Posted on by JonnyB

Occasional Weekend Bulletin Thing

Three years. Must get a life.

Magnus Magazine has asked me to submit some stuff to them!!! It is exciting. It showcases creative work and provides useful information and advice on starting a creative career. I have spent the past few years bashing my head against a large wall attempting to finish a bloody creative career, but it would be quite fun to have some stuff up there.

But what? Does anybody have a favourite post from way back that I should include?

And Amnesty International have sent me an email!!! It is good of them. Probably the worst thing about living with the LTLP and next door to Short Tony is that you lose hope that anybody cares, but now Amnesty are taking an interest I am hoping that conditions will improve.

Oh.

Boooooo – they just want me to showcase this video of Noel Fielding and some other bloke I don’t recognise, as a promotion for The Secret Policeman’s Ball. They should know that I don’t do unpaid promotions, except for arms manufacturers and makers of leg irons etc. But Noel and I go back a long way; I went to a lot of his early shows and he tripped over my feet once. So if it will help him with his career then I am happy to oblige.

And there is a short questionnairey thing by me here, if you’re interested. It is in large type for the hard of eyesight.

Posted on by JonnyB

“We’ve sort of brought some food.”

She opens the Marks and Spencer’s bag with a slightly apologetic look. I am crestfallen, not because there is any food whatsoever in the cottage to offer my two guests, but because news that I am a rubbish host has clearly spread far and wide.

I have been so disorganised recently, and this gives me stress. It is ages since I cooked a proper meal for a visitor, or in fact made one iota of effort whatsoever. I blame the Baby. I am a rubbish host.

It doesn’t help that I know that the girls have not visited Norfolk before, and I have probably made one two many ‘haha we locals are going to murder you pretty townies’ jokes in the build-up to the visit, before cutting myself shaving in a spectacular fashion and covering the bathroom in blood just an hour before they were due to turn up. I think I got most of it off the tiles, and I changed the towels to avoid unpleasantness, but it puts me on the back foot.

Booooooo. They think I am a rubbish host. Being a rubbish host is the worst thing you can be accused of in the world ever, except maybe being a rubbish host and a peadaphile. Fortunately nobody has ever accused me of being a rubbish host and a peadaphile, as I am always careful to have enough sweets and a properly clean van.

I am deflated.

I have an idea!!! “You could have some pork pie?” I offer, brightly. “Perhaps with some pickle?”

They politely have some pork pie.

I cunningly take them to the Village Pub, knowing that there are likely to be a few scraps on the bar if we get there quickly. And later on we go to Short Tony’s, who always has bottles of wine ready for visitors. So really although I am a bad host, I have saved quite a lot of money which I will be able to spend on myself.

That thought makes me feel better. The next morning I offer them breakfast. They have brought their own sausages, but I cook them using my gas, so it is a fifty-fifty arrangement and my reputation is saved.

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“Hello, I’m back from the Village Pub,” I whisper.

“Will you at least whisper?” she hisses furiously.

“Sorry.”

“Did you have a good time? Did your friends enjoy it?”

“Yes, although there weren’t ma…”

“Good. Now go to bed.”

“Oh. Ok.”

I leave the Baby’s room, where the LTLP has set up a temporary hospital camp. But a thought occurs to me.

“Do you need a hand with the Baby?”

“I can manage perfectly all right, thank you. Now go to bed.”

“Yes.”

I remember something important.

“We went round to Short Tony’s.”

“Really.”

“Yes. And had a game of darts. Although on reflection I think he might have wanted to go to bed. But it was good to have a game of darts and show them Short Tony’s place, and have a few glasses of wine.”

“Yes.”

“Thinking about it I think he really did want to go to bed. His dog shat on the carpet!!! One of the girls nearly trod in it. With her feet.”

“His dogg?”

“No, his dog. The new one.”

“Oh. Night night.”

“Night.”

I tiptoe from the room. But another thought occurs to me.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hand with the Baby?”

“No I don’t. Now go to bed.”

I exit stealthily onto the landing.

“Aaaaaiiiiiieeeeeeeee!!!”

“What the fuck is it?”

“I’ve hit my toe!!!”

“You what?”

“I’ve hit my toe. I think it’s broken.”

“Go to bed. We’ll look at it in the morning.”

“It hurts and it’s not behaving as a toe should.”

“Go to bed.”

Posted on by JonnyB

Flick.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Flick.

I flick through the channels on my new TV system. Flick. Flick.

Flick.

Beep!!!

I have received a text message from a friend!!! He is spending Valentine’s night in Bolton, watching a football match. He is sad. I, on the other hand, am alone in the cottage, watching the Poker Channel.

The LTLP has limped into London to work. Timing is ever her strong point.

The sudden lack of romance concerns me. Two years ago I cooked her a nice sheep’s heart. Last year I got her flowers. Flick. Flick. Back to the Poker Channel.

There seems to be a fault with my digital box. The picture is too wide for the television, and is cut off on the left hand side. This is the bit of screen that the poker people use to show what cards everybody has. I can see only one card. It is unsatisfactory.

I wander into the kitchen. I am hungry, but there is very little in the fridge and I can’t really be bothered to cook for one.

There is a big home-made pork pie!!! I had forgotten. I cut myself a slice and return to the poker.

Honestly, pork pie is the best. I love pork pie. I tuck in to my pork pie contentedly. Munch. Munch. Munch. It really is a particularly satisfying pork pie.

But, on reflection, it is not a blow job.

This taints my enjoyment of the pork pie. I do try very hard to enjoy it as much. But it is not the same, even smeared with pickle. I finish my pork pie, leaving a small bit of excess crust.

I can hear the tick of the kitchen clock from the other room.

Flick. Flick.

Flick.