Thursday, 31 March 2011

The Red Face of Ulster

I live in Belfast now! Not that I've really been out of the the house, barring the welcome party awaiting us as we got off the plane (which left me incapacitated for the next day. The sort of hang-over which turns your teeth to rubber and thwarts all ambition). Since then I've left the house to visit IKEA (wok, loobrush, various bins and about fifty feet of shelving!)and M & S (no booze in the M & S - is this a protestant thing?).

We had a shelf building party after the trip to IKEA - myself, Kelly, Paul and Mo got to work with screw-drivers and inscrutable instructions, rendered in pan-European pictographs - and, as used, when confronted with a practical task I failed utterly and bafflingly. I followed the instructions to the letter and when I righted the thing on the kitchen floor it split at the sides likes Des O'Connor on his sofa. What made it worse was that it wasn't written off - Deidre's boyfriend Chris appeared and, manfully, after alighting his steed, picked the thing apart with a claw hammer and fixed the thing! I have sinced packed my testes in a drawer - I shan't be needing them here.

It's slowly but surely coming together - still bags and boxes everywhere but it's starting to look vaguely as if WE live here. Can't find my phone charger though...still...

Thursday, 17 March 2011

No one reads this.

The only comment on this is from me correcting my own spelling. How depressing is that?

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

It looks like it's all up to me

Last one of these for a while. It's getting depressing typing up all this rubbish.

The army has failed and Cliff Davenport has had enough:

It looks like it's all up to me,

When there's a crisis to address,
The Officers leave us in a mess,
All of you big wigs must agree,
It looks like it's all up to me,

The army sent a couple of chaps,
There's been a crabby bridge collapse,
Who's left searching the debris,
It looks like it's all up to me,

When it comes to using your loaf,
Who do you trust? A bungling oaf?
Or a man with a briar and a college degree,
It looks like it's all up to me,

Some people drive tanks with nuclear fission,
People like that don't share my vision,
Some people wear brass and medals with ribbons,
But in a crab-based crisis they do my bidding,

Of course they do,

Don't talk about military intelligence,
My response would be both curt and inelegant,
I'm annoyed at the army you see,
Cause it looks like its all up to me,

The government to my dismay,
Have done little to ease this aquatic affray,
The depressing conclusion must be,
It looks like it's all up to me,

More dialogue from The Night of the Crabs

Giant Crabs have been terrorising the denizens of Barmouth, a small coastal town in Wales with a big heart. The military have been called in and General Grisedale has called a press conference.

Grisedale: Gentlemen, Gentlemen! Please, If I can have some order. Now I'll be allowing questions one at a time but I must ask you to keep things crab related.

Press Johnny: What can you tell us about reports of giant crabs attacking our coastal defences?

Grisedale: Good question. I can confirm that crabs HAVE been attacking our coastal defences.

Cliff: General, If i might interject...

Grisedale: Ladies and Gentlemen...Dr. Cliff Davenport. (smattering of applause)

Cliff: Gentlemen of the press. And, yes, I see we have one or two ladies here tonight as well. Hello ladies. Gentlemen, the reports have not been exaggerated. I'm an expert in this field and let me tell you these are not ordinary crabs. To use a layman's term of reference these crabs are as big as sheep but their leader, whom I've dubbed "King Crab", well - he's as big as a cow!


Robson, Examiner: What are the army doing about these so-called giant crabs?

Cliff: Let me be clear. The army has no defences against these crabs. Bullets don't stop them, they just piss them off!

Tindall, Gazette: What can we do about them then? Is humanity doomed?

Cliff: Let's nip these rumours in the bud! (some laughs)Gentlemen this is no laughing matter. What I propose to do is swim down and find the crab's base and destroy it with limpet mines.

Grisedale: Cliff! We haven't discussed this! That's one helluva responsibility.

Cliff: I'm not afraid of responsibility, even if it is a helluva responsibility. I'm an expert in this field General. It has to be me!

More dialogue from Night of the Crabs

...whether you want it or not. Cliff Davenport, salt and pepper marine-biologist and proud own of an aquiline nose, has turned up in Barmouth following the disappearance of his nephew Ian Wright in mysterious circumstances. He stays with Mrs Jones, a Welsh land-lady. (Or lland-llady):

Mrs Jones: Mr Davenport!

Cliff: Please Mrs Jones, you can call me Cliff.

Mrs Jones: And you must call me "Mum".

Cliff: Er...alright.

Mrs Jones: Usual room Cliff? I'm afraid you've caught me at my busy time.

Cliff: I'm not here to relax I'm afraid, Mum. I'm here on grim business. I'm trying to locate my nephew Ian and his girlfriend Julie. Though I know in my heart they're dead. I've a presentiment of doom. I dont know how, I just know: I know they're both date.

Mrs Jones: Oh dear. And I've got some other bad news for'll have to share a dining table.

Cliff: Christ! With whom?

Mrs Jones: Pat Benson, a petite brunette fifteen years your junior. She has pert, firm breasts and is recently divorced from her husband, a rotter.

Cliff: I see...well I suppose if I must I must.
"Beneath the murky waters of the Irish sea something, something infinitely old and terrible, was stirring. Either a monstrous mutation or a creature thrown forward countless millenia by some sort of evolutionary sport; an evil genius now lurked in the briny depths. Waiting. Waiting for the dark. Waiting for the moon. Waiting for the night...of the crabs."