These are real* extracts from police statements given under caution, from people caught in the foul** act of dogging. *completely made up. **beautiful.
"I'm sorry officer, we were just frantically trying to get it into second gear, for 10 minutes, with nothing on.................yes it's an automatic, what of it?"
"No officer, the car broke down and these kind gentlemen were just trying to bump start her. IT, I MEANT IT. The car. And that's when all our trousers fell down."
"No idea officer, I assume all these fat bald gentlemen are just wearing the masks because they are going to a masquerade ball."
"I know officer, what an amazing coincidence that our car breaks down in this exact same spot at midnight every Tuesday."
"I wouldn't know anything about secret signals officer, the internal light was merely flashing on and off because of a blown fuse."
"You see officer these strong winds blew off all my clothes then lifted me into this bush next to this gentleman's car"
"What's funny officer, oh I see, well it's quite cold out here, any chance if sitting in your car? I think my boss just drove past"
"I've already told you officer, we brought the cameras because we wanted to take some photos of the badgers, and we are naked because our clothes were rustling and scaring them away"
"Frankly officer, I'm disgusted that you think I would pay to indulge in such............ what? It's FREE? THE BASTARDS"
Thanks to @pillcook for the inspiration and contribution.
Cheers, Kenny @TheHappyG
Now sod off.
Monday, 7 July 2014
The mullet that time forgot......
I've had an idea for a horror/thriller short story that I believe will also make for good TV.
BRIEF SYNOPSIS -
Man wakes up in morning, looks over adoringly at wife (no, it's not a comedy) - and to his horror he sees she's got a great big curly mullet.
He's a bit confused, but unabashed he gets up and minces around the house for a bit.
Having imbibed "a few beers" the night before, he has a sudden urge for a bacon sarnie so hot foots it to local cafe "The Lay Down Linda". Through the fug of body odour and smoke, he can make out the svelte figure of his favourite Polish waitress, but as the mist clears, there before him, sitting proudly atop her elfin head is a big curly mullet....
He looks around him, mild panic beginning to manifest itself - EVERYONE in the cafe has a curly mullet...
He runs home to confront his wife - "WHY HAVE YOU GOT A CURLY MULLET?". She looks confused "What do you mean, what's a mullet?"
Frantically, he looks around his house at the photos on the walls - yes, all have mullets, staring out at him, mocking him, smirking. Wife, children, parents, grandparents, even the goldfish has a curly mullet.
He turns on the TV - all have mullets.
With shaking fingers he reaches for the family photo album - almost too afraid to look. Worst fears are realised - there he is as a baby - smiling and dribbling to the camera, proud (mulletted) parents looking on, running their fingers through his big bushy curly mullet...........
He closes the album, his face ashen, his trembling hands moving slowly to the top of his head, he knows what's coming...............
THE END.
BRIEF SYNOPSIS -
Man wakes up in morning, looks over adoringly at wife (no, it's not a comedy) - and to his horror he sees she's got a great big curly mullet.
He's a bit confused, but unabashed he gets up and minces around the house for a bit.
Having imbibed "a few beers" the night before, he has a sudden urge for a bacon sarnie so hot foots it to local cafe "The Lay Down Linda". Through the fug of body odour and smoke, he can make out the svelte figure of his favourite Polish waitress, but as the mist clears, there before him, sitting proudly atop her elfin head is a big curly mullet....
He looks around him, mild panic beginning to manifest itself - EVERYONE in the cafe has a curly mullet...
He runs home to confront his wife - "WHY HAVE YOU GOT A CURLY MULLET?". She looks confused "What do you mean, what's a mullet?"
Frantically, he looks around his house at the photos on the walls - yes, all have mullets, staring out at him, mocking him, smirking. Wife, children, parents, grandparents, even the goldfish has a curly mullet.
He turns on the TV - all have mullets.
With shaking fingers he reaches for the family photo album - almost too afraid to look. Worst fears are realised - there he is as a baby - smiling and dribbling to the camera, proud (mulletted) parents looking on, running their fingers through his big bushy curly mullet...........
He closes the album, his face ashen, his trembling hands moving slowly to the top of his head, he knows what's coming...............
THE END.
Sunday, 29 December 2013
Lord of the pies.... but avoid the soup.
Second in the occasional alternative review series : Prompt Corner, Montpelier Road, Brighton
Sean Connery, John Inman, Robbie Williams, Barry from Eastenders. What do these four have in common? Well, apart from being slightly camp and having woefully poor singing voices, as patrons past their signed photos adorn the walls of the underground treasure trove that is Brighton's Prompt Corner. Every conceivable wall space (and indeed ceiling space) is covered. There are some continuity errors, such as the pride of place photo of Jimmy Hendrix who died 6 years before the restaurant opened. The other thing to strike us upon entering was the smell of gin and the fact that everybody that works there is leathered (as in "drunk, slaughtered, plastered" - not "attired in") beyond all known record.
We'll start with the lady behind the bar - we'll call her Joan (and we'll call her a lady) - who sort of glides around behind the bar in a stupor. Average pint pulling time 83 seconds. She makes you wonder if in fact she has feet, or is just moved around by some elaborate pulley system, or indeed if she is alive at all, or just preserved/pickled in home made wine.
Ken (as we'll call him) our maitre'd, shows us to our table and hands us our menus. It's fair to say he looks like he's put a few away, and the fact he is drinking sherry from a pint pot does nothing to dissuade us of that opinion. His arms start shaking like a couple of erect chihuahuas who have just watched The Omen trilogy on a dark misty night,and confirms things once and for all (a mental note is made to avoid the soup).
The food, while big on quantity is pretty much average on quality, and I get the impression that the vegetarian options are in fact just the meat dishes with the biggest lumps removed, and the sauce sucked out by Joan. Now while I frequently endorse that vegetarians clearly have some mental disorder (how on earth can you not like sausages?), they don't deserve to be treated as an afterthought.
The dish the restaurant seem most proud of is the garlic potatoes, and when one of our party asks for the recipe, Joan offers with martini riddled breath - 'Potatoes and garlic butter.' We would never have guessed. She even wrote it down for us, although the next day I looked at the paper and assumed I'd uncovered some coded message written in Japanese and sent it to the Imperial War Museum (where it is still exhibited to this day - really).
The toilet is a thing of beauty, located outside by the bins and of a size that can only suggest it was procured from the set of Time Bandits. The smell is akin to that of a tube station at midnight and there is very much "standing room only."
Paying for our meal seems fraught with danger too, and we get the impression that Ken would just prefer it if we slipped away quietly to save him the trouble of all those fiddly numbers and bits of paper. I think through luck rather than judgement we get away with paying £15 less than we should have done, but he is keen to get us out. Two minutes later we are gone, sucked back into the heart of Brighton and seemingly a million miles away.
One goes to Prompt Corner for the atmosphere not the food, and like great sex it is best enjoyed in groups (although not necessarily with your family).
Go to Prompt Corner, and if you've been go again, and if you are always going go some more. It's good. The service is relaxed and informal (in a drunk sort of way)
Ave. price for 3 course meal for 2 and bottle of wine £50 (ours was more like £80 but we have been known to enjoy the odd drop of wine)
www.promptcorner.com
Booking at weekends strongly recommended - especially for the toilet
Sean Connery, John Inman, Robbie Williams, Barry from Eastenders. What do these four have in common? Well, apart from being slightly camp and having woefully poor singing voices, as patrons past their signed photos adorn the walls of the underground treasure trove that is Brighton's Prompt Corner. Every conceivable wall space (and indeed ceiling space) is covered. There are some continuity errors, such as the pride of place photo of Jimmy Hendrix who died 6 years before the restaurant opened. The other thing to strike us upon entering was the smell of gin and the fact that everybody that works there is leathered (as in "drunk, slaughtered, plastered" - not "attired in") beyond all known record.
We'll start with the lady behind the bar - we'll call her Joan (and we'll call her a lady) - who sort of glides around behind the bar in a stupor. Average pint pulling time 83 seconds. She makes you wonder if in fact she has feet, or is just moved around by some elaborate pulley system, or indeed if she is alive at all, or just preserved/pickled in home made wine.
Ken (as we'll call him) our maitre'd, shows us to our table and hands us our menus. It's fair to say he looks like he's put a few away, and the fact he is drinking sherry from a pint pot does nothing to dissuade us of that opinion. His arms start shaking like a couple of erect chihuahuas who have just watched The Omen trilogy on a dark misty night,and confirms things once and for all (a mental note is made to avoid the soup).
The food, while big on quantity is pretty much average on quality, and I get the impression that the vegetarian options are in fact just the meat dishes with the biggest lumps removed, and the sauce sucked out by Joan. Now while I frequently endorse that vegetarians clearly have some mental disorder (how on earth can you not like sausages?), they don't deserve to be treated as an afterthought.
The dish the restaurant seem most proud of is the garlic potatoes, and when one of our party asks for the recipe, Joan offers with martini riddled breath - 'Potatoes and garlic butter.' We would never have guessed. She even wrote it down for us, although the next day I looked at the paper and assumed I'd uncovered some coded message written in Japanese and sent it to the Imperial War Museum (where it is still exhibited to this day - really).
The toilet is a thing of beauty, located outside by the bins and of a size that can only suggest it was procured from the set of Time Bandits. The smell is akin to that of a tube station at midnight and there is very much "standing room only."
Paying for our meal seems fraught with danger too, and we get the impression that Ken would just prefer it if we slipped away quietly to save him the trouble of all those fiddly numbers and bits of paper. I think through luck rather than judgement we get away with paying £15 less than we should have done, but he is keen to get us out. Two minutes later we are gone, sucked back into the heart of Brighton and seemingly a million miles away.
One goes to Prompt Corner for the atmosphere not the food, and like great sex it is best enjoyed in groups (although not necessarily with your family).
Go to Prompt Corner, and if you've been go again, and if you are always going go some more. It's good. The service is relaxed and informal (in a drunk sort of way)
Ave. price for 3 course meal for 2 and bottle of wine £50 (ours was more like £80 but we have been known to enjoy the odd drop of wine)
www.promptcorner.com
Booking at weekends strongly recommended - especially for the toilet
We all love Clover... allegedly
A short rant at patronising advertisers
I have just been informed via the medium of TV advertising that "We all love Clover." Frankly this news couldn't have come at a more inopportune time, as I await the return of the Carry on Film marathon and tuck into another lard and dripping sandwich.
I suppose the thing that grates most is the advertisers blinkered belief that watching a varied mix of gormless looking nutters crying at the mere thought of Clover is going to make us pile up the nearest Spar and stock up lest they sell out in the inevitable rampage.
(I can only apologise for the lack of punctuation in the last "sentence")
The only time I ever cry when I look at a sandwich is if the good lady has only given me 2 rounds instead of the minimum quantity 4, or if there is a distinct absence of meat (should these two blatant 'faux pas' ever coincide, I will get my first ever opportunity to use the word cataclysmic (apart from then of course)).
In summary if I served someone a jacket potato and they burst into tears, at the very least I would suggest a visit to the clinic sharpish - therefore for me at least the advert has failed.
Note to agency; keep the crying if you will but I propose the following changes - namely this scrolling message across the bottom of the screen, "Clover, it's yellow, it tastes like all the other shit on the market, it WILL make your heart weaker. Ta-daaaa."
That's enough frivolity, back to "Carry On Behind"
Rak yak yak yak.
I have just been informed via the medium of TV advertising that "We all love Clover." Frankly this news couldn't have come at a more inopportune time, as I await the return of the Carry on Film marathon and tuck into another lard and dripping sandwich.
I suppose the thing that grates most is the advertisers blinkered belief that watching a varied mix of gormless looking nutters crying at the mere thought of Clover is going to make us pile up the nearest Spar and stock up lest they sell out in the inevitable rampage.
(I can only apologise for the lack of punctuation in the last "sentence")
The only time I ever cry when I look at a sandwich is if the good lady has only given me 2 rounds instead of the minimum quantity 4, or if there is a distinct absence of meat (should these two blatant 'faux pas' ever coincide, I will get my first ever opportunity to use the word cataclysmic (apart from then of course)).
In summary if I served someone a jacket potato and they burst into tears, at the very least I would suggest a visit to the clinic sharpish - therefore for me at least the advert has failed.
Note to agency; keep the crying if you will but I propose the following changes - namely this scrolling message across the bottom of the screen, "Clover, it's yellow, it tastes like all the other shit on the market, it WILL make your heart weaker. Ta-daaaa."
That's enough frivolity, back to "Carry On Behind"
Rak yak yak yak.
If the cap fits, wear it (unless it's mock Burberry, obviously)
Chav secrets uncovered part I: The baseball cap
After years of study and documenting, I am finally ready to release findings that will change the way we think about chavs forever, and possibly (but it's a long shot) show they may not be as mind numbingly thick as they look or act. My first shocker relates to the bastion of chav-hood, the baseball cap
I, no doubt like yourselves, always thought the chavs choice of head wear was merely practical; ie, hiding the pus ridden boil infested mess the pots and pots of gel have made of their scalps. But no, it appears there are much more fundamental employs of the baseball cap - namely as a homing device for lost chavs, and for identifying rank.
Homing device
Folklore determines that chavs hunt in packs but it only takes a momentary loss of concentration, such as spotting a ho with only 6 kids ("Hey baby, do those love handles go all the way down?"), for one to be lost from his kin. In such instances the cap comes to the rescue as, and this really is true, it will ALWAYS point to Chav Mecca (JJB Sports). Look out for this phenomenon happening in your town or city. It really is uncannily accurate. (If you are lucky enough to not be inflicted by a JJB Sports shop, try H.Samuel, or any off license selling 8 cans of Kestrel Super for £4 or less.)
Identifying Rank
Important for any budding chav is the colour of the cap. Never, ever get it wrong. View below the colour coded hierarchy (it might just save your life)
White The new kid on the block. If a classy chick (5 kids or less) is spotted by the herd, the new kid will be the one abused by the Charmer to impress her. Most common abuse is the old toothbrush up the arse routine.
Pastel Blue Happiest member of the kru (sic.) as he is no longer the new kid. Qualification would be gained by kicking a tramp or licking dog poo.
Red The charmer. Administer of toothbrush. Tends to be the 'looker' in the group. Likes to pretend he is a drug pusher, and is always on his phone, cutting some skag deal (more likely downloading ring tones)
Green Must have ASBO to wear this colour, it's a real emblem, like the yellow jersey in cycling. Usually got asbo by gobbing in a coppers face, or pissing through a vicars letterbox.
Burberry Check The wearer of this is wrongly considered to be the daddy, but in actual fact this lad will be the real trouble of the group. Probably shivved a copper, or slept with the charmers mum.
Black The daddy, always gets first go on any ho's once they come of age, and only shares with the rest of the group when they reach their teens. Always gets first swig of the Napoleon brandy.
And there you have it, fore armed is fore warned or so it is said.
If any chavs can actually read and happen upon this, then take no offence, I've nothing against you. Some of my best friends have got friends who know someone who used to live next door to a chav.
Stay tuned for
Chav secrets uncovered, Part II: The Manor
Chav secrets uncovered, Part III: Pets
Bye
After years of study and documenting, I am finally ready to release findings that will change the way we think about chavs forever, and possibly (but it's a long shot) show they may not be as mind numbingly thick as they look or act. My first shocker relates to the bastion of chav-hood, the baseball cap
I, no doubt like yourselves, always thought the chavs choice of head wear was merely practical; ie, hiding the pus ridden boil infested mess the pots and pots of gel have made of their scalps. But no, it appears there are much more fundamental employs of the baseball cap - namely as a homing device for lost chavs, and for identifying rank.
Homing device
Folklore determines that chavs hunt in packs but it only takes a momentary loss of concentration, such as spotting a ho with only 6 kids ("Hey baby, do those love handles go all the way down?"), for one to be lost from his kin. In such instances the cap comes to the rescue as, and this really is true, it will ALWAYS point to Chav Mecca (JJB Sports). Look out for this phenomenon happening in your town or city. It really is uncannily accurate. (If you are lucky enough to not be inflicted by a JJB Sports shop, try H.Samuel, or any off license selling 8 cans of Kestrel Super for £4 or less.)
Identifying Rank
Important for any budding chav is the colour of the cap. Never, ever get it wrong. View below the colour coded hierarchy (it might just save your life)
White The new kid on the block. If a classy chick (5 kids or less) is spotted by the herd, the new kid will be the one abused by the Charmer to impress her. Most common abuse is the old toothbrush up the arse routine.
Pastel Blue Happiest member of the kru (sic.) as he is no longer the new kid. Qualification would be gained by kicking a tramp or licking dog poo.
Red The charmer. Administer of toothbrush. Tends to be the 'looker' in the group. Likes to pretend he is a drug pusher, and is always on his phone, cutting some skag deal (more likely downloading ring tones)
Green Must have ASBO to wear this colour, it's a real emblem, like the yellow jersey in cycling. Usually got asbo by gobbing in a coppers face, or pissing through a vicars letterbox.
Burberry Check The wearer of this is wrongly considered to be the daddy, but in actual fact this lad will be the real trouble of the group. Probably shivved a copper, or slept with the charmers mum.
Black The daddy, always gets first go on any ho's once they come of age, and only shares with the rest of the group when they reach their teens. Always gets first swig of the Napoleon brandy.
And there you have it, fore armed is fore warned or so it is said.
If any chavs can actually read and happen upon this, then take no offence, I've nothing against you. Some of my best friends have got friends who know someone who used to live next door to a chav.
Stay tuned for
Chav secrets uncovered, Part II: The Manor
Chav secrets uncovered, Part III: Pets
Bye
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