at the time of your Great Grandmamma's transportation. Now. obviously the older ones had all left home - some of them were actually grandparents themselves. Or dead. The census return shows that at the time she left 17 of them were still at home with your Great Grandpappa. Now given that the family were living in a one roomed slum with cellar and sun awning just on the outskirts of town their existence must have been very grim indeed. We have no record of Great Grandpapa Nancy after 1891, which suggests he died. Or stopped living..."

Petronella: "I'm just stopping to wipe away the tears now - NO - PLEASE CARRY ON FILMING...I'll just sniffle while I talk. So you said that finding Margaret had been easy - but what of the other side Henry Allan Boggs?"

Marjorie: "This has proved more tricky. I'm afraid this might be quite upsetting for you. We did manage to find Henry Allan on the 1881 census. Indeed we found his whole family. There was his mother Eadwig and his father Strontium Hypochlorite. Henry also had two sisters Laudanum and Borax and two brothers, Antimacassar and Brian. Henry was 5 years old at the time of the census. But I'm sorry to tell you that the family were all from The North..."

Petronella: "Oh..Oh...that's just too much to bear...Oh...now as you can see I'm weeping profusely and getting out my hanky...Oh. The North? Oh, the poor, poor beggars. Why did their God forsake them and put them in such purgatory?...Oh...Oh!!"

Voice Over: "Petronella has just discovered her family were all originally from The North. This is obviously deeply distressing for her. But Genealogist and Family Historian Bob Timperly has managed to track down a living relative of Henry Allan Boggs..."

Petronella: "Well, I'm just about to take a phone call from Bob - the fellow I met earlier on and I think he has some news for me...so...AH, phone - here we go..."

Bob: "Hello Petronella - Well, I have some news for you. I've managed to track down a living relative of Henry Allan Boggs - his Great Great Great Nephew Flora who is 99. Would you be prepared to meet up?"

Petronella: "Does that mean I have to leave the South?"

Bob: "Temporarily, but I shall come with you. Flora is simply too unwell to travel.."

Petronella: "Right, I shall book a moped and see you on the motorway..."

Voice Over: "Petronella is on the last leg of her family history journey - all the way to Lancashire to meet her newly discovered cousin Flora"

Petronella: "Well, I'm apprehensive obviously. I've never been North of Watford before. Will I be able to buy The Guardian up there do you think? I've bought Flora a flat cap and some lard as a gesture..."

Voice Over: "Just a few short hours later Petronella arrives at the home of Flora - now aged 99 and in a wheelchair..."

Petronella: "This is...cordial...oh, look - they have streetlights up here, I was worried they'd still be on the gas mantles. Here goes, I'm going to go and knock at the door now...I don't think there's anybody in...Oh, no wait - I can hear a wheelchair being backed up...Flora? Ee by gum, hecky thump is that thee, lass? I've been practising my Northern..."

Flora: "We don't all 'ecky thump these days. Come in and make yourself comfortable - falafel...?"

Voice Over: "So what did Petronella make of her Who Do You Think You Are experience?"

Petronella: "Quite frankly I wish I'd left the phone off the hook the day you lot called. If it wasn't bad enough finding out I was descended not from a wealthy mercantile business family but from a prozzy and someone who was transported for scalding another person's bollock off - I now find I'm part Northern. Well thanks. Thanks a bloody bunch. I pay my license fee and this is the kind of treatment I get from the BBC...I ASK you. I'll be working for ITV in future. They send a SAAB, and you get a complimentary croissant and moist towellette...Good day..."

Open Letter to Brooksy

2010-08-08T09:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Louise

I never knew you.
I never met you.
When you died I was only 5 years old - and I was possibly more interested in Postman Pat that Pandora's Box. More fool me. Comparing you to an animated postman and his ball-achingly retarded cat is possibly the worst insult you could ever receive. Thankfully, living as a recluse in Rochester at the time you'd probably never have had cause to come across this televisual feast of my childhood.
Do you want to know why I'm writing this letter to you? I know you don't suffer fools gladly, but please hear me out. Today I finished reading your life story. You remember your life, right? You wrote about it in your later years but burned the manuscripts. I'm guessing you were pissed.
If you'd dedicated yourself to your film career more than you'd dedicated yourself to the gin bottle we might have had more stuff like Beggars of Life. But you made your choices and no-one was going to dictate to you. You weren't going to be in the films Colleen Moore and Clara Bow rejected. If you hadn't annoyed BP Schulberg, you'd never have been blacklisted. But you didn't care about that either really did you? Mind you, he was a spiteful shit telling everyone your voice was 'unrecordable' at the advent of talkies starting. Your voice was mellifluous. It was beautiful. You somehow managed to sounds almost cut glass, despite your Kansas roots.
You know all this, so I don't know why I'm retelling it to you. But maybe you don't - your last few years you were agoraphobic, bedridden with osteoporosis and emphysema and you lost your memory. You had to write down everything everyone said to you just so you could remember you'd had a conversation.
Thing is though - you could be nasty, you treated people badly - you used them and dropped them when you'd had enough. Your two marriages were disasters because you didn't want to be tied down and you couldn't keep your hands to yourself. Despite all that, there is something about you that makes me love you. I feel really protective of your memory. I want people to know about you and all you did. You weren't some two bit actress that just faded away - you were acting before cinema required you TO act. You never gurned or made faces at the camera, you treated it as if it wasn't there. When you danced on screen, nothing else existed. Erotic, sensual and beautiful in turn without having to try. You once said you'd learned to act from watching Charlie Chaplin dance and you danced with him in more ways than one. Two months of an affair with him in the 20s and you never set eyes on him again. What are the odds?
No-one could have done Pandora's Box but you. Pabst knew what he was doing. Dietrich would have murdered the role - one sensual smoulder from her and it would have turned into high camp rather than the emotional rollercoaster it became with you in charge. When you kicked your legs and fought off Dr Schon you MEANT it. You MADE Alwa fall in love with you. You made ME fall in love with you. I cried at the end. I cried. But I'm glad I saw the real ending and not the sanitised Hollywood ending it was so cruelly given for decency's sake.
People only see the haircut. Initially, so did I. I copied you because I wanted to try and look as ethereal as you did. I thought you WERE just another actress, forgotten. I was wrong. The more I learned about you, the more I saw the person behind the bangs. You did exist. You couldn't wait to get away from Kansas - your mother, everyone who had stultified you. I can't think of many other people who would be brave enough at 15 to just up and away to New York without a second thought. But you had to do didn't you? When you went back in the 1940s - was is for some sort of punishment? What were you atoning for? Scrubbing floors and yelling at your mother - you should still have been MAKING FILMS. It makes me fucking mad it does. You wasted your life. All the opportunities you had to make something more of yourself and you said no. You fell out with people, you made them hate you just as you hated them.
I admire your balls. I admire you for not taking shit from anyone. I admire the fact you stood up for yourself and despite the bad decisions you never crumbled - OK, so you got pissed, but y'know....
But you left behind a small but perfectly formed body of work that is unsurpassed today - everything you did, you did meticulously. You learned to write, critique and comment in the most astute way. You could have been one of the best writers America had ever produced. You once said that Valium should be banned because it took away feelings sexual pleasure and numbed the senses during masturbation. Indeed, you did say that masturbation was the highest form of art there was. You acted, you danced, you painted, you wrote - but you still thought that solo sexual pleasure was the greatest thing anyone could achieve.
There's no real point to any of this. I am kind of feeling bad and low today. I cried while I read your book, I cry when I watch your films. But you make me feel happy - I know that makes no sense. I just wanted to let you know that.
Love from
Kathryn x

I married a man on death row and had 17 children with him - and I don't regret it!!!!!!!

2010-08-05T09:20:00.000-07:00

In her first exclusive interview since her last one, Sandra Bint talks to Slapper Magazine about her experience with Pedro Quip, the death row inmate who she began writing to in 1994 after her divorce.

"I started writing to Pedro when I was goin' through a realllly bad seperation from me now ex-husband. We'd bin married for 15 years, but it all ended after a row over me apparently not balling his socks up properly after I'd brung 'em in from t'tumble drier. It were a blessin' really. I were sick to death of seeing those same underpants staring at me in t'wash basket every week - and he never thought about anyone burrrhimself. In all t'time we were married I never even had a birthdi or christmas card off 'im - and the only time we 'ad sex was if he'd 'ad a good win wi't darts team. We were lucky, as we only had the three children (one of each) so it weren't too much of an upheaval to move from our two bedroom flat into a council 'ouse on the Bernard Manning Estate in Bolton. 'E slung 'is hook somewhere - I never 'eard from him again after 'e took up wi' mi' sister and her 6 kids (all bi' diff'rnt dads...).
I stopped single for a bit - I 'ad the kids fo't think 'o - but a woman 'as needs...needs..and thi just weren't bein' met. It's all very well tellin' us fo't get our arses down t'Ann Summers and buy a Rampant Rabbit - but at th'end o't'day that won't mow t'lawn or twiddle yer fanbelt when it flirts off on t'Lidl run.
It all started when our kid Terry bought us a laptop with his Luncheon Vouchers. We got an internet connection free on't back o't'cornflake packet and thus were set up and ready t'go. One night after everyone were in bed, I started lookin' at Lonely Hearts websites, but to be frank wi' ya if I'd wanted a 50-summat slack wearing, bovril drinking dick-head I could just go and sit on't canal embankment on Saturday morning. I wanted someone wi' a bit o'fizz.
Any road up, I found this website Prison Bastards.Com, and thought it looked like a really nicely run site - no pop ups and an easy to navigate menu. Wi'in about ten minutes I'd 'ad about 50 e-mails from guys on there lookin' for someone to look after 'em. Some of 'um were a bit manky - but one or two really stood out. But it were Pedro who caught me eye. Like a proper 'unk of a man - about 7 foot 9, biceps you could hang your Aldi bags on and an arse like two ostrich eggs in an 'anky. We just clicked right away - I could tell from th'outset 'e weren't like t'others - he could spell 'is name for a start and 'e ad such a gentle way wi' 'im - the way 'e said 'Show me yer tits' were so romantic like. It were instant. About 2 days after we'd first bin e-mailin' he sent me a VO to go and see 'im in t'penitentiary like. So, I sent t'kids to Aunty Babs (she's not their proper Aunty, but I owe her £500, like) packed a little holdall and got on t'plane.
Meetin' for t'first time were quite weird - we both didn't know what to say, like. He kept telling me what nice eyes I 'ad, and I kept telling him what nice forceps...I mean biceps he 'ad. But we gorron really well, it were strange being watched by a guard all t'time - but we gorrover that after t'first few visits. The fact he'd killed all him family wi' a pair o' secateurs and a rubber band dint have no bearing on us - 'e worra sweet man, not capable o'hurtin a fly. We made plans to get married as soon as possible like - 'e knew 'e 'ant got long left - 'e were scheduled fo't die less than 6 weeks after, like. So, a quick phone call 'ome to mek sure kids were ok (they were, Aunty Babs had gone to Tenerife but left 'em with a multipack o'chicken dippers and 8 litres of Corona Pop...) and it were done - we booked into t'prison chapel and were spliced that same day.
Weddin' night were 'ard like - it's not easy tryin' fot get in't mood when your new 'usband is 'andcuffed to a Guard, but we managed ok - tho Buddy (the Guard) fell off t'mattress a few times and I think bruised his coccyx.
I won't lie it were tough - those 6 months were th'hardest o'me'life. Not seein' me kids, bein' stuck all t'road out here wi'no-one for company. And t'sex like were difficult. But we'd 'ad a plan - Pedro 'ad desperately wanted kids like, but knew he'd never gerrum - but he needed to leave a legacy be'ind. So we gorrabit clever - sometimes when we did it, I'd slip a jam jar underneath me and collect 'is doins' - t'plan bein' for me t'conceive after 'e'd gone like...how I smuggled that jar out o'tjail I'll never know, cos they frisk you like mad - but I know some places. I just prayed it hadn't gone off in t'period between me leavin' and gerrin' back 'ome to Bolton.
His death were a turrible shock - even though we knew it were comin'. We waved goodbye through t'glass screen - he blew kisses at me while 'e were bein' strapped onto t'table and I blew 'em back. It took a lot longer than they'd hoped for t'kill him like - well 'e were a man mountain, and they had to keep jigglin' wi't medication before he finally breathed his last - in th'end they used enough to fell a helephant...and that were that, peaceful like...I gorris belongins - not that there were much, just a couple o'Proclaimers CDs ('e loved their Scottish lilt) and some pants and made me way 'ome.
That were 16 year ago like.
I'm proud to say that I did carry on 'is legacy. That jam jar got through customs even tho it were brimmin' and I got it 'ome in one piece - I kept it in t'fridge like, behind the salad cream and near the baby beetroot. Every year since he passed, I've popped a new sprog for him. I'm on me 17th. We got Baz, Daz, Melv, Kev, Gaz, Shaz, Fez, Lez, Debs, Kimmy, Timmy, Bez, Lala, Dipsy, Po and Whopbappaloobopalopbamboo. I'm pregnant again like now - and tryin' to think o'new names, but I quite like Quentin. So this is us - we gorra lovely new council house (this time they moved us to Brian Blessed Court) and live in relative safety and comfort. We get th'odd dog turd through t'letterbox, but nowt we can't handle - I'm using 'em for t'fertliz me tomatoes. Ther's no stigma to 'avin a dad on death row and my kids have just as much special needs as the others on this estate - I'm so proud of 'em all. I don't see t'kids from me first marriage now, I think they got tekken into care or summat - but am not sure...but it don't matter, I've more than enough of 'em to go round...but I'm still on t'lookout for Mr Right...perhaps I need to get me'sen back on Prison Bastards.com..."

Sandra Bint was talking to Our Chief Reporter Pauline Bonkers

Mrs Cheriton's 'On Being A Lady' - Part Two

2010-08-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

In the last chapter we focussed on what it means to be 'a lady' how to keep yourself neat and sweet for one's own husband. Whilst this in it's own way is of paramount importance - by far and away the keenest task you will ever face in your life as a 'lady' is that of keeping house.

This can be a tall order. I have seen monny a young woman (some as young as 16) blanche in terror when faced with their first request for omlette savoyard, eggs benedict or a blow job. You need not be fearful. In these times, most husbands will not favour or require a full meal whence they return on the omnibus from a hard day in the city - they will have eaten heartily at lunchtime, perhaps in one of the many restaurants or other eating establishments they frequent. They may have also visited the stews. This also diminishes the need for you to worry about 'blow jobs'.

What I always suggest is to sit, pining and waiting by the front window - on occasion moving the french curtains - to ascertain whether or not the man of the house approaches. You may also want to wring your hands from time to time and play with your antimacassar nervously. On seeing your husband alight the omnibus, run to the door - open it and faint on him. This is a surefire way of getting and keeping his attention. Men love it.

After he has 'brought you to' by wafting you delicately around the collar with a back copy of Punch magazine it is your turn to entertain him. You must always ask about his day, whilst simultaneously ringing the service bell and ordering tea from Cook. The cook, in my view is the heart of the home. These words come from MY heart - as after all I spent a good proportion of my adult life in service as Head Cook in a domestic dwelling. Without the Cook, the lady of the house is nothing. She may be able to keep a man by lifting her crinoline and showing her ladygarden of an evening, but that alone is not enough to keep his interest. Most men will tire of a woman who displays her melange at the drop of a hat, but cannot serve a hot meal or produce a crisply starched shirt on request.

It is in your interests to keep Cook on side - otherwise you may find that when your husband requires an urgent Kipper at 3am after coming back late from the office, she will not oblige. You must always plan plan plan everything with her. From who will order the dead bullocks for the larder right through to who is in charge of scalding the verdigris off the colanders. Do this and ye shall be a successful Mistress of the house. It is usual and preferable to have a once weekly meeting to organise these sundries with her whilst keeping a once daily meeting for the general running of the kitchen and meal plans. When I was in service I used to rise at 7.00am, to be in the larder by 7.15am to have breakfast served by 7.30am. In that 15 minute time slot I could usually whip up jugged hare, warmed muffins, devilled eggs, kedgeree and a cauldron of tea - for 10. This, to my mind is plenty enough minuteage to whip up a nourishing meal to set the family up for the day. The lady of the house is responsible for the organising of the shopping list, the cook is the one who does the real work. But I digress.

It is YOUR responsibility to seek out the very best purveyors of groceries. You will need to be aware of the finest places to buy your fresh meat, fruit and vegetables, bread, milk and borax. Usually these will come on recommendation from other ladies in similar positions to yourself, and the best way to acquaint yourself with these is to join the church committee and ingratiate yourself with the verger. You seek out the best suppliers and they, in turn, will see you right with your boiled ham.

Cooking is of course, not your only worry. As well as keeping your family in beef tea and hot, buttered pigs - you will also need to make sure your house is clean and in order. This is much the same as painting the Forth Bridge. There are grates to be swept, knick-knacks to be dusted and floors to be mopped - sometimes on an hourly basis. In these modern times, the gas lights and smoke from fires promotes the growth of thick black films of what we in the trade call 'crud' which need to be kept at bay. Your maid of all work will usually be responsible for all of this - and will need to be chivvied along at every opportunity. These slatterns are most oft the bane of the Lady of the House's life. Punishment beatings are recommended for these low, low girls. It is also advised you invest in a series of whips, cogs and pulleys to make sure you always carry out your threats. Aside from the punishments - you must keep a well stocked cleaning cupboard, replete with the right items for household cleanliness and godliness. The most important requirements are a sturdy bucket, a hard and a soft yardbrush, borax, soft soap, iodine, more borax, and a mob cap. These are your friends. When no-one else in the house will speak to you, you always have your cleaning cupboard - where you can sit and stroke your goods.

Your maid of all work, MUST be up no later than 5.30am in Summer and 6.00am in Winter. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Her first task is to light the fire she has hopefully banked the night before. If she hasn't banked it, then by jimminy you are well within your rights to belt her one. After she las lit the fires she must rouse the house, and once you are at breakfast she is to throw open all the windows and blinds and air the beds. Woe betide anyone who had left a damp patch. Bodily fluids must be kept to onesself at all times. It is your responsibility as Lady of the House to make sure your children hold in their urine and your husband keeps his vagrant seed in check. You can now purchase from a certain chemists a small device which can be bolted into your husband's night wear to prevent any uncesssary nocturnal emissions. It is highly suggested you buy and utilise one.

It is also the maid of all work's responsibility to keep on top of crumbs. She must at all times keep about her person a sweeper for the completion of this task. The crumbs can then be sent on to Cook to use to coat her battered scallops.

You are also answerable for the family washing. It is normal and usual to employ a char lady to do this for you. She will NOT bring her own dolly tub and mangle. You will need to provide these. Since washing is only done once a week - but needs to be started at 2.00am on Monday morning you will need to keep yourself awake to supervise. I know there is a man circulating the pubs in the locale at the moment who can provide you with 'something' to help you on your way. It is most advisable you do this. If any of your garments or sheets are particularly stained then woe betide you. A clean house and clean clothes depend upon the lady in charge. You are failing in your duty if there is but one smut on your garments. If need be, send your children away - you can even bury them in the back garden if they do not toe the line and keep clean. Husbands are more tricky, but it is said that tying their hands together and making them sit naked in their easy chairs stops a lot of spills and stains. Do think about employing these methods.

You will succeed as a wife and lady if you take on board my advice. I assure thee all heartily. Goodnight and God bless.

Barb Dwyer - Curriculum Vitae

2010-08-01T10:24:00.001-07:00

Name: Barb Dwyer
DOB: Never ask a lady. But seeing as I'm not a lady it's the 4th December 1879. Yes, that's right 1879.
Age: 130.
Address: 57 Typhoid Street, Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular, Lancashire
Telephone Number: It hasn't been invented yet. Oh has it? When...?

Education To Date:

1898-1901 - Crinoline University, Petticoat College

BA (hons) Being a Coquettish Little Imp. Specialised subject for my dissertation was 'The Modernisation of Woman: Advancements in Bloomer Technology from the Crimean War Onwards'. I gained a 2:1.

1896-1898 - Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular Polytechnic

4 A Levels:
Curling Rag Wrapping (B-)
Corset Tying (B+)
Vapour Fits (A*)
Hand Wringing (A*)

1894-1896 - Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular Comprehensive

9 GCSEs:
Readin', Writin', 'Rithmetic (A)
Cuttin' up haminals (U - after I had a slight turn on squishing a frog's eyeball)
Needlework (C)
Crocheting (C)
Patchwork (D)
French (Oui oui)
Domestic Science (A*)

Employment to Date:

1907-1909 Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular News, Chief Editrice
Chief Editrice of said publication. Duties included weilding an emery board at my desk, fluttering eyelashes at male colleagues and pretending not to know how to work the photocopier (which also hasn't been invented yet), sourcing stories from the epicentre of the village. My main scoop during this time was securing the first interview with Jack The Ripper suspect Minty Mintballs-McPherson who, chiefly because of my intervention was found innocent. I also founded the regular beauty column 'Barb's 'Bout Face' dedicated to finding and reviewing the latest innovations in Victorian beauty. I helped launch Laboratoire Garnier's Arsenic and Old Lace Face Cream to the readership.

1904-1907 Cholera County Council Library

Head Librarian with special responsibility for the Local History section - comprising some daguerrotypes of naked ladies from the Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular Women's Institute Calender and a selection of Miner's Pasty Crusts. Issue and discharge of Jane Austen, Mrs Gaskell and Bronte novels. Chief mover in the campaign to bring an end to the reading of Fanny Hill in the public reading room. I was also responsible for birching and branding anyone who dared to bring their books back more than an hour late, particularly young men in their prime.

1901-1904 Cholera County Council Social Services

Special responsibility for care and guidance of orphaned workhouse urchins. Supervising their rehabilitation back into society by bathing them in carbolic soap and borax and the feeding of jugged kippers. Finding suitable work placements for them - usually as chimney sweeps for the upper echelons of Little Cough-On-The-Tubucular society. Care of the elderly in the workhouse - with responsibility for the administering of lethal doses of Laudanum in the event of them smelling too much of wee. Typing telegrams and sending cable messages to scum. Reception duties, welcoming of members of the public to the office, sundry blowjobs to particularly hot men in waistcoats.

Hobbies and Interests

Family History. I have traced my roots back to ancient Greece to the poet and philosopher Bob Homo who wrote the epic paean to his first love Brenda Flaps. I am descended from the great Tudor car mechanic Kevin De-Webster who pioneered the handlebar moustache and the carburettor for use on horses.
Writing. I have always kept a journal - and take pride in writing up the events of my day. To date I have had all 37 of these journals published to great critical acclaim (my mother said they were 'the finest thing she had ever read, even better than 'Topsy and Tim visit the Sanitorium')
Whittling. No I don't know what this is either, but it looks nice written down
Music. I play the pianoforte to a most pleasing degree of attractiveness. My lissome white hands stroke the keys as if they were a virgin's fingers caressing her first tender erection.
Cooking and baking - you simply haven't lived until you've tasted my frog in aspic or my little Madeleines.

I can be contacted for gainful employment at any time. Do please give me call.

Mrs Cheriton's 'On Being A Lady'

2010-07-31T09:21:00.000-07:00

Mrs Cheriton's 'On Being A Lady' is a handy and indispensible guide to running and maintaining your home, family well being and sense of pride. First published in July of 1879 and being for the benefit of the lady of the house, it provides a vast overview of the many important, yet fulfilling tasks the modern Victorian woman has to keep her mind and body occupied.

A word about the author: Mrs LCB Cheriton is first and foremost a Cook. Being in the employ of Mr and Mrs TJ Fitzwellington's service for the better part of 25 years she has provided loyal and unstinting support and dedicated hard work for the period of her employ. This book came to be written after it was suggested by one of Mrs Cheriton's longstanding female companions Mrs W. Rufus-Godwine, that she would indeed make a most perspicacious rival to the long since deceased Mrs Beeton. Mrs LCB Cheriton now lives in peaceful retirement with her husband's corpse and a menagerie of parrots.

On Being A Lady

Part of the One

What it means to be a 'Wife'

During the preperations for my marriage to Mr ENT Cheriton - the well known patenter of the Cheriton Chieftain, England's first prototype Automatic Tumble Dryer and Lettuce Crisper I was struck in the heart by an almost overwhelming sense of ennui. This ennui drove me to the brink of Darjeeling dependence and an incomprehensible and at once terrifying sense of failure. The year was 1837, the accession of our dearly beloved Queen Victoria had taken place in the morning of June 20th and in the afternoon I was to be transformed from dear, sweet Miss Lucinda Colcannon-Beetroot Lightfoot into Mrs LCB Cheriton and with it came many new roles and responsibilties which were enough to render many severe fits of the vapours.

On the first morning after dear Mr Cheriton and I returned from our first brief sojourn of married life - a short trip by sedan chair to take in the waters of Harrogate Spa, with tea and transparent bread and butter at Betty's Tea Rooms - I entered through the front door of the house which was to become the mainstay of my life until indeed such time as I was forced to seek employment of my own owing to my husband's later incapacity.

I did not know what it meant to be 'a wife'. I had no notion of the duties and services I would be expected to perform on a daily, nay hourly basis in order to keep my home spick and span and my husband's wants and needs attended to. My own Mother, Helena - was married to my Father, William for 45 years and not once did I ever see him without a starched handkerchief or devilled kidney about his person. I took these little things to my heart and never forgot them with my own dear sweet husband.

But starched handkerchiefs and devilled kidneys are only one part of this vast compendium of tasks.

Any young lady embarking upon marriage for the first time needs to know that having at least 3 cooks and 7 maids of all work is essential to be able to free your own time to lounge around, eating violet creams and reading Jane Austen. This also creates a most welcome vaccuum of eternity to complete your own meticulous toilette and to make sure you are at the height of attractiveness for when one's husband returns from a busy day in the City. I shall attend to the matter of staffing later on in the book. For now I want to concentrate on your beautification.

Your toilette must be replete with the latest in beauty enhancers. You may have recently read about the fashion - spreading from Paris, France no less - for partaking in hot baths on a daily basis. This is bunkum and bunkum of the highest order. No-one, unless under the strict supervision of a Doctor needs to bath daily. Rather, a good cold sponge bath once a day and a brisk rub down with a pumice stone are all that ones body requires to be clean and healthful. Your water is better drawn from a well if you have one nearby - but if not, good old fashioned standpipe water is just as good and efficacious. You must have good, pure soap, preferably fashioned from the finest goose fat and containing little or no perfume. This should produce adequately foaming lather enough to purify your body from the detritus of every day living.

Once your sponge bath is complete - you may now concentrate on the business of applying creams, lotions and perfumes in order to make yourself an attractive mate for your hardworking husband. There is much piffle in today's magazines and newsletters about the need for this new fangled cream to iron out ones wrinkles or this potion that will have a youthening effect upon ones complexion. All of this is complete rot. A simple cold cream decoction will solve all ones moisturising needs - and cold cream can be purchased most cheaply from your local pharmacy, or indeed fashioned in your own kitchen by boiling down the remains of the fatted calf mayhap you had purchased for Sunday luncheon. Applied twice a day, this on its own will soften your skin and give it that healthful glow we are all so desirous of.

Make up is a purely superficial accoutrement - it is said that nice women of good social standing need not rely on such brazen and unecessary topical applications of goop. In general I would go along with this, but there is much to be said on days when we neither look nor feel our best after our sponge bath for a small application of rouge on each cheek. Rouge can be bought in pots - again from your local pharmacy, but is really very easy to make in your own home. You will need to keep every last morsel of that fatted calf we spoke of earlier! When it has had it's first boiling in the stockpot - scrape off the first rising of scum and decant into a china dish. Into this, and while it is still warm, grate in 4ounces of the finest beetroot you can find. Beat, beat to a fine paste and quickly place this into a little enamel dish to cool and set. Whenever you feel you are paling, simply apply a small amount of this to the apple of each cheek and prepare to glow.

We cannot let a chapter on toilette go without a word about hair. Buns. Buns are de rigeur. A good housewife is not only judged on her ability to keep house, husband and children calm and controlled at all times - but also by the neatness and tidiness of her bun. Some (again French) correspondents tell me that over on the continent the bun is being replaced by something called a 'pleat' which is a far looser and unkempt version of our straight laced, tightly coiled coiffure. This will never do. Never do. You must always keep your hair up, up and as tight as is humanly possible. A woman with a loose bun, is more often a woman who is loose of morals. Why, only yesterday while I was perambulating the local area searching for vagabonds to throw crumbs to I spotted a most unkempt woman coming toward me - with hair grips flying and loose strands of hair about her person, I immediately crossed the road to avoid her lest she accost me and ask me for money to imbibe gin. But let this be a warning to you all, if you do not want to be avoided at all costs, smooth out your buns.

Hair does not - again as those pesky French people would have us believe - need washing daily. Indeed a small amount of soot, dirt and grime is essential for your hair to stick into its style. You can buy herbaceous pomades which are most efficacious in removing distateful odours and oils. A simple duting of this every other day - with a more thorough dosing of Fuller's Earth every other Sunday will keep one's hair soft, manageable, sleek and easy to style. If you MUST, must wash your hair - again, please - do not immerse your head fully in water - merely dampen with a wet flannel and give a good, thorough rub with carbolic soap. This should be enough to keep hair, scalp and skin oil, grime free and healthful.

Once your toilette is completed you are now ready to face the world. You are no longer a disgraceful human being that smells.

Now we can begin the task of keeping house.

Diary of a Victorian Lady

2010-07-29T09:23:00.000-07:00

I, Maria Fitzwellington (Mrs.) formerly Maria Nibblett of 53 Felpersham Terrace, Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular, Lancashire, being of sound mind and indeed sound corsets - confirm that this is indeed mine own diary, written with the family fountain pen (purchased by mine own father - the industrialist Sir Sweetcorn Nibblett on the 25th anniversary of his marriage to my dear Mama Helena-Maria-Ellen-Ruth Nibblett nee Foxtrot-Tango) and contains my thoughts and my thoughts only. If my diary should be lost and then found again, say in the year 2010 by a nosey parker poking their nose in where it most certainly is not wanted, I do hereby give permission for its contents to be made public - on the proviso that any profits made from its due publication are to be donated to the 'Maria Fitzwellington Foundation' a charitable organisation set up to support sufferers of 'Costume Drama Cough' a little known disease inflicted on bit part actors in Bronte Sister adaptations on TV.

29th July 1876

Diary - my most dearest companion. This day started in a tremendously woeful fashion. Not only did our slovenly Maid of All Work Mary-Ellen Wench forget to black the fire grate and sweep the ashes afore we repaired to bed last night, she also neglected to tell us that the mutton had not been delivered for Mr Fitzwellington's morning repast. Thus on alighting the staircase this morning I was greeted by a most unseemly vision in the larder - that of the aforementioned maid servant on her hands and knees, scrabbling to fashion a chop out of a dead mouse and an old cheese rind she had failed to sweep up from several Christmasses past. This inconvenience is yet another sorry tale in a whole encyclopaedia's worth of misdemeanours created by this silly child. We only took her on because Mr Fitzwellington had felt sorry for the girl's mother - in the family way for the 56th time by yet another unsuitable blackguard and needing another wage to come into her paltry one up-one down house on the outskirts of Little Cough-On-The-Tuburcular. I fail to see why Mr Fitzwellington felt the need to help this most common and humble of peasant families. He just muttered something about 'needing to make sure he had a prophelactic in future' before hurrying out of the room to go and read his filthy copy of Fanny Hill. I fail to see what him carrying a prophelactic could have done to avert the situation with Mary-Ellen Wench, but I did as a good wife should always do, kept quiet and went below quarters to check on how the beef tea was coming along.
Thus the day had started in a most unsatisfactory fashion. After I had sorted out the family breaking of the fast (I sent Mary Ellen to Mr Clapp's Grocers for a quarter of darjeeling, a fresh baked wholemeal loaf and a pot of aspic, and assembled a somewhat piecemeal feast from these ingredients) and locked the children in the nursery with a set of lead balls and a rocking horse, I set to on the important business of the day - preparing for our weekly dinner party. A lavish yet still modestly a-la-mode affair for the most influential industrialists and other sundry business people of our little Lancashire Mill town.
I, today, dear Diary was taking no chances - and after ordering Mary-Ellen Wench away for the day (on the pretext of going home to check on her mother - who has been in and out of consciousness with some sort of frightful consumptive illness brought on by her 57th labour and lack of nutrients) I set about trying to organise Cook with a shopping list and Menu.
Tonight, we entertained Lord Septimus Kershaw and his wife Lady Elizabeth. Lord Septimus has been a most prominent figure in the bringing together of the two main enterprises in our little town - Coal Spinning and Cotton Mining. He has invented a most exciting device for extracting the Cotton from the mines which can then be brought to the surface, sifted and cleaned before it is sent to the Coal Mill to be spun into black cloth suitable for burning in the grates of the most humble proletariat folks of our proud Lancashire town.
Lady Elizabeth is a most esteemed member of our Church Community and was a pioneering influence in our decision to change our 'Lady's Day' meetings from Sunday to Thursday so as not to clash with our worshipping and hairwashing.
Cook was in a most disagreeable mood. She flatly refused to go to the Mr Percy the Fishmonger and place an order for an Old Trout. I am sure I heard her say 'We could fit you in the fish kettle in an emergency' when my back was turned, but it is so difficult for one to hear when one's bun is so tightly tied to one's head. In the end, a compromise was reached. Cook would go to the Butcher and order half a bullock with giblets, which would be simmered slowly with a carrot - and that would do for our evening soiree. I did happen to know that Lord Septimus was partial to a nice Bullock Spleen, plainly boiled and served with a thin gravy, so that was exactly what he got.
This just left cook enough time to prepare her speciality sweet - sugared urchin in jelly, an unusual yet delicious treat, prepared by selecting the finest orphaned child from the workhouse (Cook is most discriminating in her choice - nothing under the age of 11 and must have all it's own teeth) and lightly boiling, before setting in a sugared jelly and chilled until set. Our guests have very often commented on this most distinct of meal finales and asked for the recipe, but Cook keeps it closely guarded. Even I, as lady of the house still have no real idea how she does it - or indeed how she makes the flesh of an orphaned urchin so delectable. But delectable she makes it, so I am happy to leave it at that.
So after a most inauspicious start to the day, the evening came and went in a most agreeable fashion. Lord Septimus and Lady Elizabeth were charm personified. Lady Elizabeth was sporting a new brooch, bought for her on the occasion of their 17th wedding anniversary. Lord Septimus is a most attentive and charming husband, and it is obvious that they are still very much in love despite the ravages of time and the 11 children she has given birth to in as many years.
Tonight she looked particularly hippy and was obviously straining at the corsets after her second helping of Urchin. I took great delight in admiring my own figure in the looking glass afore I finally repaired to my bed tonight. I would not stop perambulators in the street, but I would indeed surely beat Lady Elizabeth in a 'Who'st the Fairest of them all?' contest. Admittedly Mr Fitzwellington and I still only have the two children - dear Edward and dear dear Matilda - Mr Fitzwellington is much more interested in his Fanny Hill than anything else these days. Hours upon hours he spends with that wretched book, while I am left to my own devices fiddling with my crochet.
Still, at least he is not pestering me for favours of a most intimate nature. I seem to no longer have that worry.
I made sure to check the fireplace had been swept out and the ashes left tonight, before I did finally repair. Mary-Ellen was expected back at 6.00am prompt to light the fires and boil the water for our tea. I did not wish to have to so it myself again in the morrow.
So, dear diary - it is with a heavy heart I must leave you for tonight. Mr Fitzwellington is snoring loudly on the pillow next to mine and I fear I shall be in for a most fitful night's sleep if I do not lay my fountain pen down and bid you goodnight. I have a busy day tomorrow - for I am attending a Luncheon in honour of the Mayor's wife Mrs Pickton-Streeb and must be up early so that I can unpick my bun.
Goodnight, fair confidante. I shall write more on the morrow.

Ask Aunty Barb...2

2010-07-28T09:23:00.001-07:00

She's back by popular demand of one person. Aunty Barb is tonight going to be tackling those embarrasing health problems you feel to shy to go to the Doctor about. With her customary diplomacy skills and immeasurable tact, you know you can Ask Aunty Barb....

Our first letter tonight comes from a source who wishes to remain anonymous - so we have given him (or her...) a psuedonym...

Dear Aunty Barb,
I wonder if you can help me, I am a fifty two year old lady, and I have been struck down but a terrible affliction, that I can only describe as anus horriblis.
It seems every time I find myself in a social situation, bang off it goes, Phhaaarrpp, Phaarrp the most terrible episodes of flatulence.
It all started you see when I was at Mr Twiddlers allotment tending to his prize onions.
Poor man, he had just come out of hospital and was still suffering the effects of the accidental poisoning that Mrs Twiddler had caused - completely accidently of course. Apparently she was looking for the Camp Coffee and found a bottle under the sink, sadly and unbeknown Mr Twiddler had replaced its contents with worm juice from the wormery. Poor man was wriggling and squirming in pain for weeks.
Anyway after I had just tied the Onions and hung them to dry is when it started, I remember distinctly I was a very late evening and I had lit the Parrafin heater in the greenhouse and also a candle, suddenly out of nowhere Phaaarrrrp Pharrp, oh I was so glad I was on my own as the candle went out and there was an almighty bang - as the Parrafin heater was given a sudden blast of my rear end bottom burp.
Please help,
Yours Sincerely
Ms F. Tuence

Aunty Barb replies
Dear Will - sorry sorry sorry, Ms F Tuence. It looks like you've got yourself in a terrible lather lovey. Firstly, I wish to thank you for taking the time to write me this heart rending letter, it moves me to tears to think of you scribbling away in your greenhouse, parping all the way. On a slightly sourer note it's no wonder there's a hole in the ozone layer with good people like yourself polluting our airways with your noxious bottom fumes - but no matter. If this letter that you've written to me can help just one person then you won't have written it in vain (and the only veins you'll have to deal with in future are the bulging haemorroids you'll no doubt be lancing - hereafter known as 'bum grapes').
But now onto helping you with your problem - rest assured you're not the only one that suffers with this issue, time and time again I'm poked in the lapels by complete strangers desperate to harangue me for a solution to their windypops troubles.
I firstly usually advise them to take a good long look at their diet - Heinzes Beanses and Kellogg's All Bran do not an advisable combination make for someone in this state. You must undertake a complete avoidance of anything of this nature. I'm also afraid this means you need to avoid Mr Twiddler's allotment for the forseeable - all those brassicas and alliums will aggravate your rear end till Kingdom come.
Secondly, I also tell people with this condition to stay indoors at all times and not to go out in public ever again. This is for our own good as much as yours. I do not say this lightly - indeed the fact that I will also suggest you sit with a paperbag on your head in your through lounge, and stick a Glade Air Freshener (usually from the 'Moonlight in Burnley' range of fragrances) to your backside are merely by the by. Your social life and social standing are already ruined, so you might as well go the complete hog and look a tit while sitting inside on your own. I'm afraid I can't give and medical advice medically - as I am not trained, so perhaps you had better speak to your Doctor about that, although how you're going to get around the getting out of doord with a paper bag on your head is anyone's guess. Wishing you all the best, farty pants

Dear Aunty Barb

I hate problem pages, but my wife is sick to death of me moaning on and not going to the Doctor so I'll just cut straight to the point. Tell me how a woman's mind works. My wife thinks I need clinical help, but I don't. I just want to know what's going on in their heads (apart from handbags, shoes and chocolate). I can't seem to do anything right these days. I always put the lavatory seat down, the cap on the toothpaste and NEVER let her find out about my other woman (Doreen Natterthwaite - from the Co-op Deli). Where am I going wrong?

Yours sincerely
Barry Scrotum, Didsbury

Aunty Barb replies:
Oh dear. This is all too common a letter in my piles I'm afraid. Men wanting to know what's going on inside their wife's head. I always find it funny how it's never the other way round. Women always seem to know what's going on in their husband's minds. Perhaps that's because all they ever think about is food, sex and beer and that makes it easy for us. But no matter. I did know of a man who once thought about Antidisestablishmentarianism in Krakatoa, East of Java - but it was only a fleeting thing and it passed after a sit down and a nice cup of beef tea. Normal service was soon resumed, as t'were.
Well, how to start with this age old problem? First things first - it sometimes helps to think about a woman's brain in terms of a finely tuned engine, perhaps that of a Porsche or some other expensive sports car. Not a Lada. Although my mother-in-law has come perilously close to being sent by me to the Eastern Bloc for a long holiday. So yes, a finely tuned engine. Most of the time, that engine runs smoothly - it remembers all it has to do for everyone - feeding, clothing, washing, ironing, cleaning, feeding, washing, ironing, watching soaps, more feeding, clothing, ironing etc ad infinitum, and very often forgets it's own needs. Oh yes, it gets a regular input of petrol in its fuel line, the occasional wipe over with a waxy rag - and every so often someone (usually a disinterested husband) comes and waggles the dipstick to check the oil level is ok, but other than that it gets left alone. Then, and usually when it's least convenient and innappropriate (sometimes on the M62, just past Birch Services) that engine will blow. Occasionally it's just a gasket - easily replaced and solveable. But sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the whole lot will go up in one tumultuous explosion of ting. It's then you hit problems. While picking through the wreckage you might find one or two little bits that can be salvaged - but most of it will have to go to the wrecker's yard. This, for the most part is not the fault of the engine. It's the fault of the mindless idiots (men) around them that cause it. Bad maintenance, lack of care and not running it in properly can cause untold damage.
How can you stop this happening? Make your engine feel special - don't just dump some Duckham's Hypergrade into it once a month, shove a bit of SuperUnleaded in it and hope for the best. It's not enough - don't expect to keep scratching the paintwork and never to see the bare, cold metal that lies beneath. It needs fine dining, trips to the theatre - DVDs with Colin Firth in his pants and regular cuddles (and by cuddles I mean cuddles and not a blow job for your convenience). I'm talking about a woman now - and not an engine, though judging by some of the letters I get men would take their Austin Allegro to a Harvester - but not their beloved wife. But then again, if your idea of fine dining is a Harvester then perhaps all you deserve to have a relationship with is an Austin Allegro.
I highly doubt, Mr Scrotum, that you deserve your lovely wife in the first place - and perhaps you would be better off with Doreen Natterthwaite (whom incidentally I happen to know - you do realise she has at least 5 other men on the go? She sleeps with men according to what household job she needs doing next, I'm guessing you're a plumber as she's already had her kitchen done and her guttering cleaned...). If you need to know how Doreen's mind works - then just look under the bonnet of any old banger. At this point it's customary for me to wish my correspondents best wishes and hope they solve their problem - but quite frankly you have made me so angry that I doubt I shall be able to wee next time I go to the ladies. I bid you good day. Scrotum by name, scrotum by nature I think.

Don't forget, if you would like your problem to be answered by Lancashire's very own answer to Claire Rayner please do leave a comment in the comment box and Aunty Barb will get back to you as soon as she's less angry and able to empty her bladder!

Ask Aunty Barb...

2010-07-27T09:20:00.000-07:00

Poached from the top flight showbiz publication ''Ey Up!' magazine - and here, for the first time, resplendent in all her glory is the celebrated Agony Aunt, journalist and celebrity confidante Barb Dwyer, Aka Aunty Barb - familiar to all two of her fans and known all throughout Lancashire for her no nonsense advice and sympathetic words of wisdom, we're proud to unveil her new Agony Column here today...no topic is off limits or out of bounds, however shocking or silly it may seem. Aunty Barb will always try and answer.

Dear Aunty Barb

Please, please help me. I have been married to my husband for 12 years, we met when we were both very young and married within six months. We have always had a full and very active sex life, until the last year or so.
My husband had an industrial accident - he fell into the spud peeler at the Ken Hom Chippy (Hot Chinese and English meals to take away - telephone orders welcome...) where he works, and since his lesions have healed (no thanks to the NHS - you pay your taxes and they can't even be bothered to dress your husband's willy when it's partially grated off)he has completely lost interest in sex. I have tried to reassure him that I still find him attractive and would do the duvet fandango with no other, to no avail. What can I do to convince him to recommence jiggies - indeed, IS there anything I can do? I am desperate - both for advice and a jolly good seeing to, and you are my last hope.

Yours sincerely
Mrs Ethelbert Tickler, Stonyhurst

Aunty Barb replies:
'Your husband has had his willy partially grated off, he feels therefore less a man than he was before the accident. Thank you incidentally for letting us know where he worked then we can avoid buying chips or any other grated potato comestible from them. It's important to remember that even though a physical wound has healed, the emotional wound is still wide open (much like your legs, I'm guessing) and you need to take this time to be receptive to your man's needs and listen to him. He is telling you he does not want sex. This, while being most unusual for a man - is telling me something else. Does he disappear off on his own at all? If so, he may be developing a latent obsession with Pornography from Teh Internests. If not, then check his phone immediately for sensual text messages from other women (usually called Pauline or Donna) inviting him to come to their houses for Babycham and Dairylea Dippers arranged on a ceramic plate with a doily. If all this is fruitless it probably just means he finds you repulsive. In which case, get a hair cut, brush your teeth and make sure you use that MUM roll-on instead of shoving it to the back of the cupboard. Make up sometimes helps - but if, as I suspect, your face is approaching something like the wreck of the Collosus then I think you're probably buggered. Take up macrame instead and give those idle fingers something else to do other than wander down to your ageing camel toe. Hope that helps and best wishes!

Dear Aunty Barb

You are my last hope. I am recently divorced and into a new relationship with a man who is my considerable junior - by 25 years in fact. I think, for 50 I look pretty hot - I can still do up my size 10 Wranglers without outside assistance - so the age difference really isn't a problem. He says he finds me much more interesting and sexual than women of his own age - plus I cut the crusts off his eggy bread, when his own mother won't.
My problem is this - I only ever slept with one man prior to this hunk of burning manhood and that was my husband, who left me for a Beauty Therapist called Rhiannon (they feel in love when she did microdermabrasion on his corns). So I am, to be blunt, a little rusty. The other night, my little adonis suggested we used 'sex toys' to spice things up, but - I don't know what he means. What is a 'sex toy' and where can I purchase them from? I didn't want to go into Hamleys and ask just in case, so I'm coming to you instead...

Yours sincerely
Brenda Peabody-McDarnleyson, Pontefract

Aunty Barb replies:
My dear, if you went into Hamleys and asked for a sex toy, not only would they manhandle you out of the store by the epaulletes - but you would probably be facing some sort of injunction. Your new hot hunk o'burning love does not want you to parade round the house with a Tiny Tears doll hanging out of your arse. Nor does he wish to watch you cover Action Man in Nutella and then lick it off (though I suspect if you're still cutting the crusts off his eggy bread, he might still have an action man in his posession somewhere - do check...). Sex toys can be purchased from places like Anne Summers - you probably have one on your high street, and I strongly suggest next time you nip to Marks and Sparks to buy your 100% cotton gusset pants you search this shop out. Please try not to be too shocked when you go in. Love Eggs aren't everyone's cup of tea - and neither are Anal Pleasure Beads - unless you have wipe clean bedding and an open mind. Start small and work your way up - there are some marvellous devices shaped like lipsticks you can discreetly keep in your bag and pull out to surprise him. Do remember not to take them out when you're freshening up in the ladies, though. I'm guessing you're probably in the Women's Institute, and as they won't tolerate runny Strawberry Preserve I'm thinking their stance on sex toys will be much tougher. Good on you for getting yourself a toy boy though - do try and not be too distressed when he runs off with someone closer to his own age as they all, inevitably do. Love and best wishes...

Dear Aunty Barb

I am a 57 year old man, until recently living with my elderly mother - nursing her in her dotage. She finally passed last year at the ripe old age of 89. The house is remarkably empty without her and I feel very lonely. I have realised how much of life has passed me by and I now wish to - how the young folks of today say - begin courting. It's a long time since I last had a girlfriend - in fact the last time I went promenading with a girl we hadn't even gone decimal. So I am naturally feeling rather apprehensive, not to mention old! Where is the best place to meet likeminded ladies? (I am an avid hoarder of biros and my hobbies include collecting the skin off cocoa and fashioning it into sculptures and the life and works of JP Snetterton, Victorian Pornographer and wank merchant)and how can I meet a mate for life? I do hope to hear back from you soon. Mother always loved your column, and I often read it to her while she was on the commode.

Yours sincerely
Reginald L. Cockshaft, Staines, Middlesex

Aunty Barb replies:
Firstly, let me offer my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your mother - 89 is a great age to go and I'm sure you did her proud in life. It's not every man that can give up his own life to wipe the arses of others. I do hope you washed your hands though. Now, onto your main problem. I hope you don't take this the wrong way when I say it will take much more than a few lactose inspired sculptures and some pictures of Victorian pubes to impress a woman and I think you're going to have to sharpen up your act. You mention that you haven't been out with a woman since decimalisation took place. I feel, herein, lies your issue. It wasn't merely the currency that changed in the 1970s, but a woman's wants and needs. No longer will you be able to get away with taking her to a Wimpy, a walk round the bandstand and a quick fumble in the back of your Morris Ital. Women in the new Millenium expect more vibrant and cultural experiences. Pizza Hut and a trip to the Multiplex to see the latest Leonardo DiCaprio for instance. Some women like art galleries and museums - though they are more likely to have issues with facial hair and wear long swishy skirts, not always condusive to a successul attempt at fingering. Men face intense pressure to 'come up to scratch' in the bedroom these days as more and more women are starting to take control of their own sexuality - and this is something you will have to address if you are to 'make sweet love' to a woman in the home you shared with your ageing mother. I would suggest removing (if you haven't already) any medical paraphernalia from the bedrooms - and indeed the lounge. You will find it hard to maintain an erection in the same room as a wheelchair and nebuliser, and your potential mate might find it slightly off putting.
But you need to get yourself 'out there', find a whist drive to go to, somewhere you can bond with a lady over the pie and pea supper (I would of course, avoid the peas if you suspect there may be any chance of sexual congress) - if you can't find a whist drive, organise a garage sale and sell some of your belongings - a lot of lonely people go to these sorts of things to get out of the house and buy that velour lampshade they've always wanted, or merely to pick through the remains of someone else's empty lonely existence. Love will be yours if you let it come to you. When it does make sure you have clean underpants. Let me know how you get on!

Aunty Barb welcomes you to write to her with all your issues - if you would like a personal response please leave your issue in the comments box and she will get back to you as soon as she is able to.

I Heart Rolling News!

2010-07-26T09:22:00.000-07:00

Bob Toms: 'If you're just joining us the time is 7.23pm and welcome along to TNC - The News Channel, 24 hour rolling news from all four corners of the globe, which doesn't have any corners. You're with myself, Bob Toms and...'

Carol Farell: 'Me, Carol Farell. The headlines tonight...Man with grudge goes on rampage in B&Q, wounding 7 and destroying rawl plug display. Prime Minister David Cameron and his Deputy Dawg Nick Clegg unveil their new Citizen's Bob-A-Job Charter on a weekend break to Ventnor..'

Bob Toms: 'Former cabinet minister Edwina Currie reveals her intention to undergo a sex change and change her name to Edwin - and finally, in an exclusive interview with TNC the ex-girlfriend of footballer Knobby McMillan talks to us about her tragic experiences with singed hair extensions and cancelled holidays to Tenerife...'

Carol Farell: 'More on those stories later - but we first return to our top story, that of the gunman and potential - though as yet unconfirmed - serial killer Kenny Plopkins who has this afternoon terrorised the Northern (spits over shoulder) town of Bolton with a one man gun fulled rampage - centering his anger on the town's main branch of B&Q. Well, for the latest on this story we are indeed now going to cross over to Bolton where our poor reporter Martin Partin is waiting to talk to us....Martin, what is the latest...?'

Martin Partin: 'Well - yes, Carol - hello. You join me in the normally very quiet Northern (spits over shoulder) town of Bolton, situated in the West Pennine area of Lancashire. Bolton is not normally famous for this kind of thing - it's a relatively sleepy place, and indeed the residents do seem to all be walking round in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. The people I've spoken to this afternoon are genuinely shocked by the events that have unfolded here. Just to set the situation for you, we are outside B&Q, the DIY and garden centre so beloved of men at weekends, and this is where the main protagonist of our story Kenny Plopkins is currently working his own peculiar brand of evil. At 12.30pm he is alleged to have entered and demanded to see the manager as he wanted to return a faulty bradawl - when the manager refused his request he apparently - according to eyewitness accounts - 'went mad and shit'.

Bob Toms: 'And can you give any indication of the situation at present..?'

Martin Partin: 'Well, no....the current situation is that there is no news, we're waiting for the police to give us an update - we've been told to move well back from the entrance and indeed the store cleaner has just told us to (looks at notes) 'move out of my fucking way, you poncey southern poofter - I'm trying to clean the floors' as soon as there is any news we'll bring it straight to you...'

Carol Farell: 'OK - Thank you for the time being Martin...and we will of course be right back with Martin as soon as nothing else happens...'

Bob Toms: 'But now we cross over to the Sports Desk for all the latest with our Chief Sports Correspondent Sam Strumpet...Sam...'

Sam Strumpet: 'Indeed - thank you Bob. Well, we start with the headline that's got everyone talking today, the departure of manager Winthropp Nancy from Premiership football club Wensleydale United, after a tenure lasting some 37 years. Friends and colleagues have expressed their shock and sadness at the news - which came as his long time friend and manager of rival club Nelson Rovers Timpson McFarland, departed for a new post as binman with Lancashire County Council, follwing his own club's disastrous return to the Swan Vesta League. Speaking exclusively to our Sportdesk correspondent - Winthropp spoke of his heartbreak:'

Winthropp: 'It's norradecision ah tooklightly,after37yearsinonejobyoudogerrabitstalean'tha'.
I thought it was time for some youngbloodtocomein and somefreshinput. Ah'm leavin' t'club in t'best shape it's bin in fo' yeers. Top o't'Premier league an' holder of t'KP Skips Cup for t'17th yeer runnin' - cannae be bad...'

Sam Strumpet: 'Winthropp Nancy speaking to us earlier there...in other sports news, this year's US Open Tennis Championship has become mired in controversy after it emerged that World number 878 player Javier Eseseseseseseseeeesss has tested positive for the banned substance Milo. ATP Officials have issued an immediate ban and Javier is to undergo a secondary set of tests to check for Ovaltine, Bournville and Horlicks.

Finally, it's taken 3 years and a whole host of sordid tabloid news stories but shamed Accrington golfer Fred Higginbottom-Smedley made his return to the Masters Circuit today to compete in his first tournament since the '3 Prarie Marmoset in a bed' scandal broke. Higginbottom-Smedley's first steps on to the course were met with tepid applause - but after scoring 3 bogeys, a crow and a long snotty one - the crowd warmed and even gave him a standing ovation after his hole in one killed an eagle and a birdie.

Back to you Carol and Bob...'

Carol Farell: 'Thanks, Sam - and more from you later...now we're getting reports of a suspected terrorist incident that has taken place in a newsagents just off the Lily Langtree Road in Hackney. Initial stories seem to confirm that a group of youths have entered Mr and Mrs Pravin's 'News n Views' store and have poured a suspicious looking white substance over the serving hatch. Live at the scene now is our Counter-Terrorism Expert Duncan McBanquo - Duncan, obviously this is live and unfolding as we speak - what more can you tell us?

Duncan McBanquo: 'Hallo, yes - Initial stories seem to confirm that a group of youths have entered Mr and Mrs Pravin's 'News n Views' store and have poured a suspicious looking white substance over the serving hatch. That, is for the moment all we know. As you can see behind me there is an awful McFlurry of activity - the shop is being cordoned off and police terrorism experts are currently in special white suits preparing to enter the premises to make a more accurate assessment of the situation....'

Carol Farell: 'Can you give us any more background to the story, Duncy?'

Duncan McBanquo: 'Not really....erm...um...local residents have been told to stay indoors and keep all windows shut until further notice and the source and nature of the white powder in question has been discovered...'

Carol Farell: 'And Mr and Mrs Pravin - any news on them?

Duncan McBanquo: 'At the moment, no - the only firm details we have are that Mr Zohoolralhaque Pravin and his wife Nazir Pravin are licensed to sell intoxicating liqour and tobacco for consumption off the premises...'

Carol Farell: 'We will of course be back with you for any updates as they happen...'

Bob Toms: 'But now we cross back over to Bolton (spits over shoulder) and our correspondent Martin Partin who we believe has some breaking news regarding the story of Kenny Plopkins we brought to you earlier...Martin, are you there...?'

Martin Partin: 'Yes, you join us here just as this dramatic siege has reached its zenith - nay, it's vertitable nadir...behind me - police are now negotiating with Kenny Plopkins who has barricaded himself down near the bathroom fittings - insider reports suggest he is brandishing a toilet flush from the 'Moonlight in Burnley' range and threatening to harm himself and others with it. At this stage we are unsure how many others are involved - police are trying to diffuse the situation by offering Plopkins the replacement bradawl he required - the implement that started this bizarre chain of events off. Plopkins is so far steadfast in his refusal to accept the offer, and for now the siege continues...'

Bob Toms: 'We will of course bring you any updates as they happen...'

Carol Farell: 'But now we cross back over to our Counter-Terrorism Expert Duncan McBanquo who is outside Mr and Mrs Pravin's Newsagents - who we believe has breaking news for us on the situation there...Duncan, can you hear us ok - we've been having problems with our sound unit...?'

Duncan McBanquo: 'Yes, Carol - I can hear you, albeit faintly...Yes, you rejoin us here at a critical moment of this afternoon's happenings - I have just spoken to the Chief Officer in attendance at this investigation, who has told me that the offending white substance is currently being analysed in their Mobile Drug N Stuff unit by their crack team of experts - at this stage they are unsure what any possible motive for this brutal and uncalled for attack is - and neither are they committing to telling us what their suspicions over the exact nature of the powder are....'

Carol Farell: 'Can you give us some sense of the terror and fear that have struck the hearts of the locals there...?'

Duncan McBanquo:' Well, indeed I can - I managed to get to speak to local resident Elvira Madwoman, a neighbour of the Pravins and who has lived on this streets for 75 years...'

(cut to pre-recorded interview with Elvira Madwoman)

Elvira Madwoman: 'I's lived 'eer now for 75 years, and I has ne'er seen anything loike this in my life. I wa' just poppin' to the shop for a quarter o'plimsolls and Incontinence News when I wa' bundled back into my house like I wo' a crinimal mysel'. I ain't done nuffin'.

Duncan McBanquo:' Do you know the Pravins?'

Elvira Madwoman: 'They is quiet and keeps umselves to umselves. You never hear a dicky bord from them unless it's Friday, Saturday or Sunday night when they is up all night drinkin' jubblies and setting fire to back copies of Tits Weekly...a nice couple...nice...shame...nice...'

Duncan McBanquo: 'An earlier interview with a local resident there - well, joining me now is Chief Inspector Heather The Weather who is heading up this investigation - Chief Inspector - can you give us any new information...?'

Heather The Weather: 'I am in a position to do so at this juncture, Duncan - we've just received the report back from the Drugs n Stuff Unit and can now tell you that the suspicious substance taken from the Pravin's newsagents was indeed highly sensitive and dangerous Sherbert....which I'm sure as you're all aware is a great threat to the public at large. We are urging calm amongst the residents here and asking people not to panic - but from now on to report any suspicious packageor happenings in the near vicinity....as a precaution we are permanently shutting down and then burning Mr and Mrs Pravin's Newsagents and all their belongings with immediate effect. May God rest their souls....'

Duncan McBanquo: 'And can you tell us anymore about the suspected terrorists..?'

Heather The Weather: 'They have been named as local residents Baz, Daz and Kelv - well known on Lily Langtree Road as trouble makers - having once dropped a bottle of Orangina on the floor and spilled some Haribo on that brick wall over there...Kelv in particular is most worrying member of the gang - having been responsible for the great Monster Munch Crushing incident of late last year whereby 17 packets of the Beefy variety were found trodden into the All Weather Area and children's playground...'

Duncan McBanquo: 'This is indeed a serious business...for now, thank you Chief Inspector Heather The Weather...and we cross back to you in the studio now...'

Bob Toms: 'Thank you Duncan - we will of course keep you updated on any happenings at they happen - but for now, you're joining me Bob Toms...'

Carol Farell: 'And me Carol Farell on TNC - we're close to 8pm now and the main headlines again....'

ITV1 - Loose Women - What You Didn't Miss...

2010-07-24T09:19:00.000-07:00

Andrea McLean: 'Hellooooooo and welcome to your Friday edition of Loose Women, when we'll set you up for the weekend with our loose lips and wily ways. Now, all this week it's been National Bird Watching week - so with that in mind let's meet your loose panel for today...first up, she's no stranger to a bit of twitching - and indeed she's seen a Cockatoo - it's Jane McDonald!

(Cut to Jane McDonald's shocked face then she does that silly finger wave thing)

This woman loves a good stuffing, only the sort you'd shove up a Turkey 's rear though! It's Colleen Nolan!

(Cut to Colleen Nolan's face - she rutches her bust and gurns)

Now - birds of a feather stick together - at least that's what her boyfriend told her when he had a little accident on the goose down duvet - it's Carol McGiffin

(Cut to Carol McGiffin, looking fucking miserable)

And, that just leaves me - trying not to ruffle everyone's feathers and making sure we all come home to roost at 1.30 - it's Andrea McLean!'

(Audience claps and whoops like retarded seals)

Andrea: 'Coming up on today's show - as reports show that there's a startling rise in the amount of old slappers getting drunk in pubs and flashing their knickers at the paparazzi, we'll be asking, how old is too old to be wearing a thong? And as Billie Piper was pictured in yesterday's Daily Mail seemingly appearing to blow smoke in the face of her young son Winston - we'll be discussing whether or not her roots needed doing! There'll also be fun chat with the star of Hi-De-Hi and other stuff, Su Pollard and sharing the Loose Lounge with her today is the amiable singer and friend of the show, it's Enrique Iglesias!...'

(More inane clapping and whooping...)

Andrea: 'But first - it's the weekend ladies - so what are we all doing? Anyone got any plans - Colleen?...'

Colleen: 'Well, I've got a really exciting weekend planned - my sisters and I - The Nolans, (we used to be big in Japan ) hoh yais - have got a gig coming up. So we're taking to the stage in aid of charity, and we're going to be supporting the 'Menopausal Bints on TV Benevolent Fund' and it's going to be a great night of entertainment, we're going to provide all the music - and my Ray is going to be on guitar, there'll be comedy from Billy Pearce and Duncan Norvelle, and the whole night is being compered by Lennie Bennett who sadly died last year....then on Sunday, Shane Richie that useless bastard who I used to be married to and who cheated on me loads will be having the kids for the day so I can put my feet up and have a pick at my veruccas...so, very exciting...'

(She gurns at camera and rutches bust up again)

Jane: 'Well, I used to sing on a cruise ship - I don't know if anybody knows that - so this weekend, I'm revisiting all my old pals from The Cruise days. We're going to be having a right good knees up, as only us Yorkshire people know how to do, and no doubt I'll be getting drunk and setting my sights on another deeply unsuitable foreign man. I'll be doing a turn and probably singing 'Alfie...' cos that's on all me albums. Then on Sunday I'll be going home to my mother - cos I live with me mother I don't know if anybody knows that. I'll be leaving her to do all the housework and cooking while I put something tight and leopard skin on and jaunt round the house. I'm a lass of simple pleasures and Yorkshire is where my heart is...'

Carol: 'Ere, well I'll be goin' dahn the boozer innit with Mark and we'll be 'avin a few drinks and stuff and then we'll be 'avin a few more drinks and I might eat some haammm....'

Andrea: 'Well I'm going to be sending my son to his Dads and then we'll be going to the Safari Park where I'll get into an amusing scrape that will turn out to be not half as amusing as I think it is when I try and tell you on Monday's edition of the show....'

(Audience clap...)

Andrea: 'But now, a report in today's paper suggests that the Government's new initiative to let people kill anyone who comes near you that smells has been met with a lukewarm reception - some critics are saying it will lead to the needless deaths of thousands of innocent smelly people, while supporters say the measures don't go far enough and that the Government should indeed extend this policy to include chavs, pikeys and anyone who listens to Justin Bieber - so with this in mind, what do we think of this idea and have any of us ever killed anyone just because they whiffed a bit...?'

Colleen: 'Well, I mean I have to say that being married to Shane Richie for as long as I was there was rarely a day went by that I didn't want to hit him over the head with a blunt instrument, particularly the day I found out he'd cheated on me which I'll never forget as along as I live (she pretends to cry and then takes a comedy gulp of water) . I mean as you know I'm very interested in politics (rutches bust again) and so obviously this is something very close to my heart - but I have to say that I think that in essence this is very wrong, I mean you could stab someone through the eppaulettes because they smelled of kippers and then find out later that they'd actually been keeping a kipper in there for their lunch - so it would be a needless waste of life...'

Carol: 'Oh well, 'ere we go again, Government telling us what we can and can't do all the time...like some nanny state...oh, it does my head in it really does...soon they'll be telling us when to breathe in and breathe out...what next? CCTV in our bathrooms so they can see how long we're all weeing for? It drives me mad....drives me mad...I mean I'm all for a bit of killing someone who stinks - just last night I was on the bus coming back from the pub with someone who absolutely reeked of cheese - so if that law had been enforceable then I could have just y'know killed them and that - but it was a good job I didn't because when I got off the bus I realised it was me that stank (collapses in hysterics) so...y'know..it just does my head in...'

Jane: 'Well, now..see..if the Government came up north to good old Wakey... Wakefield - cos I'm from Yorkshire , I don't know if anybody knows that...they'd get a good old dose of Northern humility with their barmcake and chips, and they'd see that this is all wrong. You don't just go and kill someone cos they stink of chip fat, I think they should bring back National Service (audience whoops and cheers and claps like seals again) to show the youth of today what real life and real work is like and that it's not ok to just go and do bad things because you don't like someone's aftershave....'

Andrea: 'Well, Yes. Anyway - As usual I have no opinion, so I'm just going to fluff this next link into the bad reak...sorry the ad break instead...but before I do, here's today's big money quiz in which you could win £10,000 of vouchers to spend at Lidl...to be in with a shot, just answer this question:

Being 'On The Blob' is another name for which female condition - is it a) Period b) Esther Rantzen or c) A frozen ready meal from M&S - if you think you know the answer then just call 873646593263849483749 callscostamillionpoundsaminuteandcallsmadeaftertheclosingtimeof1.30maynotbecountedbutwillstillbecharged

And we'll be right back after this ad break...'

(Cut to ads - Go Compare with Mr Creosote, The Slim Fast one with the woman who thinks she's a stand up comedian but is actually about as funny as a burst haemorrhoid and the shampoo advert which stinks)

Andrea: 'Welcome back - now, to welcome our first guest - she was the star of Hi-Di-Hi when she longed to be a Yellow Coat with her lovely perm. She's worked with some of the top names in show business including Paul Shane, Jeffery Holland and Somebody Else and she's here today to talk to us about her latest project - please welcome - Su POLLARD!'

(Cue play on music - Su POLLARD comes on in a leopard print basque, jeggings, tutu and an 'Never Mind The Bollocks' T-Shirt)

Andrea: 'Welcome along Su - now you're here to talk to us today about a very important new campaign you're fronting...?'

Su: 'Yus that's right Andrea - I'm here to talk to you all today about National Incontience Wee. Sorry, week - where we're going to be encouraging all you older ladies and men out there to use the toilet as much as you can!'

Colleen: 'Now this is something very close to your heart isn't it?'

Su: 'Well, yes - well, my bladder isn't, that's next to my knicks - but yes it is - I first discovered this issue when I was working on the set of 'Oh! Dr Beeching' and Paul Shane made me laugh so much that I had a little tinkle. Since then it's been my mission to promote awareness of this condition...'

Carol: 'So 'ow do yer link cope wiv it and stuff, cos I bet it must do your head in and stuff...?'

Su: 'It's tough, but one just has to get on with it...and having the support of my lead lined knickers and my co-workers helped enormously...'

Jane: 'Well, I think you're very brave for coming on today to talk about it - and we're known for our humility in Yorkshire so I'd just like to give you a big round of applause on behalf of everyone here...yes, ladies...yes...'

(everyone claps)

Andrea: 'Well, don't go away because right after this we'll be discussing more hot issues of the day...'

(Cut to adverts - Greggs the Bakers, Moben Kitchen Designers - which really isn't for anyone who watches Loose Women and the can opener one where the blokes wig spins round...)

Andrea: 'Welcome back - now, it's been in all the papers - THOSE pictures of Anne Widdecombe on holiday in Magaluf showing her knickers to the paparazzi - but ladies, what do we think about this - and how old is too old to be showing your camel toe off in public?'

Carol: 'Oh God - here we go again, newspapers dictating to us what we can and can't wear and when we can't do it. It makes me mad it does, mad. I'm so cross about this. I mean, don't get me wrong Anne Widdecombe isn't my favourite politician - in fact she's a bit potato faced, but if she wants to go to Magaluf, get smashed and then flash her arse then who should stop her - no-one, it's her right to do it. God it makes me mad it does. My Mark lets me do it - well, he's got no choice...I'd dump him if he said no - but god it makes me mad it does...'

Colleen: 'Have you finished ranting? (rutches bust, gurns) Well, I have to say Andrea McLean that as a woman of a certain age now - I wouldn't dream of doing anything so embarrasing in public - I wouldn't want to shame my family in such a way. I've never been one for discussing my sex life, private life or weight problems on TV and that's the way it's staying. But...when I was married to Shane Richie, we had the most almighty row about me going out in a low cut top once, and all because it showed off me bust a bit. Now, Ray on the other hand - doesn't mind it at all, in fact he welcomes me flippin' em out at any given opportunity...so....'

Jane: 'Well...I live with me mother I don't know if anybody knows that, and I have to say that I'm right offended by this. I mean, Anne should have had a little more decorum about her - she's a woman of a certain age and she doens't need to resort to getting her bum out to get attention. Where's this country's sense of moral decency gone to? If I'd have done that on the Cruise Ships - because I used to work on the cruise ships, I don't know if anybody knows that...? I'd have been sacked on the spot...I say, keep your baps to yourself and the pork pies will look after themselves...and they should bring back national service, because we've got the best troops in the world in this country - that would sort it all out...'

(audience claps like demented chickens)

Andrea: 'Well - we've been asking for your views on this and you've been sending your e-mails in by the two...and I think Carol's got it to read out to us...'

Carol: 'Yeah, I 'ave - this is from Bob in Godalming and he says 'Good afternoon ladies, I'm just watching you in my through lounge with no pants on, and I have to say what a fine job you're doing in keeping me pecker up. I have to say I'm in total agreement with you Jane about the issue of National Service - it's what made this country great...'

Jane: 'Thank you Bob, it's people like you this country needs more of...- well, I've got one here from Becky in Derby and she says 'luvin the show girlz, i loveyouallespeshullycolleenwhatyouwenthru withshanewashorribl i'vebinthru divurc 3times alredyinnit and ur a nashnul treshur. loveuallespeshullyjane too and u carol and andromeda...luve you all innit...xxxxx' aww, in't that lovely - let's have a round of applause for Becky in Derby....'

(audience clap again, and pass round the zinc and castor oil for their chapped hands)

Andromeda: 'And now it's time to welcome our final guest of the show - he's a friend to us all here and no stranger to the Loose panel, ladies, please welcome Enrique Iglesias....'

(audience whoop and holler and generally behave like knobs)

Andrea: 'Whew - well, quite a reception you got there Enrique...'

Colleen: 'Yes, tell us Enrique are you used to such a warm hand upon your entrance...?' (she gurns and rutches her bust)

Enrique: 'Yes thank you for having me...'

Carol: 'Ooh, having you...ooh are we having you Enrique...Oohh...'

Enrique: 'It's great to be here with my British fans again...'

Jane: 'Ooh, we love 'avin you Enrique we do...we doo...can we fan you Enrique, can we?'

Andrea: 'Now tell us a little bit about your new single and album Enrique...'

Colleen: 'Yes, are you single Enrique, are you single?' (gurns and rutches bust again...)

Enrique: 'Yes, this, my latest album is a collection of love songs dedicated to all my fans out there who I love so dearly...'

Carol: 'Ooh, we love you too Enrique we do...we love you...'ere, 'int you tall - you are ain't ya, 'int you talll? Int he tall, Jane?'

Jane: 'Ooh, he is that Carol - Ooh, I could eat you on a barmcake for breakfast Enrique I could really...'

(Enrique begins to look frightened)

Andrea: 'Now you're going to sing us out today aren't you - which song are you going to sing for us Enrique?'

Enrique: 'I'm going to sing my beautiful love duet 'I love you, baby, you love me...' from the album with Jane here...'

(audience whoop)

Jane: 'Yis, yis we are - I'm going to give my throat a good work out with Enrique's new thong...I mean song...'

Andrea: 'Well, if you'd both like to go and get ready, I'll just close the show by telling you to tune in tomorrow because we'll be joined by Roger DeCourcey and Nookie Bear, and Mariella Frostrup will be dropping by to tell is why she's lowering herself culturally by appearing on ITV1...but now here, for you is Enrique Iglesias and our very own Jane McDonald duetting on Enrique's new single 'I love you baby, you love me...' take it away and we'll see you tomorrow...'

(plaintive guitar melody starts, soon over-ridden by a gentle disco beat - Jane and Enrique are sitting on bar stools swaying gently in time and smiling at each other...)

Enrique: 'I love you baby - do you still love me?
Jane: 'When I think about you in the morning, I can barely wee...'
Enrique: 'I love you baby - do you love me?'
Jane: 'I do I do, more than I love peas...'

(guitar solo)

Jane: 'I love you baby - do you still love me?
Enrique: 'When sit down at night, I can't eat my tea...'
Jane: 'I love you baby - do you love me?
Enrique: 'I do I do, more than I love Dairylea'

Both: 'woooah, baby...ooh yeah...ooh yeah...baby...ooh'

Enrique: 'Cos our love baby, it's the strongest by far...'
Jane: 'We can love in the bus, we can love in your car....'
Enrique: 'We'll always be together - because you see...'
Jane: 'I love you baby - and you love me....'

Both: 'Woahhh, baby - ooh yeah....baby oooh...cos I love you baby...ooh..oooooooooooohhh'

(guitar and disco beat fade...Jane and Enrique look into each other's eyes as lights fade...)

(audience whoop and clap, Colleen rutches bust, Carol looks bored)

END CREDITS

ITV1 - This Morning - What You Didn't Miss...

2010-07-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Eammon Holmes: 'Good Morning - and welcome to the show, and a packed one it is at that so it is...' (pause) 'Are you going to read the next link or are you going to leave it to me, Ruthie?'

Ruth Langsford: 'Sorry darling, I was just polishing my eyeballs...Yes, indeed - we do have a packed show, and it all kicks off in just a few moments when we take a look at today's newspapers and discuss the burning issues of the day with Christopher Biggins and Joan Bakewell...'

Eamonn: '...and that'll be fun so it will. Coming up a bit later we've also got the tragic story of Katie Miggins who - and now - listen and learn from this viewers - Katie suffers from a little known and rare medical condition that we'll be telling ya' all about at 11.00am, so stay tuned for that...'

Ruth: 'Yeah, we'll also be in the kitchen for Chef's Table at 12.00 mid-day when Gino D'Acampo will be giving us his take on the traditional British dish of bangers and mash - looking forward to seeing Gino's sausage, eh ladies?...'

Eamonn: 'Hey, now you watch it Miss Ruthie - otherwise I'll be serving you with the divorce papers before the ink on the prenup is dry...'

Ruth: 'Ooh, is that a threat is it? Ooh. Anyway - before all that, and there's loads more besides - it's time to take a look at our brand spanking new competition, one lucky viewer could be the recipient of not 1, not 2, but 3 whole pounds and an all expenses paid holiday to Minehead Butlins - in our great giveaway, and all you need to do is answer this one simple question....'

(Cut to prefilmed sequence of Sherrie Hewson from Loose Women arsing about by the side of a pool in slingbacks and and ill fitting sarong)

Sherrie Hewson: 'Would you like to live the high life? Would you like to be by the side of this pool, sipping cocktails and picking up an STD from someone you met and slept with on a whim? Well, all this and more could be yours when you enter our big money giveaway competition all courtesy of This Morning and Ripoff Holidays INC. All you have to do to be in with a chance is answer this: 'What is the name of the wart type infection growth you get on your foot that can be caught by the side of swimming pools? Is it a) Verucca b) Berocca or c) Patrick Moore? - If you think you know the answer the just dial 089967352839337289439 (calls charged at £10 per minutecompetitionclosesat12.00pmandentriesleftafterthistimewon'tbecountedbutwillstillbecharged)

Good Luck!

Eamonn: 'Yes, and good luck to you all, so it is. Now, first item of the day and here we all are for a review of the newspapers...'

Ruth: 'Yeah, and we welcome our guest reviewers Christopher Biggins and Joan Bakewell to comment on the day's happenings. Good morning to the two of you - but before we get started it's time for our first commercial break, so we'll be right back after the adverts...'

(Cut to adverts - Cash For Gold 30 times and the CSL Sofa one were the woman and man have lived their life vicariously by the white sofa they purchased when they got together but have now split up and she keeps crying on it like a silly moo - especially when she sends their son off to stay with ex-husband and his new bit o'totty)

Eamonn: 'Welcome back so you are, and now we're onto my very favourite bit of the show which is our regular fashion item and today we're going to be looking at...well, what are we going to be looking at Ruthie? I'm obviously a serious journalist and far too good for this sort of thing, so I am...'

Ruth: 'Yeah, we're going to be taking a look at the inverted pleat double thonged breast plate shirts that are so on trend at the moment, and our resident stylist Jason Gardiner is going to be talking us through some of the styles you can find on the high street - and he joins us now...hello Jason...'

Jason: 'Good Morning Eamonn, Good Morning Ruth...'

Eamonn: 'And unfortunately we're out of time on this now - but check out the website for more details and we'll be right back after this break...'

(Cut to second ad break - Have you had an accident at work, or a trip or fall - that wasn't your fault? If so, call the National Stupid Arse Hotline on 87635637498292y4838 for free, uncomplicated advice - you could make a claim and win or lose you'll still be a pillock...)

Ruth: 'Yeah - welcome back, now we're joined by Katie Miggins who is joining us today to talk about something that's affected her life for a number of years now, a little known but very serious condition called 'Daytimeitis' and Dr Chris is with her on the sofa...Good Morning, Chris - and welcome to you Katie...'

Chris: 'Hullo'

Katie: 'Hallo'

Eamonn: 'So Katie, take us right back to the start - you were diagnosed 5 years ago, when you were 27, so you were...'

Katie: 'Well no - It was actually 2 years ago when I was 34...'

Eamonn: 'Alright, missy - don't get cocky...so tell us a little bit about how this affects you...'

Katie: 'Well, Daytimeitis means I'm compulsively addicted to daytime television and I can't function without a regular fix of showbiz based, real life stories - ill conceived cookery segments and extortinately priced phone in competitions....'

Ruth: 'We appreciate how hard this is for you...and Dr Chris is with you now to explain a bit more about this condition - so Chris is there anything that can be done, medications, therapy etc?'

Chris: 'Well, there is yes...'

Eamonn: 'I just have to cut in there - we're out of time unfortunately, but if you'd like to know more about Daytimeitis then please long on to our website...and now for your second chance to win not 1, not 2, but 3 whole pounds and an all expenses paid trip to Minehead Butlins - then just watch this now...'

Sherrie Hewson: 'Would you like to live the high life? Would you like to be in this hotel, getting salmonella and having unsuitable relations with a holiday rep called Juan? Well, all this and more could be yours when you enter our big money giveaway competition all courtesy of This Morning and Ripoff Holidays INC. All you have to do to be in with a chance is answer this: 'What is the name of the wart type infection growth you get on your foot that can be caught by the side of swimming pools? Is it a) Verucca b) Berocca or c) Patrick Moore? - If you think you know the answer the just dial 089967352839337289439 (calls charged at £10 per minutecompetitionclosesat12.00pmandentriesleftafterthistimewon'tbecountedbutwillstillbecharged)

Ruth: 'Thank you very much Sherrie...and we'll be right back after this break...'

(Cut to more adverts - the hair colour one that uses that Bette Davis Eyes about 3 times, Cannon and Ball and their double glazed windows that still keep the cold out but still let their jokes through and Tena Lady - with the Grandma who can wear her linen trousers, pick up her Grandson and not piss herself)

Eamonn: 'Well, welcome back so you are and you join us at the Chef's Table with Gino D'Acampo who is today going to give us his I-talian twist on that British classic so it is, Bangers and Mash...now, Gino - are you going to have all the houswives up in arms with this, how can you improve upon the humble banger and a bit o'mashed potato, so you can can you...?'

Gino: 'Of course-a you can. I'ma gonna-a show you 'ow you can make-a these bangers go off-a with a pop-a! Ok, am I-a allowed to start now?'

Ruth: 'Yeah, you carry on - actually, really funny story about bangers while you're cooking
I actually cooked sausages and mash for Eamonn ooh about two nights ago now - and he said that the sausages looked like willies, it was so funny and our sides just ached from laughter...didn't they darling?'

Eamonn: 'They did so they did...'

Gino: 'So what I'm-a doing is pricking them all-a over with a fork, you like-a little prick Ruth?'

Ruth: 'No comment...'

Gino: 'And now-a I know we're rushed for time so I'm-a just going to put shit loads of garlic into the potatoes and mash-a them up with my masher...you like a big masher, Ruth?'

Ruth: *snorts*

Eamonn: 'Now come on, Ruthie - take this seriously so you will...are you going to have a little taste of Gino's sausage?'

Ruth: 'I might...but we're right out of time here, don't go anywhere - as we'll be back straight after the break when we're joined by Katie Price who's going to be chatting to us and performing her single which is sure to be a big hit...back after this...'

(Cut to final advert break - Stena line - where you can nip on the ferry, have a potted meat sandwich and pop off again an hour later. Cash For Stuff - where you can pawn all your belongings for 3 shillings and 6 pence to tide you over till next pay day and Morrisons - where this week's special offers are Tampax, Digestives and Captain Birdseye's Crispy Chicken Arses)

Eamonn: 'Well welcome back to the final part of the show and we're now joined by Katie Price who's going to tell us all about her latest thrilling career move into the music business aren't you Katie so you are?'

Katie Price: 'Um, yeah - and like, can I take this opportunity to say that that story in the papers what I done the other day, the one where I was done slagging Pete off and stuff well it's all a pack o'lies innit - I never done asking for the paps to come and take pictures at my weddin' blessin' and Pete is a good Dad apart from when he's like not and I want to make a story out of it - the kids like call Alex Daddy and stuff now, and we're gonna like be doing another ITV2 series with the cameras and stuff what's gonna be following us exclusively, and I can exclusively reveal it will be exclusive...'

Ruth: 'And you're going to be singing us out today aren't you? So, how hard was it to come up with the concept of the single - and is music something you're looking to go into long term?'

Katie Price: 'Um, yeah - well, some people what I know wrote it for me and stuff, and can I just say that what was said about me in the papers this morning about not bein' a good mum and suff it was all like lies and stuff - I took my kids to the park just this morning before I come here and that, I rang the papers to tell 'em, and I just left 'em there while I got in the car to come here - they'll still be there when I get back won't they?...'

Eamonn: 'Anyway - thanks for that Katie and now you're going to play us out...so here with her new single 'Piffle' is Katie Price...but before that join us tomorrow when we'll be talking to former Eastender's actor John Somebody on his exciting new role in The Bill which has just been axed - and we meet the man for whom taking a wash in the sink could prove fatal as he suffers from Ceramicophobia - fear of bathroom fittings...but now, the moment you've all been waiting for, Katie Price - take it away so you will....'

Katie: 'Oooh....baby....ooohh...I love you....ooooh I love your piffle...oooooh, it sexes me up...oooh, babbbbyyyy....ooooooh.....yyeaaaah, I love your piffle, it sexes me up....oooh babyyy....ooooh...I'm not a rubbish mum...ooh piffle baby...and pete's not a rubbish dad...oooh piffle baby ooh piffle me baby, ooooh yeahhhh i love your piffle baby oooh yeaahhh.'

END CREDITS

Don't Put Your Daughter On The Stage Mrs Worthington...

2010-07-21T09:19:00.000-07:00

So the Noel Coward song starts.

And oh how true it is. The story goes that when the late, permatanned Bob Monkhouse told his mother he intended to become a comedian she scorned him and said 'Don't be silly - people will only laugh...' he used to finish the story with 'Well, they're not laughing now...'

How many of us can tell stories like that? Of parents or well meaning friends that when told a secret ambition or plan for the future, merely rubbished the idea or dampened the flames of passion with a badly timed barb about it 'never working', 'you'll fall flat on your face', 'you'll be back with the tail between your legs in 6 weeks...' etc (incidentally, I don't have a tail to fit between my legs - because I am a girl, those well meaning people should have paid more attention in biology classes).

I was 4 years old when I made my stage debut. My first starring role was in the Hart Common Primary School Concert, and I was one of the 5 little speckled frogs - sitting on a speckled log, eating the most delicious grubs...yum yum (it's a classic children's song, please indulge me). I didn't have a costume - none of us did, but we all had to sit on a bench and jump off in turn while we were singing. I was only on the stage (it was actually a load of upturned crates painted grey) for about 3 minutes but I loved it. I loved the feeling of belting out a song at top volume and being silly.

My next appearance was somewhat less auspicious but nevertheless important. At 6 I was given an even bigger starring role. I was to be Queen Elizabeth II's Lady In Waiting at the End of Term School Pageant. I was thrilled to bits. I got a lovely white dress to wear and got to stand behind one of the BIG GIRLS from the top class and hold the train of her dress up as she paraded round the school hall. Unfortunately, a slight mix up occured with footwear and I was forced to wear a size of black pump too small for me - and the girl that put them on me put them on the wrong feet. This was ok until I got onto the stage and tried to walk properly. I tripped up the whole way down the platform, all the time trying to cover it up - and what should have been a serious and solemn part of the pageant was turned into a Keatonesque feat of character comedy. I shamed the headmistress. I shamed myself. I shamed the BIG GIRL from the top class who was playing Queen Liz and wanted to have a moment of glory. But I made people laugh. As much as I was embarrassed I noticed this.

You'd think that by then the headmistress would have been wise to this and not offer me any more starring roles in plays. But less than 12 months later I was given another very serious and solemn part in the following year's pageant. This time I was to play Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc? I'd never heard of her. Who was she? I couldn't even google her. I was 7 - if she wasn't on 'Why Don't You?' I didn't want to know about it. Anyway, I found out she was like a dead old historical person and stuff - she'd been burnt at the stake for something or other. I hoped that this wasn't some vile punishment for the previous midemeanour last year - forced onstage and set fire to infront of 100 dads with JVC Video-cameras. Fortunately it turned out otherwise. I was most unimpressed with my costume. Red tights and leotard, balaclava and toy breast plate and sword from the toy box. I was prevented from wearing pumps just in case there was another 'wrong foot' mishap. But I didn't want to play Joan. My second best friend was allowed to be Gracie Fields - she got to wear a nice little cocktail dress, headscarf and carry and aspidistra on stage. I wanted to be Gracie and sing 'Sally'. Meh. Luckily, this time the event passed without incident - although my tights were too big and I ended up looking more like Nora Batty of Arc than Joan.

It was not long after this that I was given my first real attempt at solo success. I'd been gagging for a chance to show off since my speckled frog routine - and while the other parts had been fun, as a critically acclaimed actor, they just weren't that much of a stretch.

Standing in the wings on the opening night I was breathless and dizzy with expectation. My public awaited. The stage was set and was to be all mine for a few moments. Unfortunately I was to be accompanied on stage. I had infront of me an empty wheelbarrow (borrowed from one of the dads on the proviso it was back in his garden shed before Juliet Bravo started) which I had to wheel on. Yes, that's right - I was playing the Irish purveyor of fishy treats Molly Malone. You know, from the song? 'As she wheeled her wheelbarrow, through the streets broad and narrow - crying cockles and mussels alive alive-o...' thankfully I had no shellfish with me. I had to go on stage and sing the song, wheel the barrow around, stop in the middle then walk off. Now, I'm sure that when Molly Malone was kicking about in Dublin in the 17th century she would have had a wooden wheelbarrow and not a hulking great metal thing with a vulcanised rubber tyre painted orange. I also presume that even though Molly was feeble and poorly and died of a fever she was slightly taller and heavier than me. So it was of little surprise that I walked out on stage, dwarfed by an unweildy metal purveyor of doom and promptly fell over. Still, I gamely carried on - did my song and walked off rubbing my knees and complaining to the stage hand that 'Olivier never got this treatment in Mother Goose...'

Once I got to secondary school - things were a bit more serious. I wanted to get involved in proper music and drama events. I took up playing trumpet (not sexy - I'd wanted to play the saxaphone, but there were none left in the instrument cupboard) and later classical guitar. I signed up for all the school concerts, was in the choir and more importantly auditioned for all the school plays.

The first year I was there we did 'Oliver!'. I'm not and never have been a fan of musicals - but Oliver is by far and away my favourite, and although I didn't get a huge role - I had real stage time for the first time in my life - a proper costume and make up job and got to see how a real production was put on, as professionally as it could be in a school. I played Bet - Nancy's prostitute pal and barmaid - and I got to be on stage with her in some crucial scenes and even got my own solo in the lesser known song 'Fine Life' which was brilliant. It really, really got my appetite whetted for more. I even managed a proper cockernee accent too, and not a Dick Van Dyke one.

Comedy praftfalls struck again soon after. I must have impressed - as the following year we did Bugsy Malone, and I got the lead female role - Blousey Brown. It was all going so well - too well. We'd got to the final night and nothing had gone wrong, apart from when I dried my lines on a scene in the second act, and sat there sighing, trying to eat a hot dog and remembering what I was supposed to say. Me and the lad playing Bugsy got into a fit of near hysteria - in a scene akin to Pete and Dud at the art gallery, when Peter Cook takes the mickey out of Dudley Moore who's trying to stifle laughter by stuffing more and more sandwich into his mouth...ANYWAY. The final scene of the final night - and my last big solo number. Right at the end, there's a pie fight - which was basically hundreds of paper plates covered with shaving foam that we went on and flung at each other. Some git thought it would be really funny to shove one in my face just before my last song - and I swallowed the lot. I don't know whether you've ever had the opportunity to eat shaving foam. If you ever get the chance - please don't bother, it tastes nothing like Big Top squirty cream and it wrecks your vocal chords. Nay, it verily freezes them. So there I was, passing out and gasping on the edge of the stage like a tuburcular orphan in the workhouse, my last big chance ruined. Meh. Again.

So that was it.

I didn't audition again. I stayed with the choir and kept my music up, but lost my confidence - which is really, really daft when you read it back.

I didn't do any more acting until I did my A Level in Theatre Studies. But that was about as successful as a comedy moment on Eastenders. It was a waste of 2 years as we had about 3 different changes of teacher and no real structure, by the time we got to exams there were only two of us left in the group - the teacher couldn't be bothered with us, we lost interest and it just wasn't worth the hassle of putting any effort in, hence I bombed my exam. But I'd badly wanted to do well, and badly wanted to carry it on at Uni. I just didn't get the result.

When I went to Uni I stuck to what I knew best - which was Literature. But I did a split degree in Creative Writing too - so tried to keep my hand in. I couldn't act - although at college I'd been told I was a great comedian and mimic, I couldn't do serious stuff for toffee - Victoria Wood skits, yes - Hedda Gabbler, no. It was here I found the joy of writing and seeing what I wrote being performed. We had to write our own plays, and every week one of us got 3 hours in which to showcase and discuss our work. This to me was such a joy, such an unbridled joy and pleasure that it took over everything in my life. Those 3 years at Uni were the best and most happiest of my life. I was writing, doing comedy here and there, I was with people I loved being with and permanently having my creative juices tickled and encouraged.

And then

Nothing.

I got to 21 and the need to work and earn money was more important than the need to write knob gags and have people laugh at them. So that was what I did. All that creative energy dried up and left me. I had seriously considered writing as a career - even trying to break into stand up comedy, something I desperately wanted to do. But I shelved it all in order to go and work in offices with similarly depressed people in suits - whinging about their kids and the price of bacon. I didn't have kids, so I just agreed with them about the bacon.

It still nags at me. It does. The fact that I've wasted an awful long time not doing what I wanted to - and not even seeing if I could give it a go. My parents have always been encouraging - so long as what I was suggesting could be a viable career and not just a pipedream (hence the title of this blog - they both said they knew I had some talent, but it wouldn't earn me enough money to live on and it was too precarious). I went into teaching - and indeed did teach for two years, but only to please them. I hated it. Well, I loved the teaching - but in many ways I wanted to get up there and make my students laugh rather than teach then the finer points of Frankenstein. In the end, I started to get poorly as I realised I just couldn't do it. I needed a stage and not a classroom.

I'm going to be 31 at the end of this year - and I do know that's not old. But I still have no direction in which to go. I just find myself floundering and not knowing where to turn. I feel like sometimes I'm burning with creativity - there's so much I need to write and say, so many funny things going on in my head and I need an outlet for them all. There is nothing in this life that gives me greater pleasure than making someone smile, or seeing someone laugh at something I say or do. If I can do that then I don't feel like I'm a complete failure.

I want to act, I want to do comedy, I want to write, I want to sing again, I want to feel the freedom and happiness I felt at Uni. There. I've said it now. But I don't know where to start with it all.

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 7

2010-07-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

Henry struggled to sit up in bed - and roared out in pain when his Groom of The Stool Sir Stephen Somebody-Or-Other tried to help him up from the accursed bedclothes. The reality was, Henry wasn't very well at all and had no idea how long he had left. He was over 50, his looks had long since faded and his legs were now so sore and gouty he could barely stand. The string of death and divorce he had left behind him was catching up, and any mention of a sixth wife was met by an instant all expenses paid trip to the Tower with a single super saver bus ticket to Tyburn for a day of sight-seeing, sandwiches and the scaffold.

Henry was past caring about the succession - he knew his days of wenching were over, but he longed for a Nurse maid and some gentle companionship to see out his life. If he had that, he could leave this earthly life in peace and go to meet his maker safe in the knowledge that he'd not murdered two of his ex spouses in vain.

Sir Edward Lightfoot knew not what to do. Who would want to share the King's bed in his final days? The yellow pus stains on the sheets and smell of rotting flesh were enough to put anyone off their Pop Tarts. Whoever it was going to be needed to have had their wits about them, and hopefully have had their nose cut off in some freak accident involving a Moulinex Coffee Grinder.

Edward pondered this over dinner in the banqueting hall. A meal was being held to celebrate the Feast of St. Groucho's day - the Patron Saint of Wise Cracks and Cigars and the court had gathered (minus the King, who had managed to get himself stuck in the Garderobe whilst having his morning slash) to eat, drink and make merry on this most auspicious of occasions. Whilst helping himself to another Partridge Finger he espied a demure, yet comely looking lady - soberly dressed, yet not without beauty at the other end of the hall. She was kneeling down and applying an Elastoplast to the knee of a little noble child who was crying because he had falled and banged his head on the trestle table with the bowls of Beef Monster Munch on it. Edward watched for a moment. If she could apply an Elastoplast and soothe the tears of a snotty little toddler - she'd surely be able to deal with an overweight, overbearing, smelly old pus filled angry ball of syphillis otherwise known as TEH KINGS.

Sir Edward replaced the half eaten Partridge Finger on his trencher, dabbed his mouth with his paper serviette and decided to go and find out more about this speshul laydee who maight be able to help the King see his last days out.

He cornered one of the Kitchen Hands who was bringing a bubbling vat of Vimto to the table.

'You...boy...HERE...' he demanded, brutishly
Quivering, the little boy almost spilled the hot, fruity beverage on his coarsely woven breeches - but made it to the table and over to Sir Edward with only one third degree burn

'Sir...' he said, frightened in case he was going to be sent to the dungeon again to have his hair pulled and balls flicked

'Tell me boy - and if you do, you shall have the crumbs from my pie...who ist that comely looking wench who applies the plaster to Little Lord Fauntleroy over there?'

'Sir, I know that lady to be Kateryn Parts sir...she is recently widowed for the second time and has a large dowry as well as lands and wealth of her own. She is desperate for a child and a new love to fill her empty, fruitless days spent mostly sewing mail bags and eating sweetmeats in her rooms....' said the young kitchen hand perceptively - having never met or heard of Kateryn Parts until he just made her up a moment ago - but he was HUNGRY and desperate for the few crumbs that Edward was offering him

'Thank you child, that was most informative - now run along and help yourself to pie...'

He needed no second asking, and took a running dive at the pie table splashing about in the melange of pork, pastry and fat.

++++

Kateryn Parts lowered her head - for shame she could not marry yet another ageing, elderly, old man. She wanted love, passion, excitement and an all inclusive holiday to Magaluf whence she could get smashed off her tits and end up in bed with an unsuitable man called Pedro.

She sighed, sighingly.

What was to be done? If she denied the King, she risked her life - and if she did his bidding, she still risked her life, if he rolled over on top of her during the night she'd be suffocated faw shaw. Since her last husband died, she'd been engaged in a delightfully fruity exchange of messages with a young courtier at...court...Sir Thomas Seesaw (who was dead Queen Jane's brother, y'know the one - she expired in her own mire of excrement after giving birth to HENRY'S ONLY SON...) and was desperate to put her hands inside his hose and have a good rummage around. For once, this was a chance for her to know what it was to have a young lover and to still be appreciated for what she was. But she knew in her heart of hearts there was no way she oculd get out of marrying King Pus Bucket - so, she adjusted her skirts, dried her tears and prepared to go and meet her future husband in his sick bed.

'Lead the way, Sir Edward..' she said 'Lead the way...'

++++

They spent their wedding night in bed. Not having sections of interpol - Henry was far too poorly for that, instead they had a pic-er-nic basket with ham and salad cream sandwiches, American Cream Soda and a mini choco-muffin each. After they'd eaten and Kateryn had rushed over to the open window to breathe in some fresh air they sat and discussed their future.

'I know I have not long left...' said Henry, 'I just need someone to care for me...'
'I know, my Lord' she said sadly
'I know this is not an ideal situation, either...'
'I know, my Lord' she said even more sadly 'Can we stop saying I know now?'
'Yes, we can...as you wish...' said Henry

And that was the end of that - Henry fell asleep, leaving Kateryn to idly flick through the Sky+ box until she alighted on a repeat run of 'Last of the Summer Wine' - she was pleased as it was the episode where Compo, Clegg and Foggy speed down a Yorkshire country lane in a bath tub, and then, hilariously end up under and open drain pipe and get soaked through to the skin! How she loved Roy Clarke's incisive writing!

++++

Henry was getting sicker by the day. Sometimes he was barely conscious - and when he was he kept shouting about Blancmange. Kateryn was doing her best - but she was exhausted with the constant nurse maiding, barely having time to eat her own meals or have a wash in order to attend to Bloated King Syphillis' needs. Every night she would fall into bed - seemingly to only have shut her eyes for a second, before he would be shouting for her to help him get up and into the Garderobe for his umpteenth pee of the night. This was no life.

++++

Kateryn jumped for joy. She had been waiting for this message for weeks. Sir Thomas Seesaw had left a note for her to go and meet him by the third oak tree on the left, near the outside bogs at the back of the palace. She didn't care that it was raining, the latrines were nearby and that it would be cold being pressed up against the bark of the tree. She just longed to see Thomas again (God, there's way too many Thomas' in these stories - next time I'm going to MAKE UP all the ruddy names myself instead of sticking slavishly to historical detail).

He looked even more delicious than he had done last time they'd met. He assured her that even though he'd slept with about 20 other women since she'd been married to TEH KINGS that he would wait for her until she was free and that he loved her like no other. He said the 12 bastard children he'd fathered would have no impact on their love and as soon as was possible they would marry and he would impregnate her with his rather fabulous seed. Kateryn was weak with desire. Just as they were about to plight their troth, her Nokia 1547 bleeped...

++++

In the end, it was quite peaceful. The King put up no fight. He fell in and out of consciousness before finally falling to his eternal rest in the arms of his sixth and final wife, Kateryn in the early hours of the morning. Even in death he stank - but the courtiers held their noses, washed his bloated corpse and dressed him as he had requested, in his Burberry tracksuit, hooded top and baseball cap and prepared him for his coffin.

Kateryn shed no tears. She had not loved him, had only loved Thomas and now Henry was gone she was free to marry again with indecent haste and get up the duff. But first there was the funeral to be gotten over.

The cortege made its way slowly through the streets of London (where they will show you something, to make you change your mind...) and ended up at the church were Henry was to be put to rest. The service was a long drony one where everyone gave thanks for his life, blah blah and the popular singer of the day Sir Elton John gave a heartrending performance of 'Tallow Candle in The Wind', which reduced all the mourners to tears.

Everyone repaired back to the palace for tea, sandwiches and trifle and as Kateryn waved bye bye to the last of the mourners (including the King's Aunty Irene who'd come all the way from Skelmersdale and wanted to be back in time for Heartbeat...) she reflected on this, hir third marriage and it's ending. Widowed for the third time - Kateryn was still only in her 30s. The promise of happiness with Sir Thomas was now not far off. She smiled happily at this thought, then remembered she was still supposed to be in mourning so had to force a frown.

++++

Less than two years later, Sir Thomas and his family were gathered round the open grave in the little church of St Rod, Jane and Freddy throwing clods of earth on his late wife Kateryn Seymour, nee Part's coffin. It was an inauspicious end, dead of Childbed fever (again - like, yawn and ting...) giving birth to their daughter.

The new King Edward (remember him, named Edward after Edward from Jedward?) had decreed that it be a national day of mourning as she was the King's final wife and had brought him so much joy bathing his bed sores and wiping his arse. King Edward was so upset - so upset indeed that he caught an ear infection and died himself not long after coughing greenies up in bed and moaning about the fact he'd never touched a booby.

King Henry's legacy carried on, in the form of his first born child Mary - known as Bloody Mary to her contemporaries and who had a lucrative and little known second career as a Dennis Waterman Tribute Act. Very often on her nights off she was down the pubs in Hackney selling whelks and singing the feem toon to Minder whilst all the punters clapped and sang along blissfully unaware that they were in the presence of their monarch. If they put one foot wrong, they'd know about it - she'd have them tied to a flaming wooden stake as soon as look at them, and indeed one man who dared criticise her rendition of the theme tune to the sitcom 'On The Up...' found out to his cost when he was rendered to a small pile of black ashes. THAT shut him up.

Mary died, childless and unloved - her Spanish husband Phillippeee ran back to Madrid lest he be forced to copulate with a woman who looked like she's spent her days driving round in a Ford Granada shooting at baddies.

And that just left Henry's second daughter. Carrot topped Elizabeth, little beloved girl of Anne Boleyn.

But that dear readers, is a whole other story for another time...

(At the time of going to press Dr Apple Von Strudel was recovering from a very serious nervous breakdown brought on by overwork and a fanciful imagination...our thoughts and prayers are with her for a speedy recovery....)

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 6

2010-07-19T09:20:00.000-07:00

Katherine HowHard was booooorrred. Totally booooorrred and ting. History was her least favourite subject and she had another hour to go before she could go out into the yard and flick acorns at Thomas Culpepper again. Flicking acorns was her thing, and she was the top of the class in it at Our Lady of the Tramp School.

But Thomas Culpepper though. He was well hot, innit. The way his short, curly dark hair fell in little ringlets around his forehead - his pale, slightly milky skin delicately dappled by the sunlight now it was Springtime. He had delicate, bony fingers that made Katherine ache with longing for him. The stolen moments they had had together - mostly behind the bikesheds when the schoolmaster's back was turned made her life worthwhile. She had once snuck him into her dormitory and hid with him under the bedclothes all night, playing Buckaroo and drinking small ale. How she LOVED him.

She was brought back to earth with a bump when she heard the voice of Mr Potato, her History Master shouting at her from the side of his interactive white board.

'Child - is there something you wish to share with us?' he bellowed 'I fail to see how there could be anything more edifying than my lecture on Richard the Lionheart and his Ford Cortina during the Crusades...'

'I crave your pardon, Sir' Katherine said meekly going back to reading the notes Mr Potato had handed out at the start of the lesson. She could see Culpepper from where she was sitting. Even the back of his head reduced her to a bubbling mass of butterflies. he arched a long, bony finger and ran it through the curls at the nape of his neck and she shuddered with delight. He turned round and smiled at her. She thought she might faint there and then.

++++

'I simply must have her' said Henry, chowing down on a cow leg.
'Majesty, she is very very young...' said Henry's new Lord Chancellor Edward Lightfoot.
'She is of marriageable age, and needs taking in hand...' Henry retorted through a mouthful of gristle and hoof 'I shall see that I am married to this fine filly if it's the last thing I do'
'As you wish, Majesty. How do you wish me to proceed?'
'You shall take a tour of Our Lady of The Tramp school tomorrow - find whichever class she is in and bring her to me. Thence we will be married hence.'

Edward gulped - he knew that Henry was on a hiding to nothing with this mission. He'd seen Katherine with Thomas Culpepper, seen the way they felt about each other. He knew his Majesty was about to be hurt and hurt badly by this slip of a girl, but was powerless to do anything about it. He had to do his job. He sighed. Unfortunately he was till gulping when he sighed and ended up having a coughing fit, which didn't look professional in front of The King. Henry looked at him like he was a half wit and ushered him away so he could continue with his cow.

++++

Katherine had no idea what was about to happen to her. She'd been taken away from Double Chemistry with Master Stink, put in one of the side rooms and told to wait quietly. She was used to being taken out of lessons for being rude, flicking the Vs or swearing at the teachers - but this time she really hadn't done anything and was feeling genuinely a bit frightened. She wished Thomas was there so he could put his arm round her.

The door opened, and she nervously craned to see who was coming in. She had never set eyes on Edward Lightfoot before - but he was about to become a permanent fixture in her life.

'Miss HowHard' he said 'A pleasure to meet you. I expect you're wondering who I am and why I'm here?'
'If it's about those penny chews I stole from the Tuck Shop, I can explain - see...a friend of mine was going into a diabetic eppy hyop type thing and needed sugar - so I stuffed a few of them into my...'
'I care not about your penny chews...' said Edward 'I come to speak to you on behalf of the King.'
'The King?' said Katherine, stunned
'Yes, The King. He wishes to meet with you this very day. I have come to escort you to the palace for tea and rumpy. I mean tea and crumpets...'

Katherine's mouth was agape. Why on EARTH would the King want to meet with her? And more importantly how would she get a message to Thomas to tell him their french kissing session behind the Pig bin would have to be cancelled...

++++

'Well, this is most cordial...' said Henry, passing Katherine a second slice of Tart.

In truth Katherine had no idea what 'cordial' meant - she thought it was something you mixed with water to get it down quicker, but wasn't sure whether he was offering her a drink or not...

'Katherine, do you know why you have been brought here?' he asked her
'For tea and crumpets?' she proffered, looking at him in a way that said 'I'm thick as pig shit'
'Well, yes - but did Edward explain to you what I want?'
'Erm...no...'
'Katherine we are going to be married - you are going to be my fifth wife and hopefully give me another son...'

Katherine gulped. The second slice of Tart hadn't been a good idea. Marrying Henry? He was like, old and ting. He certainly wasn't Thomas. But being Queen? Queen of England? Now that had a ring to it...

'Can I haz new gown?' she smiled sweetly
'You can have as many gowns and pearls and jewels as you want, my sweet...so long as you GIVE ME A SON...' he said, not realising he was shouting
'OK - Let me go and pack my bum bag and I'll be back in ten...' she said, springing up from her chair

Katherine could never resist clothes shopping.

++++

It had been 6 months. 6 whole months, and Katherine still wasn't pregnant. Henry had had no problems with Teh Floppies since Anne of Sleeves - so it MUST be Katherine that was at fault. 6 months was a long time for a fertile teen like her to go and not be with child.

++++

Katherine slammed the door of her chamber shut - alone at last and only ten minutes to go before the King came to her demanding sections of interpol with her. She HATED it. The only thing that got her through it was closing her eyes and imagining Thomas was with her instead.

She'd sent word to Thomas a few nights ago that she wished to see him, but had no word back. He must have found someone else to get off with by now - but still, she had new shoes and a gown so she thought she was doing ok. It was just her grubby old husband she couldn't stand.

She rifled through her dressing table draw until she found what she needed. This - this beautiful thing was saving her from having her having a horrid yukky baby. She kissed it then ran off into the garderobe to, as the instructions on the packet said 'insert into thine own privy parts at least ten minutes before sections of interpol take place - do not remove for a further 24 hours after last jiggies...' Good old Tudor physicks and their wonderful prophelactics - were saving her from getting all mothery.

++++

Thomas Culpepper was MISSING Katherine. He'd carved her name into the oak tree they used to snog under. He'd knobbed himself silly - but still couldn't get over her. He understood why she'd married The King, but was put out majorly. He thought they were going to run off together. If she came back now though, he'd have her like a shot.

What caused him to do it he'll never know - but an hour later he found himself shimmying up the drainpipe near to the bedroom he knew Katherine slept in. It was ludicrous, she could have been in there with the King, but he didn't care - he needed to see her now and get her away from this horrid man. He tore his hose on the wall - and grazed his shin on the mortar such was his urgency - and when he made it to the window ledge and looked in, it was all worth it - there she was, resplendent in green - and sewing mail bags for the poor and needy.

He knocked.

Katherine craned her neck and almost burst with delight when she saw him! Oh! Thomas! How HAWT he looked.

She let him in...

++++

Edward Lightfoot shut the door of the Queen's chamber. He'd seen quite enough through the slit in the door to realise that she was up to no good with Thomas. He felt sorry for her in many ways - she 15, bright, young, beautiful and god damn not in her petticoat - and the King, bloated, red faced, gouty and full of stink weren't exactly a match made in heaven. She just wanted some fun. But this fun had just got her in serious trouble. Edward put his cap on, gravely pulled the neck of his mac up, stifled his erection and made his way to the King's chamber. This was going to be heartbreaking.

++++

Thomas Culpepper was the first to go to the scaffold - and Katherine was made to watch. He looked up to thw window of her ante-chamber and made an 'I heart you...' sign as she watched on. He was blindfolded, led to the block and the end came swiftly - but not before he'd decried the King as ' a big bastard' - to the shock of the crowd. His head and body were wrapped in linen and taken away to be buried.

Katherine sat in her chair, weeping and lamenting, beating her chest and saying 'It's not fair, innit...' over and over much to the consternation of her ladies. She plaited and unplaited her hair, refused the chicken nuggets and beans she's been sent for lunch and generally behaved petulantly. Why did she have to have her head chopped off because she's been forced to marry a horrid old man? WHY? It was doin' her head in, boi.

Henry's decision was final though. Finding the prophelactic in her make up bag was the last straw. Tudor women were supposed to sprog off uncomplainingly, not prevent the yellowing, bilious seed of their men from entering their wombs. This was women's lib of the wrongest sense and must be punished. Lip gloss and eyeshadow was one thing - dutch caps made from birch leaves and spider's webs were another matter entirely. No, he was doing the right thing - this time tomorrow she would be dead, her and her silly little head parted and the cap could be burnt in the fire for posterity.

++++

Katherine knelt down on the scaffold, had her eyes covered with a scarf and felt for the chopping block. The executioner had been cutting the garlic and onions for his ragu bolognese on it an hour previous, so she just followed the whiff and all was well. Laying her neck down her final words were 'Can you tell Stacey in form 2B that my Rimmel nail varnishes are hers if she wants them...' and the deed was done. She hadn't even had chance to say that Shelley who once stole her hair scrunchy on the way to the swimming baths most certainly did NOT have first dibs on her Lancome Juicy Tubes. But it was too late.

Katherine was gone.

Henry was alone.

Again

Sigh

He had had enough. He was in his fifties now - getting on, his looks were shot, his leg was full of pus and he needed someone to look after him. Cracking open another can of Tennents Super T he felt moribund. There wasn't even anything on telly he wanted to watch - bar another repeat of The Equalizer.

In another part of the castle, a shy, demure, recently widowed lady Katherine Parts repaired the damage to the last of Henry's night shirts. She sighed a small sigh, feeling small and alone and turned in for the night.

Henry didn't know it yet, but his next wife was closer than he thought

TBC....

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 5

2010-07-18T09:22:00.000-07:00

'But...But I don't vant to go to Engerland...' wailed Anne of Sleeves as she was bundled on to her flight with only a very small holdall and her maidservant Helga for company. 'I don't vant to be merried to Henery VIII (I am I am, I'm Hennery The Eighth I am...) why mist I be treeted like thees....' Anne had learnt English from her 'Little Book of 'Allo 'Allo' phrases (with a foreword by Gorden Kaye and the bloke who played the German officer who went 'tler' and saluted a lot). she hoped it would be up to scratch, and that Henry would be impressed with her grasp of the language.

Nervously she inspected her in-flight meal. She hoped that all English food wasn't going to be as bland as the meal she had been served - she was so starving by the end, she decided to eat the little plastic pots the UHT milk came in.

++++

Henry was pacing up and down at Heathrow. His retinue was standing well back lest he had a fit of temper and sent them all to the Tower. He had been in a rage since he learned of Anne's visit to England - nerves they had all assumed, after all he still needed to complete the line of succession and realise the dream of 'an heir and a spare' and was desperate for Anne to fit the bill.

'When will this blasted flight land?' he demanded to know, demandingly.

Just then a voice came over the tannoy announcing that Anne's flight had landed and she was about to enter, after she'd had a wee and straightened out her kirtle. Henry's face broke out into a broad, pudgy smile - soon, soon he would be impregnating a new laydee.

++++

The atmos at court was tres miserable. Anne's head was bent low, as she tried to fight back the tears of misery that choked every mouthful of pork pie she had tried to force down. Henry was not impressed. This was not the lady in the portrait he'd received. He'd been promised another flaxen haired beauty - slightly big of bappage but still innocent looking. What he'd actually been presented with was a slightly dumpy lady who looked like she had two haggis stuffed down her top. How was he expected to procreate with this? Sir Thomas Pocklington had a hell of an explanation to give.

Anne was also similarly unimpressed. She had been told Henry was a strapping, vigorous man mountain and that she would 'definitely, definitely' be attracted to him. As soon as she clapped her eyes on him she knew it wouldn't work. He was gouty, pouty and shouty - and his leg was badly pustulated and swollen. It made her heave. There was no way she was putting out for him. NO WAY. She was going back to speaking German and pretending she did not know what the words 'will you marry me?' meant.

'I cinnot stay heer. He is horrebl and he smells of things you can't even buy yet...' moaned Anne to Helga

'What is she saying?' said Henry 'I must know...'

Thomas Pocklington knew full well what Anne was saying. He had taken the same 'Allo 'Allo Language Course - but in Correspondence form. He'd had some lovely tapes that featured the voice of Herr Flick of the Gestapo on them. Apparently all Germans liked Sausage. So he knew all and could read Anne like a book. What to do though - how to tell Henry? Should he cover up and lie? or face the wrath of his Master by telling him Anne thought he smelled like a 5 day old sofa bound Pot Noodle with fluff on.

'She's saying she can't wait to be alone with you - and that you meet all her expectations and wildest dreams...'

'Really?' said Henry, surprised. Maybe there was life in the old dog yet - perhaps he had been too harsh on Anne. He buffed his nails on his hose and admired himself in his goblet. Not bad for 40-odd, still most of his own teeth and only one case of Knob rot in all the time he'd been wenching.

Anne by now was racked with plaintive sobs, and was having to use the gingham table cloth from the trestle table to blow her nose on. Henry took this as sign of her undying gratitude at having been brought to England and was touched. Although he still wasn't massively attracted to her he thought he'd better make the best of a bad job and just get the whole marriage thing out of the way so they could get jiggy wit' it.

++++

Anne and Henry were alone at last.

The marriage had taken place very quietly and quickly so they could get on with the business of begatting heirs.

But when it came to it Henry had an attack of what his Physick described as 'Teh Floppies'. He just couldn't do it. He tried thinking about boobs, tried imagining Olivia Newton John everything - but nothing happened down there. Anne was similarly perplexed and had no idea what was going on. She'd always been taught that if a man and a woman laid on the same bed together then that constituted jiggies. They'd been on the same four poster bed, therefore in her mind she could now possibly be pregnant. But how did one tell? Her mother had always said that she knew she was pregnant because 'she got a right bad craving for bratwurst...' but Anne had never liked sausage, so how would she be able to know?

The following morning, one of Anne's new English ladies - Marge or Madge or something came to inspect the Royal sheets.

'Tut tut tut' she said, looking Anne in the eye 'Could he not get it up then? There'll be no need for Daz and a boil wash HERE tonight...' and she laughed mockingly...

Anne had no clue what was going on, so she smiled and said 'We 'ad - ow you say ' a fun time...but now eef you weel excuse me, I need a wee...' and with that she dashed off to the Garderobe.

Marge/Madge sighed and carried on stripping the bed. It was obvious what had gone on here. A big fat nothing - and if it carried on like this Henry would be doing away with yet another wife.

++++

'This simply cannot go on...' Henry said - banging his fists on the table. 'Not only have I got Teh Floppies but I'm also right bunged up since we started eating all that Saeurkraut stuff....' he said, pulling his hose out of his crack. 'Question is, what are we going to do? This cannot continue...I cannot make love to a woman that makes Lady Anne Widdecombe (spinster of this parish and keeper of the gargoyles) look like Elle McPherson - whoever she is...'

'My Lord, if I'd known Lady Anne was going to be so displeasing to you I would never have suggested you marry her. She gave a very favourable account of herself in Germany and seemed to be very keen on you when we showed her your portrait...' and with this Sir Thomas Pocklington reproduced the portrait of Henry, which was basically his body with a small photo of Earl Brad Pitt's face stuck on with UHU, very badly. It was even peeling at the corners and everything. How Anne didn't suss he would never know.

'You sent her THIS?' Bellowed Henry, so loud that it loosened the mortar in his Bridgework. 'What is the meaning OF THIS?' he bellowed again.

'We wanted to create the right ambience...and we felt Earl Pitt would seal the deal as t'were...' said Sir Thomas

'Right, that's it - Guards - take Sir Thomas to the Tower - he's to have his head struck off at 7.45 tomorrow morning, just before GMTV starts...and I will brook no ripostes...'

And with that, the Guards took him off - to have his head struck off before GMTV started the following morning. Henry brooked no ripostes - and byt the follwing lunchtime Thomas' head was food for the gulls on Tower Bridge.

++++

It was customarily decided )after Henry had repented on cutting Sir Thomas' head off for about 5 seconds) that as there was no extenuating circumstances against Anne that he would merely divorce her. As his case of 'teh Floppies' was still ongoing and the marriage had not been consummated they could remain friends - he would send her away and they would say no more about it. Besides, he had spotted another fine filly in Anne's retinue - someone for whom he thought he could definitely 'get it up' for...little Katherine How-Hard. A comely little wench - young, vibrant and with a most pleasing disposition. He'd seen the way she always gave Anne an extra Roastie on a Sunday, and the way she playfully slapped men's arses as she went round collecting empties - and felt sure she would go for him - an ageing, stinking brute who sometimes weed himself in the night. What wasn't there to love?

He simply had to have Katherine.

Katherine was blissfully unaware of the King's attention was on her. She was more interested in Master Thomas Culpepper who she had been meeting round the bikesheds for a Woodbine and fingering session every night for the last month or so. He was HAWT. And he thought she was HAWT. They spent hours texting each other and ting - and she really really wanted to get off with him proper and stuff. She'd even like, carved his name into her pencil case - the one that she took into double Maths and Mr Hollinshead their tutor had caught her like doing it and like had caned her and like everything. But she didn't care...like.

With almost indecent haste, Anne was bundled out in a Hackney carriage and sent away to a new palace of her own as 'The King's Sister' where she was to live in relative comfort and luxury until she died, in terrible agony and pain some years later - without ever having known that you had to actually have a bloke's willy in you to have lost your virginity.

++++

Henry was mooning about over Katherine. Katherine still had no idea. But she was about to find out - as Henry played his trump card and made his move toward her in the quest for his spare..to go with his heir...

TBC...

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 4

2010-07-17T09:18:00.000-07:00

It was a surprisingly chill day considering it was May. That also rhymed. Anne Berlin was waking up after having not slept in her plush but sparse cell in the Tower of Londons. Her ladies in waiting all bar two - Madge and Thingy - had been banished from her and sent back to wait on the new Queen in waiting (there was an awful lot of waiting in those days) Jane Seesaw back at the Palace.

Charges had been swiftly brought against Anne and followed by a short show trial at the Crown Court which was televised over three consecutive nights inbetween a Coronation Street omnibus and a repeated episode of Taggart (the one were Taggart is stabbed through his doublet and hose with a rusty scythe and The female one - I can never remember her name, but Blythe Duff plays her - has to wash the wound clean with a can of McEwan's Export). Anyway, so yeah - the show trial. Anne wore her best and most sober outfit, a smart monochrome gown with a pearl necklace and some funky court shoes from Freeman Hardy and Willis. Anne stood before the court accused of commiting adultery with five men, one of whom turned out not to be a man at all, but a woman dressed up as a kitchen hand who had been sent from Yorkshire to toss the turnips. Anne of course had never set eyes on any of the men she was accused of setting eyes on - she knew in her heart this was all an elaborate ruse by Henry to get rid of her, but she didn't think he would see it through. As she sat blithely looking at her elegantly manicured nails she expected any moment that a camera crew would burst in, followed by John Le Barrowman, the simple court jester whom Henry so admired and announce that indeed she was free to go.

But it didn't happen.

As the third night of the trial approached Anne's optimism sank - she also realised, in her failure to take the questioning seriously that answering 'yeah yeah yeah' and rolling her eyes at every available opportunity probably hadn't done her any favours either.

Judgement was swift and harsh. Sir Tobias Bigballs, Chief Justice and Keeper of the Mint Balls passed sentence on her gruffly - telling her that she was to be taken to the Tower and to await death by however the King decreed.

Anne sank into her chair, defeated, deflated and other words beginning with d. So that was it. She really was to die for not having had any affairs. Who would look after her carrot topped little girl when she was gone? Admittedly she hadn't laid eyes on her since she was a week old and sent her to the wetnurse - but Elizabeth, or Elizabeth as she was known affectionately to her would now be without a mother. She asked to be permitted to see her daughter one last time, but the answer came back as no. Elizabeth was busy with her Tweenies dolls and would not have time to see her. A second request was filed - but again turned down, this time Elizabeth was being disinherited from the line of sucession and would not be allowed to talk to anyone bar the woman who came in to delouse the wall hangings every six weeks.

So here she was, in the Tower. Today was the day of her execution. Henry had shown mercy by permitting an expert swordsman from France to perform the deed. Anne had been grateful for this, to have such a happy ending to the lopping off of her head. It pleased her greatly to know that at the age of 36 her husband was going to murder her for sleeping with men she hadn't slept with. It cheered her so much she skipped up from bed - ate a big bowl of Shreddies and had done her hair by 6.45am.

At 7.00am a knock came to the door. Anne's sobbing ladies-in-waiting opened the latch to be greeted by the priest who was to take her to the scaffold. Poised, she walked away from the prison room for the last time and out onto Tower Green. A crowd of onlookers - mostly sympathetic to her had gathered to watch her head roll off onto the floor. A few of them clapped and cheered her. Anne made a short speech in which she thanked her mother, her father and everyone who had made the motion picture of her life possible. She thanked the production team, the make up artists - but most espeshully the writer - who had made it all possible in the first place and without whose vision and foresight none of the above would have been possible. Then she snapped out of it, knelt down, took off her head-dress and smiled for the camera. Just as she was adjusting her hair, the swordsman stepped in and whipped her head off.

++++

Meanwhile, in a small church nearby Henry was waiting for the nod that his previous wife was dead so that he could marry his next girlfriend. Naturally, Jane was apprehensive. Catherine of Arrogant had been banished, dying a slow death in a draughty castle - Anne Berlin's head had just been seperated from her body, thus to say she was 'shitting bricks' was putting it mildly.

Sir William Ferrers put his head round the door of the chapel, and winked at Henry - this being the signal for 'wife number two dead, proceed to bint number 3, do not pass go, do not collect £200'. Hurriedly the two were married and soon proceeding back to the Palace for crumpets, tea and rumpy.

++++

Jane had had to shut her eyes during their first bout of marital intercourse. Henry by now was getting a bit gouty. Still good looking and ting, but gouty. Shutting her eyes made it easier to stand. She had a wifely duty to perform now, so if she shut her eyes and imagined it was Chris Tarrant it made it so much better. Henry was oblivious to all this, merely content to be ploughing his way into another fine filly with the hope finally of begetting a son. Mary and Elizabeth were fine daughters to be sure, but neither of them would ever be able to sit on the throne, men did that as it was a manly thing. So a son was needed and by jolly jolliness Jane would give him one of it killed her in the process!

Henry rolled off her, turned out the bedside light and fell into a deep sleep, punctuated only by two pee stops during the night - both times disturbing Jane who was frantically trying to usher the spilled seed from Henry's ageing and withered manhood as far up her ladygarden as possible. The sooner she got 'with child' the sooner he could go back to wenching with anything that winked at him (this included a mussel that had opened and closed on his dinner plate once...such was his ardour, he had it there and then with all the members of his court watching) and he would leave her alone.

She didn't have to wait long. Once, it would appear, was all it took - and very soon her growing bump was difficult to hide. Henry did everything he could to help Jane. He stayed out of the way - he slept with other women and never visited her once during her confinement.

Jane craved fresh air and exercise. She'd been trapped in this stifling apartment for a month now - no daylight allowed in and only back issues of 'Petticoat and Shift' magazine to read. She was increasingly bored by the tittle tattle within the pages - the problem page was a particular bore 'I think my husband has turned our pig sty into a brothel...what should I do?' and 'Is it ok to freshen ones privy parts with a decoction of arsenic and jelly babies?' were two of the more stupid questions asked. She longed for the baby to arrive then she could be off out in the garden boring everyone with her flaxen hair and wistful stares...

She didn't have long to wait. Later that afternoon while she was finishing an article on 'The Best Way to Entice-eth a Man to your Bedchamber' her waters broke and soon were trickling hell for leather down the side of the bed.

Her ladies in waiting - Madge and Thingy (who'd been drafted in to replace the other Madge and Thingy who'd waited on Anne Berlin) rushed to Jane's aid - with their own inimitable Tudor style - and immediately begain sponging her down with rosewater and eau de turnip.

The labour laboured for monny an hour. Jane was becoming delirious and grabbing the now sweaty and pus filled bedsheets. Still no babby came. Henry had been informed of what was happening - but merely shrugged his butch shoulders and said 'yeah, whatever' and carried on chowing down on a bit of dead cow.

Some 36 hours later, a now half dead Jane was delivered safely of a son. A son. When Henry was informed he immediately fell to his knees with relief. At last he had a real heir, someone to carry on the wenching, stenching and stinking when he had gone.

'Lord be praised...' he exclaimed as he made his way to see Jane - who was now propped up in bed with tea, toast and full access to the remote control for the TV.

'My beautiful wife...' he said, caressing her face and moving her sweaty flaxen locks out of her sweaty, flaxen face 'We shall call him Edward - after Edward from Jedward...' said Henry, smilingly.

Jane merely smiled. She didn't say much. A woman of few words or facial expressions. She merely nodded her head and carried on munching her toast. Giving birth was hungry work!

++++

Henry nodded to the Chaplain. The Chaplain nodded to the Carpenter, signalling it was time for him to come and nail the lid down on the coffin.

Jane had expired just a week after the birth of Edward, named after Edward from Jedward. She contracted childbed fever from a selection of unwashed hands that had been rootling round in her bits. Henry had of course reacted with his customary grace and had all the woman who had attended her taken out and burned at the stake, their wizened and charred bodies used to mulch the potatoes in the garden that hadn't been brought over by Sir Walter Raleigh yet.

But, though Jane, his flaxen haired beauty was dead - she had left him the most amazing legacy in their son, Edward, named after Edward from Jedward (that's not going to get old is it?). This babe in arms looked just like his flaxen haired mother, with flaxen hair. Henry very rarely left the young boy out of his sight apart from when he never saw him for months on end, or went out huntin'. The little Pwince was kept in a tightly protected apartment, scrubbed clean three times a day in case infection got in and killed him. He was only allowed to eat the finest cake known to humanity and was triple tested to avoid poisoning attempts. As a result, he often went hungry - as by the third mouthful most of his piece of delcious cake had already been troughed by one of his servants.

He was a rumbustuous child, liking rough and tumble - but Henry did not like this. Rough and tumble would be acceptable for a spare son, but not for his sole heir. At certain times of day Henry had the child taken away and wrapped in a Boots own brand Cotton Wool Pleat, to prevent any chafing occuring which might lead to sores developing and an early death. They had a panic on when one of Edward's nurses found him chowing down on a stray bit of cotton fluff and nearly choking, but disaster was averted when he managed to wash it down with a big glass of Ribena, and the nurse who had saved his life was rewarded with a cash prize and a hat made from stuff.

A new problem had of course arisen. Henry now had a strapping son - but the succession was by no means secure. Of course, he needed a new wife. God, this is getting boring now. But anyway, he needed a new wife.

The problem was, many English noblewomen or well to do types had seen what had happened to his first three wives and suddenly didn't fancy being involved with this rather portly, gouty, stinkingly ulcerated pustule ridden arse bucket of a man. Henry now had no choice but to look further afield and thus sent his most trusted second in command Thomas Pocklington abroad, with the court artist Hans Tohimself to find and bring back a new wife that he could maul about with...

He had high hopes. High, high hopes.

A few short weeks later, a series of flattering portraits arrived by recorded delivery. Henry perused them at leisure while he had his eggy bread and bull's arse one morning. He lolled back in his chair staring at the pictures unable to decide. None of the women exactly got his codpiece wagging - so he decided to have a game of swapsies.

He invited Sir William Ferrers to come in, rearrange the portraits, turn them over and then shuffle them about. Henry would then pick one and whoever his gouty, fat, pork sausage fingers landed on he would marry.

Sir William took his time, shuffling re-arranging and postulating. Eventually he bid the King to turn round and pick.

After some deliberation, Henry plumped for the first portrait on the left. He bid Sir William turn it over - and then looked as his new bride was revealed.

There was to be a new love match between England and Germany. Henry was to marry Anne of Sleeves...

TBC...

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 3

2010-07-16T09:28:00.000-07:00

Anne Berlin was sitting in the Solar with Queen Catherine of Arrogant and some other ladies in waiting whose names I can't be bothered to make up, but I think one of them was called Madge or something.

Anyway, she was sitting in the Solar with Queen Catherine and they were all sewing - Henry had been good enough to buy all the Queen's retinue a subscription to 'Ye Olde Cross Stitch Magazine' which was a 12 piece part work with FREE needle, thread and pattern every week. The latest edition was a detailed piecework on the Battle of Bosworth field and Anne had been set the tricky task of cross stitching Richard III's 'Kingdom for A Horse', complete with severed head detail and horse turds. Inevitably, her mind was wandering onto the stolen moments she had been having with the Queen's husband - the King, and she blushed as she remembered the time he pressed her up against the radiator cover in the Banqueting hall, crushing her kirtle and creasing her wimple beyond recognition. She had tried to explain it away at dinner the same evening by telling everyone she'd fallen over whilst performing a tricky move on her Virginals - and she thought she'd got away with it. Her sister, Mary - already the mother of a bastard son of the Kings, knew better though and shot her a knowing glance whilst trying not to spill the Sauce Madame on her skirt.

'Pray tell us what is causing the flush in your cheeks, good lady...' asked the Queen, who was still pale and pastry - sorry, pasty after her latest confinement had ended badly when she gave birth to a turtle and not the boy the King had hoped for.

Anne snapped out of her dreaming, and noticed that all eyes were on her, including the beady eyes of her sister, who was smirking and flicking cotton threads off her shoes.

'Why, my lady I was simply remembering a joke I heard whilst taking the sandwich order to the kitchens earlier on...' she gulped, aware she was stuttering.

'And are you going to share it with us?' opined the Queen, her fat fingers troubled by the slim needle she was holding

'I'm afraid I can't...it was an awfully rude one about parsnips and Hildegaard of Bingen's backside...'

'Cease at once!' bellowed the Queen 'We shall have no bawdy talk like that in my sewing room. If you want to listen to smut like that I shall send you to work as a spit roaster with that naked boy in the fire room...'

'I'm sorry my lady' said Anne, curtseying - which was made all the more difficult by the fact she was sitting down and had half her petticoat up her crack.

Silence descending on the room, punctuated only by the sound of Mary Berlin sucking on a Murray Mint.

++++

Anne heard the door to her chamber opening - she quickly stuffed the lastest love missive from the King into her pants and busied herself by brushing the reeds on the floor. It was her sister Mary, the other Berlin girl (tm) .

'He's no good in bed you know...' said Mary bluntly
'So YOU say...' retorted Anne, pouring herself a goblet of wine and sipping at it
'It's true. I only managed to conceive our bastard son by slipping underneath him while he was doing his Seargent Major jumps'
'This isn't about sex, it's about a meeting of minds...' said Anne
'Sure' tutted Mary
'He sends me letters, he tells me how bewitching I am'
'I think you're confusing 'bewitching' with 'bitching'...handwriting never was his strong point'
'You're just jellors because it's me he wants and not you anymore'
'Been there and done it, ducky - got the t-shirt' and indeed she had - she lifted up her velvet gown to reveal her 'I've had Hennery the Eighth, I have' t-shirt.

Anne sulked.

++++

It was late at night and Queen Catherine was sitting up in her four poster bed, idly fingering the net curtains - she pondered whether Acdo really would wash them whiter or not, but then remembered it hadn't been invented yet. Henry entered the room in his nightshirt - fresh from not having a wash or shave. He grumpily climbed into bed beside her, muttered something about a war with France or something and promptly fell asleep, snoring loudly. 'Great' thought Catherine. Another thrilling evening for me counting the loose threads in the wall hangings again....

++++

Catherine woke to an empty bed again in the morning. Henry was up and gone as early as possible these days, pausing only for a light breakfast of 17 Grouse and a flaggon of ale. She sighed, sighingly and prepared to rise.

There was an unceremonious knock at the door - followed by a quick entry - by the King's very own right hand man William Ferrers - now Sir William, after his pleasing work on the tricky question of whether or not it was ok to execute someone for picking their nose and wiping it under the trestle table at a stae banquet (answer, yes it was ok - but only if the bogey measured more than 0.5 cms).

'My lady, I am here to tell you that the King no longer wishes you to share his bedchamber, to stitch his shirts or to like, have sex with him and ting...you are to vacate the premises by the time he is back from hunting at 5.00pm. And you've to take your rotten Spanish Onions with you..'

Catherine stared at Sir William, dumbfounded. Her onions were most certainly not rotten. In her shock, she realised her chemise had fallen open, revealing her slightly withered yet still rounded bosom. Remembering her Catholic teachings - she quickly covered up, but left a little nipple enticingly on show.

'I suppose I'd better get my Samsonite off the wardrobe then...' she said, mournfully...

++++

Queen Anne installed herself on the throne. She'd been looking forward to this piss all day - it was hard work being Queen and not being able to sneak off for a quick one when you were bursting. She'd drunk so much Mead at the Wedding Celebration she feared she would piss herself before she got to the matrimonial bed, but had managed to hang on long enough.

Just as she was wiping with her dock leaf she heard the bedchamber door open and in strode her new husband the King. Looking very dapper still in his Morning suit and carnation button hole.

She hurriedly climbed into bed and awaited his hot throbbing member, as was customary on wedding nights.

++++

9 months exactly to the day later, Anne Berlin was delivered of a carrot topped baby girl. Which was dreadful seeing as she'd ticked the 'dark haired boy' category in the 'Mail Order Baby Catalogue' and had elected to pay 20 florins per week for 52 weeks. Henry was not best pleased. He showed his displeasure by lopping the head off a random peasant while he was on his morning hunt and using his entrails as bait.

He'd already moved on. Pretty, petite Jane Seesaw had caught his eye one night over the stuffed guinea fowl and he had not been able to think of anyone but her since Anne had failed to give him the son he craved. Jane was totally unlike Anne in every single way. She was small, fair haired and much easier to tread on.

The problem was getting rid of Anne. She was firmly entrenched in the marital bed - and was using all her feminine wiles to keep him there. That was ok when he was up for rumpy - but sometimes he just wanted to climb under the horsehair duvet and have a good scratch at his nads without requests for attention.

He put this to his second in command - a sporting young oaf, Lord Thomas Pocklington - and asked him how he should 'get shut' of Anne now her worth as a wife was slightly less than a week old bowl of pottage.

'Adultery sir. Accuseth her of adultery-eth' he said
'Adultery?'
'Yes, adultery' Tomas replied, getting sick of saying the word 'adultery' 'I am sure, sir we could find someone who ist willing to 'put-out' and entrap her...if no-one is willing, I am sure we can be creative about a dropped hanky here, a lowered glance there...and have you set up with fair Jane Seesaw in no time at all...'
'Brilliant...' said Henry, slapping Thomas on the back and knocking him sideways

And thus a plan was hatched. Unbenknowest to Anne, blissfully unaware as she powdered her nipples, that her fate was about to be sealed.

Meanwhile, Jane Seesaw was biding her time, brushing her flaxen locks and holding her farts in - waiting, waiting for the time when the King would heave his lumpen, swollen body into bed with her and corrupt her youthful, delicate flesh with his wanton and yellow seed.

TBC....

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 2

2010-07-14T09:26:00.000-07:00

King Henry VIII pensively looked out of his window down towards the moat where he'd been casually drowning peasants the very same morning. In just a few moments time he would be meeting the woman that would hopefully become his future wife, sex slave and all round punch bag. He had heard so much about this wanton Goddess Catherine of Arrogant that he hardly dared hope she was going to be as wonderful as his Lord Chancellor William Ferrers had promised. He had, of course, left all the negotiations to him - texts and voicemails had been thick and fast between the King's camp and Arrogant's family, at long last they'd agreed a mutually convenient time to meet for a light snack and some alcoholic beverages.

The time was fast approaching - and out of the corner of his eye Henry spied the Arrogant family's Mitsubishi Shogun hurtling toward the castle at breakneck speed. William Ferrers burst in

'My Lord - your piece of hot rumpy is here...'
'So I see, Ferrers...we must make haste, lest she think I am a poor host' Henry said, marching past Ferrers and having one last scratch at his tackle before he left the room.

++++

'My Lord...thank you for your kindness, but I couldn't possibly eat another barmcake...' burped Catherine, gratefully full after her long journey. She'd already eaten two of the big blighters - one with cheese and the other with porpoise, all washed down with a goblet of mead with an umbrella in it, a trick Henry had picked up the last time he'd been to the Spanish court in 1507, for Paella and a poolside Donkey riding experience.

'I hope make love like you eat..?' said Henry, giddy with the possibility of copulating with this buxom Spanish wench - who was still in mourning for his late brother Arthur, who was still dead.

Catherine merely blushed and pretended not to understand - although she did fully. If she was going to become Henry's bitch she was going to do it on her terms this time. Marriage to Arthur had been deadly dull - literally. Him expiring on her just after they'd done jiggy-jigs hadn't been much fun, and even though she was a pious and devout woman, she still wanted a jolly good seeing to sometimes. Not only did Henry look like he was up to the job, but he also seemed to want to be up to the job.

She put down her napkin and Henry took her hand and led her away from the trestle table so they could go and sit in his lean-to and talk in private. The court was a-buzz with gossip while the servants cleared away the remains of the barmcakes and the untouched trifle. William Ferrers leaned backed in his chair, looking very pleased with himself - and slapped the arse of Maisie Moorcross, the young wench who'd given him an extra squirt of mayo on his bap earlier on. Maisie blushed furiously but secretly loved the attention of this dark, curly haired intelligent young man who was Henry's number one and sometimes his number two, too.

++++

Nestling in the lean-to, Henry and Catherine set to a serious talk of their future. This was a make or break negotiation for both of them. Not only would it unite their two countries of Spain and England once again, but it would provide Henry with a substantial new source of income - and also the chance of getting his end away whenever he wanted. Catherine had no particular desire either way, if she went back to Spain she could devote her life to Christ (the man who came and emptied the family pig bin on a Tuesday) or if she stayed here she could live in relative luxury and pop the occasional baby out - with just the small chance of either herself or the baby, or both dying. Tough choice.

They talked into the small hours. Well, until 7pm when the sundial beeped and alerted Henry to the fact it was time for Crossroads. Then he and Catherine parted, having decided on a June wedding (Catherine adored June weddings) - Henry left her in the solar, excitedly discussing the fabric for her dress and retired to his apartment.

++++

Catherine sank back into the 600 thread count sheets from Debenhams 'Buboe Collection' gratefully tired after a long, yet happy wedding day and subsequent feast. Henry had been the perfect gentleman throughout - only farting once, and keeping his roving eye to himself for at least half of the ceremony in Windsor chapel. The Archbishop of Billericay, the Right Honourable Sir Simon Smedley had officiated the ceremony - after Henry's first choice of Minister the Bishop of Abergele had been executed after a row about the price of communion wafers. Catherine's organza gown had been set off by the enormous pearl necklace Henry had given her the night before - it sparkled and shone in the stained glass light from the windows of the chapel. The wedding guests had gasped in astonishment as she walked down the aisle - accompanied by her late father's favourite manservant Juan Pickle.

The banquet had been beautiful - so many trestle tables groaning with pies, sandwiches, mini-kievs and sweetmeats, not to mention the 78 kegs of Castlemaine xxxx 'for the lads'. The company had sat down to eat - with, as customary Henry and Catherine served a little of each dish first. Catherine had been too nervous to eat much other than 17 mini kievs and a few prawn balls. Henry had been his usual gluttonous self - polishing off an entire plate of scotch pies with barely a burp.

Now at last, the couple were alone for the first time. Their attending men and women had left the room, and they weren't expected back until 'the inspecting of the royal sheets' at day break. Henry towered over Catherine amorously - whilst she lay back, shut her eyes and thought of England.

++++

Exactly 9 months later, Catherine was brought to bed of a small, female infant baby child. This delicate, frail little creature was called Mary after Catherine's favourite cheery yuletide greeting 'Merry Christmas'. Henry was of course outwardly happy, but inside deeply disappointed that 9 months hard work on his part - avoiding his wife, sleeping with any wench that tipped him the wink and eating lots of cake had had such a sad outcome - not the son he'd hoped for. Catherine lay back on the sheets - feverish and half conscious, glad the terrible, painful ordeal of having a midwife (fresh from ramming her hands up the parts of a cow other midwives could not reach...) with little or no regard for her well being deliver her tiny baby. While she casually wiped her hands clean on the pelmets and threw her dirty apron into the bedroom fire - she studied Catherine's face. Not a woman who she could warm too, she thought - she wondered indeed how Henry had been able to copulate with her at all.

Catherine slipped in and out of consciousness for several days - but at last came to, surrounded by lots of home made 'Get Well Soon' cards and some very pretty helium balloons. When she was aroused from her slumber - she was greeted by the sight of her errant husband's face, clearly wanting yet again - though she was only just better - to try and begat a son off her. Sadly, she turned her head away and let him get on with it.

Was this all her life was going to be now?

Little did she know that while Henry was 'doing his bit for England' with her - he'd also been doing it with another comely wench who'd caught his eye - a dark haired, three nippled small breasted witch called Anne Berlin.

TBC....

The Tudor Chronicles - Part 1

2010-07-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

The lyfe and tymes of a verye extraordinaree Royale family - by Dr Apple Von Strudel, BA MA PhD (University of Telford - KFC College)

King Henry VII pulled back the curtains by the bay window in his royal apartment and sighed with dismay. He'd asked for them to be steam cleaned but two afternoons hence and his lazy, good for nothing bone idle housekeeper Mrs Hepptonstall had yet to carry out this vital task.

It had not yet been two weeks since his dear lady wife Elizabeth of York - Queen Elizabeth, Keeper of The Bird's Eye Nuggets had died in bed after contracting child bed fever whilst giving birth to their umpteenth child - a boy they called Barry, who did not survive. Henry was still deep in mourning, hence the bad mood and the eppy fit over the curtains. He fingered the bindings of the 100% polyester lining and sighed deeply. This sigh disturbed his Groom of the Stool Sir Desmond Winklebob who, arousing from his slumber poured himself and the good King a goblet of the finest wine known to humanity and presented him with it thus.

'I rue the day I let Elizabeth loose with the soft furnishings...'opined Henry 'Just look at the muck on them...' he said continuing to paw at the fabric.

'Aye sir, but for the love of God she was a stubborn woman - and would take no heed of the interior designer's advice that the floral print would clash most hideously with the wall hangings you brought back from Madrid after your last package tour...' Replied Sir Desmond - gulping down the last of his wine and realising he would need the jakes very soon.

'True, Sir Desmond...and now - what of today? What news from Court?' Henry asked, never one to shirk his responsibilities, even in the wake of the tragic soft furnishing mishaps - oh, and the death of his wife.

'You are to have your son, Henry presented to you with much pomp and circumstance. He wil charm you with his rufty tufty ways and you will pat him on the head and share a tender moment when you remember that he will inherit your throne when you indeed, snuff it. Then after a light luncheon of Lampreys and McCain Oven Chips you are to receieve the French Ambassador Monsieur Hulot who is here to discuss the impending betrothal of your daughter Charlene to the French King Louis' son Darren. Tea and scones to be provided. You will also be holding a state banquet this evening in honour of the visit when you will fall out with him over the negotiations - he will get all uppity about the flavour of the wine you serve and you will end up in bed with Marge, one of the late Queen's former ladies in waiting...'

'A most excellent day's sport...' replied the King. He picked up a copy of 'Ye Olde Financyal Tymes' 'Right, I'm off for a Forest Gump...see to it no-one disturbs me will you, Des?'

++++

Sadly, it was to be the King's final dump.

Less that 24 hours later, Old, faithful, King Henry was dead. Dead of a surfeit of lampreys and a slight overindulgence with the after dinner Vienetta. His carousing with Marge brought on a fatal spasm of fishy revenge and he croaked it in the same bed that his goodly wife Queen Elizabeth had died not two weeks hence.

It fell to his right hand man and faithful Lord Chancellor Sir Edward Gaunt to hotfoot it over to the late King's son Henry's apartments in The Londons to break the fateful news to him and also to pronounce him King and stuff.

Sir Edward raced through the corridors of the new King's court, at one point bashing his codpiece on a bust of the late King's father Owen Tudor. He stopped to readjust himself, not wanting to appear in front of the new King 'looking a right mess, innit'. He paused, just outside the mock Tudor door, took a deep breath and knocked.

His heart thumped when he heard the imposing voice of the as-yet-unaware-that-he-was new King.

'Enter....'

Slowly, Sir Edward entered - partly out of deference, but partly because he'd really hurt his nads when he bashed them earlier.

'Sir Edward..this is a pleasant surprise...what news do you bring to me on this merry and fine morning in the month of May?'

'My Lord. I'm afraid I bring you the gravest tidings - last evening, about 12 of the cock - sorry, clock, your father King Henry VII of England sadly expired in his bed...I thus come here to proclaim you King Henry VIII, ask you to pack your suitcase and escort you to your new abode of residence...' and with that Sir Edward solemnly bowed - avoiding his delicate testicular area which was throbbing like a beeyatch.

The new King Henry fell to his knees. He'd spotted a marble he'd dropped earlier on when he was playing with Jimmy from 'over the road'.

He got up slowly, polishing the delicate glass ball - popped it into his pocket and said 'Right, on with the show then...' and clapped his hands together.

++++

Little over two weeks later, and the new King was making his presence felt at Court. Gone were all the trappings of his father and mother - he'd even removed their decking and water feature from the palace gardens and replaced them with a unique art installation of his own, made entirely from the teeth of executed criminals from Tyburn tree. This somewhat disturbing piece of art had upset some of the ladies at court, but as the new King said himself 'If they don't like it, they can go and rut in the gutter like their mothers did before them...'

His thoughts turned to business over the next days - and he held his first Privy Council meeting in the Court toilets. Surrounded by his father's faithful old retainers and servants Henry saw this as a chance for change and improvement - out with the old and in with the new. He brought in an expert swordsman from Weymouth to lop their heads off unceremoniously in an impromptu beheading ceremony on the back lawn.

'A good morning's work...' Henry said, mopping his brow and helping to clean up the blood and detrititus from the gravel path - whilst the 18 bodies were wrapped up in linen and carted away for burial at the back of St Peter Ad Vincular church.

He wasted no time in appointing his new Council. Mostly made up of people he'd been to school with, this new body of men were young, virile and had massive cod pieces to fill. Curly haired, beared and desperate to go wenching amongst the fine fillies at court Henry arranged an immediate speed dating event so that everyone could get to know each other in friendly surroundings...

Of course Henry would not partake. His new role as King and ting meant that his future bride would have to be of a more suitable character. With some sadness he watched as the gaiety unfolded around him at the speed dating night - young damsels casting off their wimples and fondling their merry male counterparts while they all swigged mead and laughed happily.

'A drink, sir?' It was his new Lord Chancellor William Ferrers, a lissome young man of 18 - notorious womaniser, but really good with coins and stuff.
'William - thank you...' said the King, supping heartily
'You must be feeling lonely...'
'Aye, that I cannot deny - all this carousing makes one realise what a solitary life one is now going to have...'
'We need to find you a wife, if I may be so bold to say...' proffered William, as he gently pushed back the delicate black curls from his perfectly shaped forehead.
'It hath been on my mind, it hath been on my mind. I know not who would suit me best...my father had me primed for a life in the clergy had my brother Arthur not died whilst copulating with his comely wench Catherine...'
'And what happened to Catherine, pray tell?'
'As far as I know she is still in Wales, knitting leeks and eating daffodil casserole. They say she pines away at night...' William noted the change in the King's countenance.
'She pines away? This must not be - bring her to court at once...'
'I'll drop her a text right now, sir...' and with that William was gone, Nokia 1509 in hand, poised to try and make his first royal matrimonial matrimony match...

TBC....

Shopping TV - A Tribute

2010-07-12T09:22:00.000-07:00

'Hello, and welcome to 'ShopLots PLC' The heart of Home Shopping. I'm Blinky Billington your host for this - our regular Beauty Slot on Monday evening.

I'm so excited to be with you tonight, bringing you a literal and actual veritable array of top and even topper beauty brands from all across our very exciting inventory of A-Z Beauty Products. It's going to be very exciting. So if you're worried about ageing, worried about not ageing or that you're literally not ageing quick enough - then stick with me for the next 60 minutes and I'll guide you through some of the most prestigious brands we have in our exciting inventory of A-Z Products that I just mentioned previously, previous to this.

I'm very excited to introduce to you, one of my favourite guests and yours, Floella Dingleberry - from the prestige skincare brand 'Laboratoire Higginbottom'. This is a brand that's been with us since the channel's inception way back in 1990. For any of you that maybe perhaps haven't seen this line before - don't go and look down the evil high street for this as you simply won't find it. This is the sort of high end salon brand used only by professionals, professionally in their professional salons. As a professional brand they've literally been going for well over 35 years, and apart from appointed stockists and salons their range is only available here in the UK through us, ShopLots PLC.

Floella - it's lovely to see you here today, and I'm very excited about this first kit we have to show our viewers, item number 456789 - will you run through what's in it for us and explain a little bit about your brand?'

Floella 'Hello Blinky - it's lovely to be here tonight. I'm so excited about this kit - it's so exciting. This is our premium, prestige 6 Piece Give it a Go kit - which brings to you a premium and prestige way to decrease the look of lines, wrinkles, eye bags and marionette lines in a premium and prestige way. Within the gauze effect cardboard box which is of course our signature packaging - you're going to find 6 really effective anti-ageing products, two of which are full size, for the amazing price of £398.67. Firstly we have our amazing and world renowned cream face cleanser 'Wipe and Buff' (2ml) which comes with it's own chamois leather for an extra intense clean feeling. This innovative cleanser contains extract of stuff, which is perfect for not really doing anything much for your skin. People really underestimate the need to cleanse their skin properly - the number of new clients that come into my salon with tired, dull looking complexions - one application of 'Wipe and Buff' and their skin is glowing and red as it should be. Next we have our world famous 'Wipe and Strip' (0.1ml) which is our nourishing skin toner with added nothing, to help your skin underperform. The third product is our signature moisturiser 'Wipe and Rub' (3ml) and one which I simply cannot be without, it's renowned for it's elasticity and supplenessi-sitcysitty boosting formulation. Apply this twice a day after using our cleanser and toner for a complete skincare regimen...'

Blinky: 'But there are also three sample sized products in this kit too - tell us about those...'

Floella: 'There are indeed, Blinky - we're so excited to be launching our new seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerum, anti-ageing youth tripe and glow-in-a-pouch glam drops today. This is our worldwide, universal TV Launch for these exciting new products. Each sample is a mighty 0.01ml in size which as they are soooooooo concentrated is enough to last a good...ooh...2 days...and you really will notice a difference straight away. The secret with our new seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerum is to apply it in upward strokes, avoiding the delicate face area, after you've mois-trised but before you've applied our anti-ageing youth tripe which is our brannew eye product...'

Blinky: 'Well, I just have to cut in there and tell you the phone lines are incredibly busy right now - you ladies obviously know a bargain when you see it, remember it's item number 456789 priced at £398.67....Floella thank you for coming in today to talk to us about your tripe...we hope to see you again soon...

Next up I'm also really pant wettingly excited to be bringing you some top class high end bath and shower products from our tried and trusted brand 'The Carbolic Soap Company', there's always a great deal of excitement whenever I bring these products to you and the phone lines light up. Don't go down your high street looking for these products, they're only available to us here at 'ShopLots PLC' and their own very select boutique in Keighley. These products aren't just soap - they're a sensual and ethereal bathin' experience, brought to you with the subtle aroma and gentle cleansing properties of carbolic acid. Now, what this soap will actually do, on lathering and contact with your skin is effectively act like a micro-peel to remove and destroy all the dead skin cells that are dead and leave all the new skin cells at the top of your skin looking all pink and glowy. Now for you, literally today we have on offer 7 bars of this wonder product for the quite frankly unbelieveable price of £456.23 on item number 342837. For this you will get 7 25g bars of the soap, plus a free sample size of their new and as yet unlaunched 'Extract of Borax' shower crystals and drain unblocker - for that every day 'on the move' quick freshen up....phone lines have lit up for this, and I'm not surprised - we've actually only literally got less than 2 in stock now, and we had a massive stock of 3, so jump to the lines now and hurry before it sells out...

Well, now I'm going to take you to our make up department and one of our slightly newer but nevertheless still very popular ranges. We welcome our guest from Neville Butterkist Cosmetics - Johnathon Flange, who is an international make up artist and representative of the brand in the UK...Johnathan, welcome...'

Johnathan: 'Thank you, Blinky - yes I'm delighted to be here this evening with a selection of our newest cosmetics for your customers....'

Blinky: 'Indeed. Tell us a little bit about Neville Butterkist if you will - because he's internationally renowned internationally isn't he?'

Johnathon: 'Indeed. Well, Neville Butterkist started out making lipsticks when he was 7 years old - it all started when his mother broke her favourite lippy on the family bacon slicer. Neville decided as a present to melt down his favourite wax crayons to try and emulate the colour and texture - so enamoured was his mother, Neville decided to make it his mission to create low cost, high quality cosmetics for every woman, everywhere....'

Blinky: 'And this kit is very exciting isn't it?...'

Johnathon: 'Indeed. What we have for you here is a complete make over in one handy kit - all you have to do is choose from the three handy foundation shades - Trumpet, Daffodil or Washbasket then after that everything else is the same...we have eyeshadow shades in Sage, Dustbin and Velour, a universal blusher in Wet Dog and a choice of three lipglosses in Antique Bagel, Shoe Leather and Groucho Marx...'

Blinky: 'This is item number 332453 and priced at £256.12 for this truly sumptuous and marvellous kit. Now we should say at this point, Neville Butterkist is now actually a famous celebrity make up artist - he's worked for the top celebrity magazines 'Hiya', 'Alright?' and 'Boo!' and is specially requested by the likes of Su Pollard, Orville and the lady from the Shake and Vac adverts. So he's obviously a man in demand. We even have some quotes from celebrities he's worked on 'Simply wonderful, dahhlink...' Olive from On The Buses...'Marvellous, a true legend in his lunch time' that's from Barbara Windsor's wig...and finally 'Who?' from Madonna.

Johnathon: 'Indeed. If I could also just say that all Neville Butterkist's products come in this beautiful fake organza bag made from organic rice cakes and you will also get free of charge, for nothing a selection of high quality make up brushes, made from the finest coconut matting and stitched by disadvantaged polish immigrants in Bury...'

Blinky: 'As with everything else in this hour, selling really quickly...any application techniques for us?'

Johnathon: 'Neville's philosophy is to make it as easy as possible for the everyday woman to achieve and achieveable look - so his motto is 'just slap it on'...no real technique, just use the brushes and lard it on as thick as you want....'

Blinky: 'That's great....thank you Johnathon - well, sadly we've come to the end of our Beauty hour here on 'ShopLots PLC' your number one home shopping channel - but stay with us as we've got an exciting new range of crimplene fashion coming up in our next hour with Busty O'Gorman, called simply 'Bloater' - should be very exciting indeed...take care, thanks to all my lovely guests and I'll see you very soon...'

Mills and Boon - A Celebration. Part Five

2010-07-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

Striding into the kitchen, Melody could contain her anger no longer. Which almost rhymed. She interrupted the romantic scene.

'Step away from the other woman Tristram...' she snarled purposefully.
'No. NO. I won't...' he snapped childishly 'Marie-Fwancwoise and I are in love...'
'IN LOVE?' said Melody, grasping the warming cabinet handle. She'd never had a thing in it, but it looked purdy. 'How can you be in love? You only met half an hour ago when she crawled out of my bush...'
'Love knows no bounds, Melody - you of all people should know that...' countered Marie-Francoise 'Remember the Accountant from Godalming you took up with on the School Foreign Exchange trip to Lancashire? - You said you were going to marry him...'
'But I was 14! I'd have married the man who cleaned our Midden if he'd so much as winked at me back then...' And indeed, Melody had once had it off with the man who'd cleaned the family Midden. After he'd washed his hands. And his winkie. Just in case. 'This is madness' she stormed.

Dirk was hanging around outside the room, not wanting to intrude on this tryst with his ex-lover, her new lover, his probably soon to be ex wife and the woman who's velour knickers he wanted to rip off. He thought it best to hang back.

'Well, I'm at a loss' said Melody
'Yes you are' said Tristram, 'you can pack your bewongings and also give me back your Pwatinum card'
'No...noo....noooooo. You don't mean that...' sniffed Melody, sensing she was about to cwy. I mean, cry.
'I do mean that. As of now Mawie-Fwancwoise is wady of Tart's Hole. She's shown me more love and respect in the last 30 minutes than you've shown me in nearly 10 years of mawwiage...now please weave...'

Melody broke into uncontrollable sobs. As there were no tissues to hand she had to blow her nose into her Cath Kidston oven gloves, well - to be fair they were now Marie-Francoise's Cath Kidston oven gloves so it didn't really matter, it was her Persil bill. She did what she always did in a crisis, opened the Secret Kitchen Cupboard and took out a bag of Haribo Star Mix and began hurriedly stuffing them into her mouth. Marie-Francoise stared aghast at the scene.

'I never had you down as a Star Mix woman...' she smirked
'I'm borderline Diabetic. I need sugar...' she opined, stuffing another mouthful of e-numbers, additives and preservatives into her gullet.
'Borderline attention seeker more like...' said Tristram, braying with laughter
'Only borderline...Sir, you're too kind...' said Marie-Francoise, enjoying her new found ability to gloat over the woman who'd once put a woodlouse in her gym knickers for a laugh just before PE.

Meanwhile Dirk was still standing outside, pondering whether or not to be a man and go and rescue Melody. He did what he always did in these situations and started fiddling about with the zipper on his car coat. He was very attached to his car coat - he'd had it since he was 17 years old, man and boy. It was in a very fetching shade of Mushroom, and went perfectly with his cream slips ons and his bri-nylon slacks from Greenwoods. Never the fashion victim, Dirk (for all his personal training skills) favoured comfort and adaptability over high fashion and the latest little on trend items. As such he tended to wander out looking like a reject from the Marshall Ward catalogue circa 1980, but it didn't bother him when people laughed. It did bother him when he first got together with Marie-Francoise and she appeared to be desperate to change him. She kept coming home from shopping trips with bags full of jeans and white t-shirts, trainers, leather jackets and check shirts - but they all inevitably went back when they either didn't fit his enormous frame or Dirk simply rejected them as 'not being him...'. He looked down dismally at his attire - he knew it was wrong for someone not yet 40 to be kitted out like a bedraggled man of 70, the sort of man who stood by the escalators in Marks and Spencer with other men, sighing and moaning about their piles while their errant wives tried on outfit number 978 of the day. But something in him was stopping the change, the blossoming change from happening. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

Just as a second tear was about to roll, the kitchen door was flung wide open - and out came Melody, guns blazing - Haribo Star Mix stuck in her teeth. She stormed past Dirk, not noticing his mental torment and made her way up the spiral staircase towards her ex-bedroom - shoving past Iris, who was making a dramatic show of polishing the skirting boards - but in reality was waiting for the next juicy titbit of shoutiness from the nether regions of the house.

Dirk peered round the kitched door, to witness his ex-lover and her new bit of stuff gently fondling each other on the pine worktops. He didn't like the way he slid his hand inside her Kagoule, and nor did he like the way she was pawing at his 'I Love Golf' t-shirt. Soon they were 'going at it' (as the youth of today, I believe, say) 'big time' and Dirk was forced to avert his gaze from the two lovebirds and their frantic grappling near the saucepan stand. Coming to his senses he realised Melody was all alone upstairs, alone. Probably packing. Alone. He knew he had to be with her at this difficult time. He turned on his heel, but not before he'd had one last squint at Tristram and Marie-Francoise trying to break the world record for 'Most Unlikely Pairing Since Prince Phillip Tried to have a crack at One of the Nolans in 1978'.

Making his way up the stairs he carefully avoided Iris, who was by now up to the buffing stage of noseying at what was going on in her lower quarters. Slowly, he opened the door to Melody's bedroom and saw her sobbing on her Laura Ashley sheets. Looking round, he couldn't quite believe that this was the room she slept in, this was the room he had fantasised about stripping her naked and covering her in Instant Whip in. Granted, the decor wasn't quite beige enough for his taste - but no matter, once he got her away from here and back to the Hostel he lived at, things would be different - he would educate her in the ways of Mushroom, Magnolia and Off white.

'Melody...' he put on his best tender voice and joined her on the bed, the bed that he had hoped to perform coitus on her. Or something.
'Don't touch me...' she said, absent midedly spitting the last bit of Haribo out and onto the duvet
'But...But I thought...'
'Well you thought wrong...I could never love you...never. I could sleep with you...but never love you...' She was angry, but the words cut him like a butter knife into 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter...'
'You don't mean this...say you don't mean this...' Dirk was crying now. He hadn't cried since 1987 when he burned his clack on a McDonald's Apple Pie, despite heeding the 'Cation - Contents May Be Hot' warning on the top of the packet.
'I do...I can't live like you. I can't wear beige...'
'You don't have to. BHS have some lovely pleated skirts in Mauve...'

Melody started to cry even more now. The thought of being couped up with Dirk, in an elasticated waist skirt was just too much to bear. She'd sooner drown herself in the fish pond at the back of the mansion than do that...in fact...that was JUST what she was going to do. That would show Tristram, he'd be sorry once she was dead. Once her body was dragged, all puffy and deaded from the murky, yet shallow waters of their goldfish pond. Her mind was made up, she stood up purposefully and strode off.

'Where are you going?' said Dirk
'I'm going to drown myself. DON'T TRY AND STOP ME' she said, desperately wanting Dirk to stop her.
'You can't...there's no water deep enough for miles...' he said
'I'm going to do it in the fish pond...'
'You'll still be there at Easter then...' said Dirk. He knew the fish pond well. It was so empty he'd seen the Koi Carp gasping near the surface and trying to make their way to the back wall to turn the hosepipe on...

But still, he felt compelled to follow her out. Melody was already outside and striding towards the pond as Dirk left the bedroom. Coming down the stairs he accidentally got his foot caught in Iris' mopping bucket and took a nasty tumble. When he came to - he found himself on the bathroom floor, being wafted up the zipper with a back copy of Dalton's Weekly and having cold water splashed on his face by Iris.

'It's awright' poppet, you'n took a tumble...but you'b ok now - I'm here to look after thee...' said Iris, speaking in a way that only a cleaner in a trashy novel can speak.
Dirk didn't know whether it was the concussion, whether it was the delicious sense of deliriousity or the fact that Iris was absent mindly brushing against his winkie while she fanned him but he suddenly looked at her through new eyes. This was no longer the woman that mopped the floors, wiped the toilets out and made the corned beef sandwiches for the Farquharson's glitzy cocktail parties. This was the woman he'd mean to be with his whole life...

Dirk sat up. He looked into Iris' eyes. Her Irises actually.

'Iris' he said 'Come away with me. Leave your useless husband Royston and come back with me for a life of beige car coats and trips out in my Imp....please...say you will...'

Iris gulped. This was all so new to her. No man had ever shown an interest in her other than the one time she'd had a 'moment' with the man who sold the Encyclopaedias door-to-door. He'd offered her the 'xyz' volume for free if she would let him have a go on her shiny bannisters. She wished to this day she'd said yes and given in to the wild feeling he'd instilled in her. But no, she'd gone back to Royston for fish, chips and scraps and an unassailable feeling of emptiness.

And now - now she had a tall, well built handsome young man in bri nylon slacks throwing himself at her. Her, a 60 something woman with no dress sense and a terribly common accent.

'Yes...Yes...I will come with you. Take me to your Imp...' she said, dropping her Dalton's Weekly, throwing caution to the wind and running like wildfire down the stairs.

Dirk followed her, peering into the kitchen for one last time, where Tristram and Marie-Francoise were still doing it, he noticed she was still persisting in wearing her black lace knickers - she always was a martyr to thrush - and forever will she be, he thought.

He slammed the door of Tart's Hole Hall behind him and led Iris to the car, in the background they could hear the frantic gulping of Melody, trying and failing to drown herself. The Koi Carp were sitting by the embankment with pop corn and coke with lemon and ice and laughing at this silly, silly woman and her whims.

Dirk looked at Iris and smiled as he safely belted her into his Imp, put it in gear and drove away. First stop, fish, chips but no scraps - this was a lady that needed to be treated like a Queen. 'Everything will be alright' said Dirk. And it was.

THE END.

Mills and Boon - A Celebration. Part Four

2010-07-10T09:18:00.000-07:00

'Do come in for an Orange Squash...' Tristram said alluringly, taking Marie-Francoise by the hand and leading her towards his vast pile.
'I only drink the finest KiaOra...' she simpered

Dirk and Melody could only look on at the burgeoning romance that was almost starting to burgeon between these two rather plain individuals. Melody went to storm after her Eeyore like husband but Dirk pulled her back by the hooded top.

'No...No...leave it, lets just hold our horses here - don't shut the door of the hutch before the rabbit's had it's carrots...'
'But she's going to steal my husband....' said Melody, incredulous that she might be about to lose her monthly shoe allowance.
'You're just incredulous that you're going to lose your monthly shoe allowance' said Dirk, perceptively almost as if he was reading the writer's thoughts.
'A girl has to look her best - and besides, I've grown rather accustomed to my Tart's Hole...'
'But what about love? What about romance? What about being given a jolly good seeing to behind the walled garden?' Opined Dirk, changing his standing position and thus concealing his member
'I never knew what love was until I made my first Platinum Card purchase. It was a 900 Thread Count Egyptian Cotton Jacobean Style Hi-Fi cover from PVC the shopping channel...I'll always remember the intense feeling rush over me the minute I unpacked it from it's bubble wrap...and I don't think anything else will ever come close...'
'Melody, let me show you what love is....' said Dirk, reaching into his pocket.
'Dirk...what on earth are you reaching into your pocket for?' said Melody
'I'd like you to have this....' said Dirk 'My last Rolo...' he said, proferring the now slightly bespoiled yet not unrecognisable chocolate and caramel based comestible
'I thought you'd banned me from having treats...?' said Melody, eyeing up the gooey brown mess in Dirk's hand.
'Just this once...just this once...' he urged...holding out the melted pile of gunk

Melody needed no second chance - she whipped away the chocolatey treat and devoured it in one go, obviously ravenous after her strenuous pelvic floor display from earlier on.
Dirk looked at her with a delicious sense of willing. For all the personal training in the world there was nought so attractive as seeing a slightly sweaty lady in velour devouring food with such gay abandon.

Their eyes locked momentarily.

++++

'Do sit down, pleathe' said Tristram, proferring Marie-Francoise a seat at the pine dining table in the kitchen of Tart's Hole Hall. 'Orange Squash, or would you pwefer something a little stronger...?'
'KiaOra is fine thank you...I don't touch alcohol these days...not since the incident with the sticky bun and the traffic cone in the centre of Keighley 12 Michelmasses ago....'
'Oh, do tell old bean...sounds fwightfully vulgar...'
'It was a cold, wet evening - some friends and I had decided to take a trip into town to celebrate my birthday...' just before the writer could think of a suitably dirty subplot Iris the cleaner entered (you remember, from part one?) with an incredibly plebian enquiry about J-Cloths

'Yes, Iwis - what is it...I am entertaining, can't you see?'
'I be awfu' sorry, Mr Tristram - but I can't be findin' any J-Cloths in the pantry and I know how Mrs Melody likes well buffed coving...'

Sighing, Tristram got up from the table and went over to the Kitchen drawer, he pulled out a fistful of J-Cloths and thrust them in Iwis - sorry, Iris' direction. Iris bobbed down in gratitude, picked up the cloths and made headway for the stairs where she was tackling the mammoth task of damp dusting the skirting boards. It was proving an arduous job for an infirm woman in her late 60s, whose health was failing and whose breath smelled constantly of the Jeyes Fluid she put into her 11 o'clock cup of Bovril. Still, it was good to get out of the house and away from her slovenly husband Royston, who she'd been married to for 50 years and who only showed her affection when she brought him fish, chips and scraps from Jose's Garage and 24 Hour Fish bar. Iris pushed her slightly greying, yet still bountiful hair out of her eyes and set to scrubbing...a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

++++

'So what about you?' enquired Marie-Francoise of Tristram, who was lolling in his chair admiring his face in the back of a spoon.
'Well, I'm the Lord and Master of all I survey. Heir to the Farquharson Loft Insulation Dynasty. I collect interesting drinks coasters and I like golf. No, I love golf' he lifted up his Pringle sweater to reveal his 'I Love Golf' t-shirt.
'Sweet' said Marie-Francoise, draining her KiaOra
'Another KiaOra?' enquired Tristram, not wanting this meeting of minds to end
'I'd better not - it goes straight through me...' blushed Marie-Francoise
'You are an utter delight...' brayed Tristram...and with that he moved in for the kill, reaching across the not inconsiderable Pine table and delicately snogged her, with tongues.

++++

Melody slumped against the wall of Tart's Hole Hall, and slid down to the floor. It had evidently been too soon to try and run off the Rolo she had just consumed, but that wasn't the only thing that had made her feel icky-poo. She had just seen her husband wrapping his tongue round the recently KiaOra'd mouth of her arch enemy Marie-Francoise Ackroyd.
'Bang goes my next season's Birkenstocks...' she breathed...
'I don't know why you're so upset. He's a braying donkey...' said Dirk, sitting beside her and unzipping his car coat
'There speaks a man who has never put his foot inside a comfort shoe before...'
'Oh to be inside the mind of a woman...' said Dirk, sotto voce
'I'm going in there...and there's nothing you can do to stop me...' said Melody, getting her second wind and striding off into her Tart's Hole
'Be careful...' said Dirk, scrambling up and rearranging his frontage

But it was too late, Melody had strodden (? ed, please check if Strodden is actually a word) off into the Kitchen to confront the two errant lovebirds. All the while, Iris was watching from upstairs, sucking on her Bovril and Jeyes Fluid and wishing her own life could be this exciting. The things she would be able to tell the ladies at the next whist drive when they had their pie and pea supper....

TBC....

Mills and Boon - A Celebration. Part Three

2010-07-09T09:20:00.000-07:00

Dirk's face dropped as he spied the comely Marie-Francoise striding towards him at full pelt. He ungripped Melody's waist suddenly and she tumbled to the floor like something that had just tumbled to the floor.

'What the...' he exclaimed
'I was just about to say the same thing...' said Melody, brushing the dust off her trousers. 'Who on earth is that woman...and why is she circling my moat?'

Melody gulped as she saw the imposing figure of Marie-Francoise striding towards her. Marie-Francoise, the girl who had been insanely jealous of her Hovis sandwiches and choice of chocolate biscuit. Marie-Francoise, the girl whose hand me down clothes, borrowed shoes and messy french plait had been the butt of all her jokes - and now, here she was, at Tart's Hole Hall looking for all the world like she was about to start a fight. Surely she couldn't still be angry about the Hovis jokes and hair pulling? After all, it had been nearly 20 years...

'Well, if it isn't Melody Tweak' said Marie-Francoise, stating the bleeding obvious.
'Marie-Francoise Ackroyd. Of all the places in all the world you had to turn up at my Tart's Hole...'
'You two KNOW each other?' said Dirk, bewildered...
'We go way back' said Melody, aimlessly picking some fluff from her crotch.
'Indeed we do. Form 2B Our Lady of The Tramp Catholic School, 1980-1985 if I remember correctly' Marie-Francoise remembered, correctly.
'You always did have a keen memory for years' said Melody
'So you two went to school together?' Said Dirk
'Congratulations and well done for catching on...you'll go far...' said Marie-Francoise
'Melody was, I seem to remember Champion French Kisser 3 years on the bounce...most of the boys in our year and their tonsils can probably testify to that still...'
'Never needed DynoRod when I was round, that's for sure...' Melody quipped, deftly disposing of the trouser fluff from her crotch 'So what's been happening to you in the 25 years since we last saw each other - still living it up in Littleborough?'
'I moved on from there - it became very pedestrian and I had a newly burgeoning sex life to think about...'

Dirk shifted uncomfortably in his cream slip ons which were now starting to really reek of Super Unleaded. He hoped Marie-Francoise wasn't still smoking her Senior Service as she had done comulsively throughout their relationship.

'You had a sex life?' guffawed Melody, tipping her head back. Marie-Francoise could see all the Grape Nuts stuck in her molars.
'Yes...why is that so hard to believe?' countered Marie-Francoise
'Well, darling...you were always just so...so...and I mean this in the kindest possible way...plain...'
'Plain?' interjected Marie-Francoise 'Plain? At least I always stayed true to my roots, unlike you who flung yourself and your crotchless panties at the nearest available titled man...at least I had some dignity....'
'Dignity? This coming from the woman who wore her mother's cast off tabards for non-uniform days at school...'
'Why you little...it wasn't my fault my father had to supplement his wages from down t'pit by taking on extra work selling cockles in the pub...we were poor...'
'Don't tell me...but you were happy...?' Melody said raising her eyebrows skyward...
'Ladies, please stop this....' interrupted Dirk, sensing that things were about to get very out of hand
'Well no...I wasn't. I wasn't until I met....met....Dirk....' said Marie-Francoise, who by now wished she had a much shorter name as it was proving very hard to type.
'Dirk?' said Melody
'Yes, Dirk' said M-F

Both ladies turned to face Dirk, still quaking in his cream slip ons, and looking more than a little bit shifty.

'You mean you two have shared carnal sexual knowledge...?' said Melody
'Yes - and Shippam's Bloater on Toast...' said M-F, casting a knowing look at Dirk who instantly slavered at the mention of this delightful jarred fishy comestible.
'How frightfully lower working class...' said Melody
'Please don't cast nastursiums on Marie-Francoise...she can grill a kipper like no other woman I know...' said Dirk, longingly.
'But can she do a pelvic crunch like me?' said Melody, demonstrating her pelvic flexibility with alarming ease. Dirk looked at Melody's crotch longingly. He felt he was being made to choose between two fishy treats dangling at him on the fishing rod of life.

Just as he was contemplating his future a braying noise was heard nearby. It turned out to be Tristram, Melody's husband.

'I thay - what on earth ith going on here?' he lithped, sorry - lisped 'Melody, what are you doing with your legs up like that...I thought that view was solely reserved for me?' he said, disgustingly
'Oh...is this the famous Tristram?' said Marie-Francois, with just a little smirk of satisfaction as she surveyed the braying, bespectacled donkey in front of her.
'And you are...?' Tristram enquired
'Marie-Francoise Ackroyd...' Marie-Francoise said, extending her hand.

Tristram took her hand and kissed it gently. Marie-Francoise was instantly charmed by the way he parted his lips and licked her tendons. Dirk looked on, he saw what passed between them and knew it could only mean one thing. Tristram meant to have his Marie-Francoise. The Marie-Francoise who had left him by the chest freezers in Lidl, the Marie-Francoise who was so seemingly jealous of his burgeoning relationship with Melody and her pelvic floor. He knew at that moment he had lost her.

But had he? Had he? Surely she could see what a fool this man was - a man so obsessed with Golf he had an 'I Love Golf' t-shirt that he wore permanently underneath his Pringle sweater. Surely she could not bring herself to share a bed with the same man who had shared a bed with his wife Melody in a sharing the bed type sex way at night? Surely she was more savvy than that? Surely he couldn't say surely any more...

Or could he...?

Tristram looked longingly at Marie-Francoise in a way he hadn't looked longingly at a woman for many years. Suddenly he forgot his wife Melody was stood standing less than 10 feet away from him. All Melody could hear was the sound of her Platinum Card being cut into thousands of pieces...and it hurt...

She and Dirk had to stop this before it went too far...

TBC...

Mills and Boon - A Celebration. Part Two

2010-07-08T09:20:00.000-07:00

Dirk had to be at Melody's for 9.00am sharp. Packing his Carlton shopping bag in the back of his Imp he set off at breakneck speed (27mph) to make the appointment. As he drove along the main road he couldn't help but let his mind wander to what the beautifully orange Melody would be wearing for her workout. Yesterday's hot pink velour jog suit nearly blew his mind. He'd noticed that she'd got a similar suit in Orange pegged out at the back of her mansion, near the moat and wondered if she would tempt him further by wearing that. His musings were brought back to earth with a bump when he suddenly realised that his Imp was almost out of petrol.

Pulling in at Jose's Garage and 24 Hour Fish Bar he knew he had little time to spare and felt under more pressure than usual. So much so he didn't notice when an old acquaintance pulled up behind him in the aisle and wound down her window...

'Dirk...is that you...?'

Dirk dropped his pump.

He knew that light, free, yet ever so slightly Moira Stewart voice anywhere.

'Marie-Francoise...'

He was visibly shaking, visibly. Turning to face her, he saw those beautiful bloodshot eyes and his heart melted. It had been almost 15 years since Marie-Francoise had walked out of his life, after a row by the Spam Nuggets in Lidl. She had accused him of being 'too thrifty with the coleslaw...' and he countered back that 'her choice of Garibaldis left a lot to be desired...'. Since that fateful day when he returned back to their shared flat to find her pop sox gone from the radiator and an empty tube of Germoloids in the bathroom bin, he had had no word, he knew not if she was even still alive, living. But her coming back into his life, by Pump 5 at Jose's Garage and 24 Hour Fish Bar proved that she was indeed still breathing - and as alive as ever.

'I am sorry about the Spam Nuggets...' she said, taking his hand and licking the palm.
'I am sorry about the Garibaldis...there was nothing wrong with the 54p ones after all...' he countered, trying to help her feel better
'Where did you go to my lovely?' he needed an explanation at least - he'd been keeping hold of her kirby grips in a jar by the door.
'I mooched around for a while, feeling sad - then I took up with a juggler called Gerard from Belle Vue. It didn't work out, he kept dropping his balls...' she trailed off sadly. 'Then I got the chance to relocate with my job at Huntley and Palmers. They had an opening for someone to sandwich the Jammy Dodgers together after the previous lady died overexerting herself with the sugar sprinkles. I took it and eked out a lonely existence - biscuit purveyor by day, sad lonely shadow by night. I...I...often thought of you...'
'Don't. Don't make this thing any harder.' He said, gripping his pump tighter.
'Is there someone else?' Marie-Francoise bottom lip began to tremble. 'Don't say another word...you don't have to...I can tell by the way you're spilling petrol over your shoes that there is...'

Dirk looked down, in his mental torpor he had not noticed the fact there was a gallon of Super Unleaded all over his slip ons. He gathered himself, replaced the handle and his fuel cap and without saying a word, left Marie-Francoise to go and pay. 'Damn' he expectorated to himself 'This will prove to be costly in more ways than one...'

++++

By the time Dirk emerged from paying Jose - Marie-Francoise had thankfully gone. He thought it odd, but tried to pay no more attention to it as he was now heavily late for Melody. Getting in the car, belting up and pulling the choke out - he drove off as speedily as he could (15 mph) and tried to make haste down the bypass.

++++

Marie-Francoise was waiting for Dirk to emerge from Joses'. She positioned herself in the back seat of her 2CV down the back alley near the pig bins and waited for a convenient moment to slip out and follow the mysterious Dirk to find out where he was going. She knew he was hiding someone from her - and could spot the signs a mile off - the nervous sweat on his handlebar moustache, the inability to grip the petrol pump properly. She knew wherever he was going, he would be meeting his new ladyfriend. She wondered what this new woman would be like - would she be as pert as her? Whoever she was she would never be able to cook Shippam's Bloater on Toast for Dirk like she could. The secret was adding a small amout of butter to it and then quickly grilling - before serving with a tomato and parsley garnish. Something Marie-Francoise thought many other women would do well to learn, lest they were fearful of losing their men. Slipping out onto the bypass she managed to keep a safe distance from Dirk whilst all the while staying in sight.

She noticed he took a turn off to the left - towards Figgy Lane and Tart's Hole Hall. Keeping as safe a distance as she could she watched as his little car trundled off the beaten track and onto the crunchy gravel. She parked up her car and decided to track him on foot - safer that way, also she was breaking a pair of Birkenstocks in, so it was doubly sensible. Locking her car up, she made headway...

++++

Melody tapped her perfectly manicured foot impatiently on the parquet flooring. Where WAS he? It was now 9.07am and still no sign. She checked her phone for what must have been the umpteenth time and huffed in annoyance. Just then she heard his familiar horn on the driveway. She opened the door and rushed to meet him.

'You're late...' she trilled
'Forgive me, I am so sorry - I had to call for petrol and had an altercation with the pump..'
'So I see...'said Melody 'You'd better not come in the house like that, my rug is flammable...shall we make a start round the back...'
'Lead the way...' said Dirk. Happy he'd finally shook off Marie-Francoise and was in the company of the most luscious woman since Clare Rayner

++++

Marie-Francoise crouched down in the bushes waiting for the coast to be clear. Her mouth was still slightly agape at what she had just witnessed. Dirk was not only chasing after a new woman, but was chasing after her old adversary Melody Tweak. Or, of course as she now was Melody Farquharson - after her society wedding to Tristram, heir of the Farquharson Loft Insulation Dynasty. Marie-Francoise betted her bottom dollar Melody was loving being lady of the manor. After all, at school she was the only one who had wholemeal bread in her sandwich box, and a gold foil wrapped biscuit - while everyone else had milk roll and a Blue Riband. She crept forward to see if she could spy any more. Crawling on her hands and knees she made her way round to spy on Melody's back garden, which had a tennis court, sand pit and telescopic washing line. Out of the corner of her eye she could just make out Melody bending forward to touch her toes while Dirk stood behind her fiddling with his stopwatch. She studied the scene in mounting horror, as Dirk was peering lasciviously down the crack of her velour trousers. Desperately trying to suppress he horror she forced herself to bite down on her closed fist. Dirk still had the power to enrage her still it would seem.

She watched as he deftly placed his butch, manly arms that were butch and manly delicately round Melody's wasp like, though, she noted with glee - slightly thickening waist, and could contain her jealousy for not a moment longer. She strode out from her bush and marched towards the telescopic washing line with gay abandon.

Dirk's face dropped as he saw her

How was he going to get out of this alive?

TBC...

Mills and Boon - A Celebration. Part One

2010-07-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

Melody Farquharson gently stretched her limber legs under the milky white satin sheets of her four poster bed. She yawned delicately, pausing only to check her antique digital alarm clock to ascertain what time it was.

'Damn and bother...' she exclaimed, as she realised she was going to be late for her morning session with her new personal trainer, Dirk Stenson. Her exclamation was interrupted by the gentle purr of her Nokia 1999 mobile phone, arousing her to the fact that indeed, Dirk was on the other end of the line.

'You're still in bed aren't you? You naughty little minx...' he trilled.
'Yes, yes I am - I haven't even had time for my Coco Pops yet...' she replied demurely.
'Well, Coco Pops or not, I am coming to get you right away. I expect you to be in your tracksuit on the gravel in precisely 2 minutes...and I'm counting...' he said, counting.

She knew there was no point arguing, after all she would never win any argument involving Dirk - who was current title holder of the National 'You Will Never Win An Argument Against Me' Cup, held every year in Upperthong. Slowly, she peeled herself away from the bed and picked out her most ravishing velour jog suit from the wardrobe. Smoothing her hair and pausing only to apply a little Rive Gauche under her armpits - she sashayed out of her mansion, and onto the long gravel driveway which awaited the rubber tyres attached to the flash car of Dirk.

She didn't have to wait long, as Dirk arrived in a cloud of gravel dust precisely 10.7 seconds later - his classic Hillman Imp making mincemeat of the drive.

'You look ravishing...ravishing...' he said, gently taking her index finger into his mouth and sucking it.
Melody giggled ostentaciously. She loved his rugged manliness that was so rugged and manly.
'Right...no time to waste...' he continued, dropping her finger and fishing in the boot of his Imp 'Down on the gravel and give me ten...'

++++

There was of course, nothing better after a heavy training session than slipping into a hot shower to freshen up, and slipping into a hot shower to freshen up was exactly what Melody did after her heavy training session. As the water coursed over her fake, orange body she expectorated upon the man moutain that was Dirk. At six foot nine and three quarters with an inside leg of seventy, he was nothing if not massive. How he fitted into his Imp was anyone's guess - but he did it so beautifully, and her heart always skipped a beat when she saw his lime green paintwork on her driveway. As she towelled herself off, paying special attention to her ladygarden and inbetween her toes (the prevention of athlete's foot was always uppermost in her mind...) she wondered what it would be like to have this Adonis in her bed. Cramped, was her first thought. But utterly wonderful was her second. As she was musing her muses she was interrupted by the clumsy interruption of her husband Tristram Farquharson, who was in their reception room, shouting for her attention.

'Melody...I say Melody, you really must do something about that blasted cleaner Iris, not only has she not buffed up my golf clubs as I specifically requested, but she's left my balls in a tewwible state...'

Melody sighed. How she longed to be away from this tiresome brute and his golfing obsession. It had been years since he had shown her any affection, preferring to spend his spare time with the Brasso and his trophy cabinet. Trophy cabinet. She was nothing more than an empty trophy wife herself and she knew it. How she longed for him to show her some affection - even if he only took her to a Harvester once a week it would be a start.

She sighed again

'Do you need your inhaler, dahhling...' Tristram brayed.
'No...No...I....' tears welled in Melody's eyes and she rushed from the room and into her Hygena Kitchen to splash her face with Evian. Whilst she was there she spotted a half eaten packet of Doritos.
'Fate...how you tempt me...' she opined. Just as her milky white hand and french manicured nails were about to slip into the bag and pull out a cheesy morsel her phone trilled again. It was Dirk...

'I am watching you'. He said 'Step away from the maize based comestible...'
'But...what...how?' Melody said, looking flustered.
'I am your all seeing eye. I can spot a guzzler at 20 paces, and you my dear fit the bill perfectly...now move away from the cheesy snack and have a grape instead...'

He rang off. Melody stared into her phone with her mouth slightly agape. How on earth could he possibly have known about the Doritos? Her train of thought was once again cruelly interrupted by Tristram barging in with requests for Yoghurt and the location of his jockstrap. Irritated, she flounced out and flung herself on her four poster bed to weep at the unfairness of it all. No sex and now no Doritos.

++++

A new morning brought a new sense of purpose for Dirk. He strode up in a manly way from his camp bed on the floor of the hostel and took a wash in the water butt near the outside toilet. His white vest was torn across the nipples, and his boxers baggy at the seams - but he was too proud to admit the extent of his money problems. Sure, the personal training brought in valuable income for him - but not enough to get him away from the hostel room he was forced to stay in while the dry rot was repaired in his Penthouse apartment.

Dirk longed to have a piece of hot action with a lady. It had been so long, he was worried he'd have forgotten what to do. Would he laugh and shove it in her ear? He hoped not. He was finding himself increasingly attracted to the lissom and hugely bappy Melody - but alas he knew she was taken. It didn't stop him having lustful thoughts as he balled his socks up of an evening though.

How could Dirk prise Melody away from her unthinking barbarian of a husband and into his hugely butch and muscular arms?

He needed a plan...He needed to find some way to woo her. But how...?

TBC...

Once you start...

2010-07-06T09:21:00.000-07:00

I wanted to do another blog post about family history - and I know this is a bit of a backward way of going about it, as I should have done this entry first, but I'm a backward kind of girl as many of you know.

Anyway, this photo is what started off my interest in researching my roots. It's a very precious memento to me.

What happened was that I lost my Grandad in 2004 and then in 2006 my Grandma died too. They were both very elderly, but I love and to this day very much miss them both more than I can say. Obviously part and parcel of losing someone is having to clear out their belongings and sort everything out. My Grandma was a hoarder of anything 'family' orientated, so subsequently we found suitcases and boxes full of all sorts of stuff that needed to be gone through. One of the thing we found was this photo.

Obviously had to do a lot of research into it to find out how old it was and more importantly who everyone was on it. It dates from around 1899-1900ish I think. It's more than likely a wedding photo and I think it's to celebrate the marriage of my Great Great Aunty Jane who is on the top row, third from the right.

In the centre of the photo, the forbidding looking couple are my Great Great Grandparents James Dalton Grime and his wife Elizabeth Ellen. They were born around 1856. James in Darwen near Blackburn, Lancashire and Elizabeth in Cowling, a little village near Chorley, Lancashire. It's the usual tale for most people who have their roots in Lancashire - they were mill workers - so nothing unusual about the family at all. On the top row, second from the left is the lady who became my Great Grandmother, Mary Ellen Grime. She was born in 1880 in the beautiful village of Turton, near Bolton.

Shortly before the 1901 census was taken the family uprooted from Bolton and moved across to a small town called Hindley, near Wigan. They had to go where the work was, and that was where they found it. By this time James and Elizabeth had 9 children so it was imperative as many of them were working and earning as possible in order for them to well, stay alive really. They took on a small two up-two down terraced house. Which must have been hell on earth - as there were no indoor facilities, no electricity and for the most part 11 people of varying ages and stages of health couped up together. The parents and the elder children all worked at the local mill as either Cotton Spinners, Piecers, Self Actor Winders or just general dogsbodies. School wasn't compulsory in the same way as it is now and many children would do half time at school and half time in the mills from being as young as 7. Very often people would work 12-15 hour shifts with only a small break to eat during that time.

From left to right the remainder of the people on the photo are - Top row Jimmy Grime, Mary Ellen Grime, Emily Grime, Jane Darlington, Jane's husband Arnold, Richard Grime.

Second row l-r Ada Grime, John Grime, James Dalton, Elizabeth Ellen, William Grime, Joseph Grime

Front row on his own - cheeky chappie Albert Grime

So out of everyone on that photo - the only person at the time who wouldn't have been working was Albert. The others would have all been either purely working in the mill or at school and working in the mills.

These were hard times, and in 1909 the harsh life and unhealthy existence caught up with both Emily and William Grime. Emily had been forced to stop work because of illness and take on work as a seamstress at home instead. She contracted TB and died suddenly aged only 25. Within two weeks her younger brother William (who was also working at the same mill) had died too, aged only 11. They are buried in the family plot at our local cemetery in an unmarked grave.

My Great Grandma Mary Ellen left the family to get married in 1904. She married my Great Grandad John Henry Jackson and they moved two streets away and set up home. My mother was virtually brought up by her and still vividly remembers from her childhood the Edwardian range in the sitting room from which her Grandma did all her cooking. Tales of massive pots of Tripe and Onions, Liver, Stews and Potato Pie (a Lancashire delicacy, and mine worker's staple) are still told to me now and she often recounts the smells of homecooking. Grandma Jackson had Pernicious Anaemia and needed to eat red meat regularly to stop her from being poorly and Grandad Jackson didn't like onions. Random facts. Grandad Jackson also liked Ice Cream Sandwiches (ie two slices of buttered bread with an ice cream wafer sandwich in it). He played the cornet in a colliery band.

Grandma Jackson called her first daughter Emily after her sister. Emily is the lady whose wedding picture I put up in an earlier blog entry - you know the Art Deco wedding one that I WANT.

James Dalton Grime died in 1917 aged about 60ish, but he was never very clear about the year of his birth. Elizabeth Ellen outlived him by 16 years, dying in 1933 aged about 73 ish. They are buried with William and Emily.

I know little about the other people in the photo. Jane and Arnold married and had one daughter, Richard married and became a collier and also a football referee. Ada married very young and had twin sons - one of whom was killed in a car crash. Albert became a soldier during WW1 and was in the Machine Gun Corps, though I know nothing about whether he survived or not. So that all needs to be worked on.

But to think that this is the image that started off my interest in researching my roots - and what I have discovered from it in the following 5 years is very special to me. Ok, so this might not be the most thrilling blog entry you'll ever read, but please indulge me! These people shaped who I am (though I am not sure they would be terribly impressed with my interesting use of swear words and my fascination with make up) and are still part of me.

These are the kinds of mementos we should all treasure and make it our business to find out about, before it's too late!

If you are interested in finding out about your roots but don't know where to begin - then I will be happy to try and advise you if I can.

Soap Round-Up

2010-07-05T09:21:00.000-07:00

Your weekly catch up with all that's happening in the world of soap operas.

Coronation Street

Rita is perturbed to discover Norris' stash of antique porn mags in a suitcase at the back of his wardrobe - she confronts him, and he confesses he has been using them to buff up his corners on a regular basis. She sacks him from The Kabin and he is forced to seek solace in the arms of Betty's Hotpot.
Ken and Dierdre's marriage hits another rocky patch after he finds out she has been having an affair with her neck muscles. She begs for forgiveness and he takes her back, but only on the proviso he can have a crack at them anytime he wants. She agrees and they have neck sex.
Gail's new partner - a shady character by the name of Murder McMadman ingratiates himself with the family and takes David ten pin bowling. David's suspicions are aroused when he catches Murder slipping a sachet of Easy Blend Dried Yeast into his burger and fries at the cafe - will he confess to Gail or will he let her make a stupid great big arse of herself again?
Elsewhere, Becky and Steve McDonald have an hilarious row after a misunderstanding over a sink plunger and a dutch cap and there's an Ex Lax Thief at the Corner Shop.

Eastenders

Cockernee shenanigins aplenty when Ronnie and Roxie decide to form an all girl's netball team with Dot Cotton, dead Ethel and Pat's earrings. Their first match is against the 'Up West' team at the allotment, when no-one scores and Arthur's turnips get trampled.
Peggy is mooning about over her latest lover Billy 'The Twat' Bastard who is making overtures towards the Queen Vic. Phil steps in like a big angry teddy bear on Sudafed and biffs Billy up, leaving him for dead underneath The Arches (Underneath the Arches, I dream my dreams away. Underneath the arches, On cobblestones I lay. Ev'ry night you'll find me, Tired out and worn. Happy when the daylight comes creeping, Heralding the dawn) before going back to Shirley for a sick burp inducing love in.
Ian Beale discovers that the moustache he'd shaved off several years previously is actually alive and well and working at the Laundrette washing the Branning family's dirty laundry in public. Jane, horrified at this news leaves him for a lesbian love in with Mo Slater and the two adopt a Russian orphan called Molotov.
In other news, the Masoods decide to set up a religious sect, based on the teachings of their saviour, Demis Roussos. They take to wearing Kaftans and doling out his CDs in the cafe while punters are eating their beans. Also, someone dies in mysterious circumstances, gets buried under the lino in E20 and no-one notices, until they trip over the remains while dancing the funky chicken.

Emmerdale

Viv and Bob announce their intention to start swinging at the Post Office. They put a notice in the Parish Magazine advertising for couples to join them, but on the opening night of their venture only Edna Birch and the late Amos Brierley turn up thus rendering it a disaster. Unfazed by this, Bob attempts to have 'a crack' at Amos anyway.
Diane from the pub finds yet another unsuitable man in her winceyette nighty, and vows never ever to ask for an extra pint of full cream from the milkman again. In her grief she turns to Marlon for comfort and the two become embroiled in a passionate and unlikely affair inbetween the main course and dessert.
Chas Dingle slops around in babydoll undies for a while pretending to be northern and having a go at anyone who questions whether her hair is really that dark or not. She also shouts at Paddy when he tries to make her wear some nice, smart, elasticated waist trousers. She vents her rage on her poor son, Aaron who retaliates by turning straight and having an affair with that woman who used to go out with Adam Ant and was in LA Law - but is now pretending to be married to the fella made from balsa wood who was in The Colbys but is now buried in the woods somewhere.
Elsewhere, Ashley the Vicar takes a vow of celibacy after another relationship with a softly spoken dippy woman in slacks goes wrong. He dedicates his life to God for half an hour before he falls in love with Charity Dingle's hair extensions and they set up home in Hotten.

Hollyoaks

Some young people try and look cool. They all shag each other. One of them has a mental when their hair colour turns out wrong and goes round shooting everyone with a water pistol loaded with nutella.
An old man comes in, but he doesn't last long as he isn't cool enough.
Tragedy strikes when someone's tumble dryer shrinks their pants so small that not even a microscope can pick them up.
In other news, I don't watch Hollyoaks.

A Very Ordinary Man Indeed

2010-07-04T09:22:00.000-07:00

I couldn't believe it when you rang to tell me I'd won the competition. After all, who am I but just a very ordinary man with an ordinary life - I've no stories to tell, nothing to make me stand out from the crowd.

I've never wanted to draw attention to myself. Even on the beach when I was a nipper, everyone would be out there in their swimsuits and costumes, playing happily - and I'd be sat behind the windbreaker in my balaclava, fingerless gloves and SuperTed pants licking a cockle.

That's why this is all such a shock to me and very new. It's not so often I can claim to have achieved something in my life. My mother often remarked 'You're a useless turd' and it's something I've carried with me always. She was a stern woman, face like a squashed teacake - but despite the trite remarks she did care. When I was about to leave school, aged 16 to go and work in the chicken factory she gave me some very wise advice, saying 'never pluck a chicken before it's hatched - or you'll get egg on your face' and those are words I've remained true to in whatever I've done. Actually, working at the chicken factory wasn't so bad. It was the constant smell of giblets that did for me in the end, although I was 'Plucker of the Year' in 1973, a truly happy moment.

Shortly after that, mum died. She left the house to get a quarter of potted meat and fell under the axle of the pop lorry. It was jolly bad luck all round as I missed out on corned beef sandwiches AND a glass of dandelion and burdock that day. The funeral was a quiet affair, just me and the man from the Co-op, as I threw the clods of earth on to the coffin I heard him say 'Well, that's another divvy we've lost. It's a wonder anyone bothers these days...' I did manage to slice the baps for the funeral tea - but with only two of us it was hardly worth the bother of opening the Blue Band.

I took over the house of course - I'd been well trained in domestic ways. Always put the lavatory seat down - even if it's only you uses it. Clean sheets once a week, and elbows off the table at all times. Of course after a few weeks it gets very wearing, and the temptation to kick off your cream slip ons in front of Songs of Praise is all too tempting.

That all changed when I met Sheila. Sheila Utterthwaite from the DSS. I first met her when we were queueing for Coley at the fishmongers on Slack Alley. I remember thinking I liked the way she asked him to 'fillet her a bit...', and - rather forwardly for me I thought, asked her if she'd like to come out for an egg nog with me. Luckily for me, she agreed - and we spent many happy hours together drinking the said beverage and discussing all sorts of things - peg bags, pedestal mats and Antidisestablishmentarianism in Krakatoa East of Java. She had forthright views on the latter. Anyway - Sheila and I were blissfully happy, so much so I asked her to marry me and she agreed. We arranged the arrangements and got hitched that Summer - and what a day was had by all! With mother dying - I had no-one left on my side of the family (my father had run off with a gas fitter called Norman in 1967) so it was down to Sheila's family to make up the numbers, and luckily she had quite a large menagerie as t'were. Her Aunty Arthur came all the way from Pontefract to give her away as her Father was indisposed after an accident with a Turnip thrasher. Sheila was resplendent in duck egg blue, but her dress was white. I had a suit from Timothy Whites. We had our reception at Sidroy's Fish Bar on the high street. Scampi in a basket for 30. Happy memories.

We didn't honeymoon - we had no money, and Sheila had to be back at the DSS on Monday morning. But we did manage a short weekend away to Pendle to look at Witch Country. I took her up Pendle Hill a few times and we had chips.

The next couple of years passed in a blissful haze. Well, we all smoked Woodbines and never opened the windows. Eventually, the inevitable happened and Sheila got pregnant. This put the cap on what had been thus far an incredibly pleasant interlude in our lives together. I found out later that it wasn't eating Dream Topping that caused women to get pregnant, but something else entirely. A few months later we had our first child, who we named Babybell, after Sheila's favourite snack. Two more children, Bird'sEye and Cracker Barrell quickly followed.

Seemingly complete family life carried on in this way for years - I by now had started work at the Library - I was in charge of crayoning out all the swearwords in the DH Lawrence novels, a challenge I relished, and Sheila had given up work to look after our children. It was a stretch money wise, but we got through somehow. I took on a supplementary job at the abbatoir shaving the bullocks - which fortunately my post at the chicken factory had stood me in good stead for.

But this fairytale had to end - it was too good to be true. I heard from a friend that Sheila had been spotted on more than one occasion spending an inordinate amount of time dwelling near the tripe counter at Dewhurst's Butchers. It seemed she had taken rather a fancy to the man who sliced the Brawn and he to her. He'd been giving her extra for a few weeks - I'd wondered why it was all backed up and going mouldy in the fridge. Of course, I did what any self respecting idiot would do - I ignored it and carried on, pretending everything was ok and all the time avoiding opening the fridge. When the smell of rotting pig's head got too much to bear I finally had to confront her. 'Sheila...' I opined 'What IS going on?' it was then she confessed frankly and fully to her misdemeanours with the Brawn man. He hadn't gone all the way and slipped her his Cumberland - they'd only gone as far as Chipolatas but that to me was bad enough. I clapped my hands together 'Well, that's great. Well done. Sheila, Take A Bow' I said, not caring who I was hurting.

She left me soon after.

Last I heard she'd ditched him and taken up with a carpenter called Billy Snug-Fit.

I approached single life with some trepidation. I had no access to the children, but she'd left me her egg poacher - so that was something. Getting used to an empty house again was quite a challenge. It was only the early 80s - and we had no Sky TV or anything, so I had no porn to wank over like all the youngsters do today. I had to make do with repeats of Cagney and Lacey and some heavy duty kitchen roll. Work kept me busy - I'd been promoted from crayoning to felt tip pens at the Library and had the mammoth task of painting clothes on all the women in the life drawing books, a job for which any single man will be grateful for. It was a painstaking task but one which I relished, the peace and quiet of the stacks, my own chair and set of Stabilo Boss and I was a happy bunny. It was only the crushing loneliness of an empty house that brought me back down to earth with a bump each night.

I've remained fairly resolutely single since. It's been a long time. I've had a few dates, but no-one really has caught my eye enough to take my mind off Sheila. I do wish her every happiness in her life, I believe she has a static caravan at Abergele. That could have been my static caravan, but alas it was not to be.

The thing that has brought me most joy throughout all of this is my Allegro. My little Austin Allegro. I've had her since she was a baby - and a very beautiful baby she was too. Such a beautiful shade of orange. I admit I bought it in a fit of pique after our neighbours at the time - Mr and Mrs Higginbottom came home from the showroom with a brand new Morris Ital. In taupe. It had a faux leather interior and it's own choke (which Mrs Higginbottom used for her handbag - the folly of the woman...) Oh, they were well impressed with themselves - forever parading up and down the road in it and making a show. Weren't so impressed with it when it broke down on the Ilkley Road and they had to get the AA out to get them home. They'd just been to Bejam for a frozen cow - and by the time they trudged back up the street it was well defrosted and had to be burnt in the back yard. But touch wood, in the 34 years I've had my Allegro it's never once let me down. She's a bit tempremental and needs some good lovin' from time to time - but I wouldn't part with her. We've been through everything together - she even once got stuck on Wrynose Pass trying to scale the ascent behind a group of charity riders pedalling up there on Tricycles to promote awareness of Ringworm. I soon saw them off. I never did find out if they found the man who fell of his trike and slid down the ravine - bit late now I guess. But she's done me proud. I only really need her to get me to Lidl and back now, but she carts a full weekly shop as if it was small fry and happily starts first time even now.

Hark at me, all this time I've been babbling on and I haven't even asked about my prize - or said thank you properly...so what is it exactly I've won again? What's that you say? A years free subscription to Reader's Digest? Look, I might be a very ordinary man indeed - but I'm not a complete idiot. Good day.

King Henry VIII - A New Perspective

2010-06-30T09:35:00.000-07:00

By Professor Apple von Strudel BA, MA, PhD

During my University days when I was first studying for my PhD, I wrote a paper entitled 'Anne Boleyn - The Boots No7 Years' based on the mammoth discovery I made during a dig at Hever Castle whence I found an empty tube of 'Protect and Perfect Serum' underneath the topsoil in their back garden. This thrilling find not only turned on the head the notion that Tudor women were all dog ugly, but that they actually did have at their disposal premium branded skincare and were concerned with the first signs of ageing. In Anne Boleyn's case - as we know it was sadly fruitless as at the first sign of her ageing, King Henry gave her the most drastic facelift possible.

Still, the little tube of serum, carelessly discarded no doubt by one of her ladies in waiting was a truly remarkable discovery. Of course, my colleagues (and in particular those of Dr Roger Heliotrope, Head of History at Benilyn College, Telford) instantly dismissed my findings as 'utter bunkum' without giving a shred of evidence to back them up. I still maintain to this day that it was quite easy for Anne to nip out to Boots unaccompanied to buy toiletries as and when she needed. There is strong evidence to suggest that her successor as Queen (the late Jane Seymour, star of Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman) had a penchant for Lancome Juicy Tubes, and even on her death bed after she contracted puerperal fever she made her ladies in waiting apply it liberally, lest King Henry found her unnattractive whilst she was mired in her own excrement and blood.

This notion of Tudor women using the latest pentapeptide technology to enhance their looks is nothing new. Hundreds of years previously, the late Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, wife of Henry II used a youthening decoction of herbs formulated by Laboratoire Garnier, Paris - and was frequently seen rootling in her handbag at Royal Banquets for her 'Wet Ones' to keep her hands from greasy smears and marks.

I was recently invited by invitation to a small dig on the outskirts of Hampton Court. This excavation was being done on behalf of the 'Idiots in History' foundation and was headed by the radical, yet genius archaeologist Dr Gunther Spragg from the Basingstoke Institute for Mentals. He has recently released a paper entitled 'King Henry VIII's Music - The Beatles to Bono' a fascinating insight into the King's listening habits - and the sort of music that he had on his iPod. According to Spragg, his love of The Beatles (his favourite song was 'She Loves You...') was only eclipsed slightly by his passion for Alma Cogan, and her seminal Greatest Hits album which apparently he played so much, Thomas More once commented 'I wish he WOULD do a fucking tango with an eskimo...all the way to fucking Nebraska...'. Spragg believes that ultimately it was this comment that led to his beheading and not - as was first thought - his refusal to sign the oath of allegiance to the King over the Reformation.

The dig was an utter joy to behold. Standing on the outskirts of Hampton Court, trowel excitedly in hand I began to scrape away the top soil with a sense of complete wonderment. What would I find? How would what I found be interpreted in years to come? Would Tony Robinson be interested in making a Channel 4 special about my brilliance? As Spragg and I began to work what we didn't realise the magnitude of what we were about to uncover.

Just a few short minutes into the dig I heard Spragg's trowel hit something. We looked at each other with expectorationment. What on earth could we have befallen upon so early on in the dig? So early we hadn't even broken into our morning flask of KiaOra. Carefully, carefully we scraped away more top soil. Something glinted at us. Beads of sweat were starting to form on our heads as we delicately moved the object into the air. Spragg gasped as did I as he held aloft the most amazing find in all archaelogical history.

King Henry VIII's original, signed copy of the first series of Only Fools and Horses on DVD. We weren't sure at first, but further clearing of topsoil did indeed reveal it to be David Jason's face shining through into the glinting sunlight. This surely added a new dimension to the original notions of how the Tudor family entertained themselves when they frequented Hampton Court. For years, many historians argued that they held massive banquets, ate loads of dead birds and drank wine, rollocked around in the reeds on the floor, wee'd everywhere and then went to bed. This clearly, CLEARLY shows otherwise. We can now surmise that yes, Henry was a dreadful tyrant who killed his wives, innocent courtiers and other sundry staff. Yes, he was a big bloated kipper of a man who had syphillis and a big gouty leg. But he liked a laugh. And when he wanted to laugh he turned to the shining wit of Nicholas Lyndhurst as 'you plonker' Rodney. Surely, it is not so hard to imagine him, sitting on his throne - bag of Kettle Chips and bottle of Rose at his side, laughing merrily when Grandad unscrews the Chandelier and it falls hilariously to the floor. I like to think of him sprawled out on a vast rug in front of the fire, sitting with one of his wives (probably Katherine Parr) and chuckling heartily when Del Boy falls through the hatch. I wonder how many times he rewound it to satifsy his animal urge to laugh and make merry with his wench?

We kept this find under wraps for some time, lest we were laughed at further by the establishment. Certain factions of the historical community would be keen to take liberties with our idea and we wanted to hold onto it for a little longer.

Eventually, we called a worldwide press conference at the Little Chef just off the A30, near Somewhere, to annouce our findings. We quite frankly expected a better turn out that the grey haired bloke from GMTV and Eamonn Holme's Stylist, but we had to make do. Spragg's Power Point presentation and ultimate showing of the findings went down a storm however, as did the free Scotch Eggs and Tango we procured by way of refreshment for our guests.

The next day we were thrilled to make a paragraph spread in the local newspaper. Our photo was invisible next to the article itself - but our findings spoke for themselves. Of course we have our detractors as usual. Once again, our old foe Dr Roger Heliotrope said it was 'bobbins' and a 'complete waste of time' whilst condemning our methods of digging (we used a Sainsbury's Basics Bucket and Spade and a bottle of Sprite to wash the finds in). It's only what we've come to expect. WE know our science and history is rock solid, however. I am a highly qualified Historian of some 30 years experience and my papers have been widely read and distributed in Care Homes and Hospitals alike. In particular my thesis on 'Elizabeth I her life with Dan Brown' was a big hit. And absorbent to boot.

My next dig will be held in several weeks time, when I try to uncover the real origins of Stonehenge, armed only with a fishfork and a copy of Autotrader. It promises to be a unique experience and I hope to see you all there.