Gawd elp us, one and all By Jan Needle
I wonder if it's the same for Father Christmas. You know what I mean - the speeding up of time. When I
was a lad a day was like a week, a day at school more like a term. And as I got older, time began to run amok.
This afternoon I was struggling to finish off a novella about Nelson before travelling down to Leicestershire for a pre-Christmas jolly with the rellies. Only about two thousand words to go, and the deadline seemed more than possible. It's got to be done before I leave here, because the village that we're heading for has no broadband to send it off from. Politicians' promises. Aren't they a hoot?
The day had been bitty, certainly - but handleable. (Do you like that word: it's not copyrighted). Endeavour Press told me yesterday that Other People's Blood would be going up today (that is, Nov 11) for free until the weekend. I dutifully spent lots of the next few hours twooting and faceboogeringabout and all the other modern jollities.
It was even worth the social mediation (another new word?) for that book, in some modern weirdo way. I mean, I'm really fond of it, it makes me sort of cry, so I want it to be read. The fact the bastards were getting it for nothing meant...well, how should a writer take that, in these troubled times? Just a pity it'll be back to £2.99 by the time you lot get to know!
So the day was bitty, my back was aching from too much round-shouldery at the keyboard, but everything was - oh, bloody hell! Oh, holy smoke! (And here comes my favourite Chaucer quote): O womb, o belly, o stinking cod!
I've got a blog to do!
But surely not? It cannot be a month since the last one. That nice American tennis player used to put it rather well, remember: You must be....................JOKING!
I looked at my lickle diary. Sure enough, the pages had gone brown. Spontaneous combustion. It's nearly next year, dammit! And here I sit, with Horatio in extremis up the Rio San Juan, almost literally (beyond figuratively!) without a paddle.
And there sensation seekers, he'll have to sit until I've titillated my fan base. Or wrote this blog, at least. What shall I write about? That's the big shock, as they say on Tyneside.
Ah - a public service announcement. I'll help people on their way through the festive misery. My Christmas gift to a waiting, hungry world.
Oh no, not hungry. That would spoil it.
Fact is, that earlier this week I invented a brilliant, fantastic diet. Not any old diet, but one which will reduce fat gits like me to shadders of their former selves, and it's TOPICAL as well. And immensely cheap. Even that Osborne bastard will approve.
Here's the secret. Last year I noticed that on the day after Boxing Day, Tesco sell off their surplus Christmas puddings for a quid apiece. And Tesco puds, whatever I may think of Tesco morals, are bloody fabulous. I bought the lot, from Tesco Chew Valley Road, Greenfield, Oldham. Seven puddings, seven pounds.
They last forever, believe me. Sugar is a preservative. Brandy is a preservative. And for your hundred pennies, you get both, in GREAT PROFUSION.
Last Monday - two days ago - having nothing to hand for luncheon, I opened one of these darlings - unheated, straight out of the cellophane - and allowed myself a little mouthful. And then another. And then (cont p94). Reader, I ate that bleeding pudding whole. Seven million calories or thereabouts. And it was wonderful.
But here's where the dieting comes in. I hadn't had a bite since the night before (I'm not a breakfast man), and I didn't have another bite until about thirty hours later. AND I WASN'T EVEN HUNGRY!
So now I've cracked it. I shall write it up as a diet book (367 pages I'm told is best), with a picture of a domestic goddess with a pot of coke (double wordplay, note, and for the lawyers I mean Coca Cola naturally), and sell it for eighteen guineas. It will fly off the shelves.
And in three weeks time, of course, I can toddle down to Tesco (not necessarily in Greenfield, I'm told they have them all over) - and load up on more one pound puddings till me heart's content. Like I said, even for Santa Claus himself time waits for no man. Or something.
And a very merry Christmas, and Gord bless us, one and all.
PS If any of you do read OPB, whether free or paid for, please put in a little crit on Amazon. Slag it off, by all means, but I'm told the number of reviews is what turns Joe Punter on, viz Reb's latest post. Never mind the quality, feel the width...I'm not the only one who's mad.
This afternoon I was struggling to finish off a novella about Nelson before travelling down to Leicestershire for a pre-Christmas jolly with the rellies. Only about two thousand words to go, and the deadline seemed more than possible. It's got to be done before I leave here, because the village that we're heading for has no broadband to send it off from. Politicians' promises. Aren't they a hoot?
The day had been bitty, certainly - but handleable. (Do you like that word: it's not copyrighted). Endeavour Press told me yesterday that Other People's Blood would be going up today (that is, Nov 11) for free until the weekend. I dutifully spent lots of the next few hours twooting and faceboogeringabout and all the other modern jollities.
It was even worth the social mediation (another new word?) for that book, in some modern weirdo way. I mean, I'm really fond of it, it makes me sort of cry, so I want it to be read. The fact the bastards were getting it for nothing meant...well, how should a writer take that, in these troubled times? Just a pity it'll be back to £2.99 by the time you lot get to know!
So the day was bitty, my back was aching from too much round-shouldery at the keyboard, but everything was - oh, bloody hell! Oh, holy smoke! (And here comes my favourite Chaucer quote): O womb, o belly, o stinking cod!
I've got a blog to do!
But surely not? It cannot be a month since the last one. That nice American tennis player used to put it rather well, remember: You must be....................JOKING!
I looked at my lickle diary. Sure enough, the pages had gone brown. Spontaneous combustion. It's nearly next year, dammit! And here I sit, with Horatio in extremis up the Rio San Juan, almost literally (beyond figuratively!) without a paddle.
And there sensation seekers, he'll have to sit until I've titillated my fan base. Or wrote this blog, at least. What shall I write about? That's the big shock, as they say on Tyneside.
Ah - a public service announcement. I'll help people on their way through the festive misery. My Christmas gift to a waiting, hungry world.
Oh no, not hungry. That would spoil it.
Fact is, that earlier this week I invented a brilliant, fantastic diet. Not any old diet, but one which will reduce fat gits like me to shadders of their former selves, and it's TOPICAL as well. And immensely cheap. Even that Osborne bastard will approve.
 |
| You'll never diet, dad - fat git! |
Here's the secret. Last year I noticed that on the day after Boxing Day, Tesco sell off their surplus Christmas puddings for a quid apiece. And Tesco puds, whatever I may think of Tesco morals, are bloody fabulous. I bought the lot, from Tesco Chew Valley Road, Greenfield, Oldham. Seven puddings, seven pounds.
They last forever, believe me. Sugar is a preservative. Brandy is a preservative. And for your hundred pennies, you get both, in GREAT PROFUSION.
Last Monday - two days ago - having nothing to hand for luncheon, I opened one of these darlings - unheated, straight out of the cellophane - and allowed myself a little mouthful. And then another. And then (cont p94). Reader, I ate that bleeding pudding whole. Seven million calories or thereabouts. And it was wonderful.
But here's where the dieting comes in. I hadn't had a bite since the night before (I'm not a breakfast man), and I didn't have another bite until about thirty hours later. AND I WASN'T EVEN HUNGRY!
So now I've cracked it. I shall write it up as a diet book (367 pages I'm told is best), with a picture of a domestic goddess with a pot of coke (double wordplay, note, and for the lawyers I mean Coca Cola naturally), and sell it for eighteen guineas. It will fly off the shelves.
And in three weeks time, of course, I can toddle down to Tesco (not necessarily in Greenfield, I'm told they have them all over) - and load up on more one pound puddings till me heart's content. Like I said, even for Santa Claus himself time waits for no man. Or something.
And a very merry Christmas, and Gord bless us, one and all.
PS If any of you do read OPB, whether free or paid for, please put in a little crit on Amazon. Slag it off, by all means, but I'm told the number of reviews is what turns Joe Punter on, viz Reb's latest post. Never mind the quality, feel the width...I'm not the only one who's mad.
Other People’s Blood
And the Authors
Electric Christmas Book Sale!
Starting on Christmas
Day and running until the 28th, Find out which books and where here
on Christmas Day,
Comments
Love this post!
Only thing better is Tunis cake!
And Amok Time. That was a Star Trek episode. Sorry, the sugar rush is messing with my brain ...