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Pasty-gate
“I’ll have a large traditional Cornish please” bleated Mr Cameron.
He had been looking forward to this for weeks. Sam never let him eat them back at home. Too fatty she said “You don’t want to be photographed next to Obama looking like a bloater”.
This was going to be a real treat for David.
The shop girl, Rakshita, stood across the counter in her West Cornwall Pasty Company polo shirt. “I’m sorry Mr Cameron but we’re all out. That gentlemen over there bought the last one”.
On the opposite side of the food court stood Vince Cable. He smiled contently back at David as he took a preliminary nibble at the crust of his delicious warm Cornish Pasty.
“Cable” murmured David under his breath. “It’s always bloody Cable”.
Huhning it about
Disgraced petrol head Chris Huhne stands forlornly in his empty office in the houses of parliament.
Where did it all go wrong?
“I think I gone got flashed today dear…and I’m out of points and that”
Victoria listened absently as she chopped the leaks for the evening’s dinner.
That was three years ago now and that shit David Cameron had since had his way with Chris’ political career, and perhaps with Victoria.
“He does have such a nice look about him” she had always said, “a gentle smile revealing a warm heart”.
It was that warm heart that had stood by as the carnivorous tabloid vultures put pay to what was left of Chris’ dignity.
“How do you find the defendant” Asks the grumpy judge with his silly wig.
“Guilty as charged” replied the smug school teacher “Guilty as a shit”.
The Leveson Inquiry
Lord Justice Leveson sat back in his executive chair.
“Lying shits” he exclaimed. “Lying shits the lot of them”
Shirley, his middle aged secretary, continued to take the minutes on her outdated word processor.
“Was that on or off the record?” She murmured
“I don’t care anymore” replied Lord Leveson as he loosened the collar of his TM Lewin dress shirt, “I’m too old for this shit”.
Meanwhile in the chamber TV funny man Steve Coogan racked up another line on the antique oak desk by which he was sat.
The gallery exploded with laughter and everyone agreed what a card Mr Coogan was.
“That Alan Partridge off the telly is a real card” exclaimed one junior under-secretary.
“Yes” said another “and I’ve heard he’s got a massive cock”
Parkour
Paul Jenkins had always encouraged the members of his accounting team to pursue extra curricular activities outside of the work environment. “A healthy body makes for a heathy spreadsheet’ was his motto.
So when an employee asked for his blessing to set up a ‘Price Waterhouse Cooper free-running club’ he saw no objection.
It was only when a junior member of the auditing department leapfrogged over Mr Takimora from the Tokyo office that Paul began to realise he’d probably made the wrong decision.
A Delicious Ploughman’s Lunch
It was clearly a ‘local’ pub thought John and Margaret. It might explain why so many of the regulars were in the nude.
The first born
INT. CENTRAL PERK. Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, Chandler, Joey and Monica sit around chatting. Chandler is finishing off a joke.
CHANDLER:
…and i was like ‘could you BE any more presidential’
All Laugh
PHOEBE:
So, Ross, how’s Ben?
ROSS:
Who?
PHOEBE:
Your son
ROSS:
….oh…..right…ummm….
Phoebe:
Blonde hair, about three foot high….
ROSS
No…urrrr…it’s not coming to me
(pause)
(longer pause)
Well..this is a bit awkward
eight.
He just sat there and stared at those three little words.
In ten years of owning the Magic 8-Ball he’d never encountered any answer other than the standard fare - ‘It is certain’, ‘Don’t count on it’, ‘Ask again later’ - the usual stuff.
But now, as he sat alone at the breakfast table on the morning of his 37th birthday, there they were.
He swallowed another mouthful of Coco-Rocks and finished his juice.
He tried for a fifth time, articulating the words clearly, fully aware that he was speaking only to a child’s novelty toy.
“Magic 8-Ball, will I ever be happy again?”
He shook the ball hard and replaced it on the table. As he waited for the oil to settle in the tiny answer window he briefly thought about her, and the absense she’d left behind.
Before he even looked he knew it had settled on the same inexplicable answer again:
“You’re a dick”
With that he picked up his briefcase and left for work.
Tragedy #81
Jacob left Mr Smith’s newsagents. He took a deep breath, wiped the blood from his hands and dabbed at the fresh bruise below his right eye. He hadn’t anticipated that returning a newspaper would be such a hassle.
National Treasure
It had been a while since Richard Attenborough had last taken poppers, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he had been remembering the experience correctly.
He strained to recall how it had been. Returning home after an invigorating opening night performance of Pinter’s The Homecoming, full of vitality and revolutionary ideas, Harold, Miranda and himself had retired to his comfortable mansion flat in South Kensington, with the intention having a night cap. Whilst sipping Sancerre and discussing the specific complexities of the play, the whole ‘popper’ experience had seemed very different.
That all felt like a lifetime ago now.
Yet, here he was, in Chikita’s Night Club in Southend, plastic vial in one hand, fading glow stick in the other, embracing the moment.
“Who’s coming to Dickie’s for an after party? Dickie’s got room in his roost for all the little chickens”.
And with that the dance floor erupted in cheers for Sir Attenborough.
Minor Tragedy #17
It is two minutes past midnight on a Tuesday morning. Charles is beginning to wonder if, for the last decade or so, he has been stretching the truth a little too far when he described himself as a writer.
In October 1989 he had sent a joke into Radio 4’s The News Quiz. It was a one liner involving some relatively clever wordplay, concerning Michael Foot and the Anglo-Dutch shipping agreement of September that same year. It was read out by the then Chair Barry Norman and received a mild applause from the Manchester based studio audience.
Despite countless efforts since, ranging from letters, to emails, to gags scrawled on the back of discarded pub napkins and posted through prducers leterboxes, he had failed to have a single word read out on air.
Despite this Charles decided he was indeed justified in calling himself a writer.
With the warm comfort of this self deluded realisation, he settled back into his chair and continued work on Ambridge Rex; his thousand page epic poem inspired by the life and times of the Archer family
