Feb 23rd

The Curious Case of the Cordosyll Concoction

By EzBloke
Usual warnings; don't read aloud if you have children nearby, don't read quietly to yourself if you have tourettes, etc. etc. etc. Contains rude words, graphic imagery and blatant stupidity; none of which are suitable for the ignorant... :o) Wallowing in self pity as I have these last few weeks has enabled me to watch a significant amount of telly, rejecting, as is my wont, my tour-de-farce Paradise Falls. Abandoned like a spent hooker on a slow night. Anyway, my drivel today is about adverts. Now, I know a lot about drivel and nonsense, a lot. Any masochist that has struggled through the politically erect abuse that I churn out once in a while will know that I am a veritable expert of drivelling nonsense. And now I want a job in television advertising. I could so do that. Seems to me that, aside from the abysmally anti “Go Compare” advert – the first and best example of “no, I think your advert is annoying and therefore your company must be too” – oh, and don’t even get me started on the ruinous direction of the endearing meerkat rubbish – there is scant example of quality in the hypnotic visual media. Everything came to a head (*cough*) when I voiced my observations, innocently enough, on the Cordysyl advert. So here we have, says I, a fit young body, naked and suggesting so much (delivering, even after the watershed, nothing more than a bit of side-boob, sadly) and advertising a gum disease preventative. The link, I’m assured, is in the missing tooth that she reveals towards the end of the advert. I’m not, normally, a stupid person, but I just could not get what the hell they were inferring. Totty in the noddy and a canine cure-all concoction…? Nope. Way over my head. EzBird to the rescue. It, says she, is a symbolic representation encapsulating the dichotomy of beauty and gum disease – ergo (quoting from memory here) and in simple terms for the hard of thinking, i.e. you, (maybe I should have left that bit out) even beautiful people can get gum disease. See… only a woman would understand that. A bloke is just going to see a hot, fit, naked bird with a missing tooth and wonder if it snags… Very good advertising. Got us talking about it. We now have the product name firmly in our minds ready for when we sally forth to attack the frontline that is Tesco’s. Are we going to buy some? Are we bollocks. If I’m told I have gum disease by my dentist, I’m going to be flogged some snake-bite medicine from his plethora of stock items foistered upon him by an over-zealous salesman (or busty, and revealing, looker of a (young) sales woman – although I have not seen the latter out side of London for nearly twenty years now, mores the pity). I am not going to retort with that age old advertising non-matra “I hear what you say, and I appreciate your candour, but I saw a most excellent advertisement on the television last night and have decided to forego your expertise and insider knowledge and purchase a brew so potent that it will knock my clothes off and leave me naked but considerably sexier. Albeit with just the one missing tooth.” Ok, before you get all pissy with me about “prevention” and not “cure” blah, blah, blah, I do know. I didn’t say it was a complete picture of incompetent advertising. In itself it is quite clever, for I must admit to looking forward to said advert. Quite a lot. But the desire to purchase is just not there – I clean my teeth with one of those Sonicare vibrators (chortle) and it has not let me down yet. I won’t even buy a bucket of the stuff for EzBird, in the vain hope that she’ll spend more time naked because, and let’s be honest about this, I really don’t want her losing even just the one tooth (that is what the adverts message is isn’t it? “Use Corsodyll and lose just one tooth…”) as those sharp edges an’ all that and, after all, I am a very sensitive guy, if you get my drift… Which brings me neatly to my question for the day; name and advert that has you gagging to buy (or better yet, just gagging… I need the stimulation of smutty discourse to help me through this most difficult of times – which has been distracted and compounded by the fact that Ez-would-be-father-in-law-if-we-were-married appears to have climbed onto his bed, onto his bedside locker, onto the top of his wardrobe (a feat in and of itself on account it’s a fitted wardrobe… but anyway…) and swan-dived into the lounge resulting a possible fractured hip, insane agony and, to date, a sojourn in Kettering’s finest establishment of the hospitality variety. Where, by the way, I am duly, and unfairly in my mind, banned from visiting on account, apparently, that it hurts when he laughs. And also because there is a sharp rise in bedpan requirements when the others laugh too… oh and mostly because none of the staff think I’m even remotely funny. Just like you lot, really.) or even an absolutely-no-way-in-hell will I buy that product because the advert is so bad. Oh... wait… EzBird informs me that on my one and only (Painfull. Painfull? Why painfull…?) shopping trip to Tesco’s I was insistent upon purchasing a bottle of the stuff to, she quotes, ensure that the company doesn’t go bankrupt and that tasty naked bint stays on the telly… Well, what do you know? Advertising does work after all… So ignore this blog. It was only ever a foil for my foreskin-snagged-on-a-tooth imagery anyway. Love an’ hugs, Ez
Jan 31st

Charlie (EzCat) Wortley.

By EzBloke
I do not think
I can honestly say,
That I have ever cried
More than I did yesterday,
For my gorgeous cat 
Has passed away.

I do not think 
I can honestly say
That I have ever cried
More than I did yesterday,
Except, perhaps,

Love, Ez

Rest in peace my beautiful little ginger son.
I miss you so much.

Wednesday 27th January 2010, 4pm aged 15 and a half.
Jan 25th

Will somebody purlease make me bloody laugh?

By EzBloke
Ok, let's see now... ummm, nope, I think this one's clean... no warnings necessary... you could read this to your five year old as a beddy-time story. You are ok with bed wetting and four am nightmare screams though, yeah? No? Riiiight... well, this is probably not for you then, after all. Or your five year old. Fuck it. Make me laugh What is it that makes you laugh? Not biologically, I mean literally. And not one of those blasé “oh, yes, he always makes me laugh” throwaway’s accompanied by the little white lie “laugh” – because, let’s face it, “he” actually rarely makes you smirk, let alone smile and a laugh just isn’t going to happen. And besides, if you “always” laughed, I’m pretty damn sure you’d be in danger of popping a blood vessel or ten, or dying from lock-jaw-ache or the inability to breathe. Or something. I know I can’t. Breathe, that is. When I’m laughing; I go scarlet in the face and my blood pressure pops a vein in my eyeball. S’true. I write all this stuff dead-pan. Of course, it’s rarely-laugh-out loud funny, but there you go. Now shut up and read. Why is it so hard for me to find a funny author? I don’t want a joke book, I don’t want a “light-hearted” romp through medieval England; I want a snot-propelling, vein-popping oh-my-god he can’t say that novel the like of which just does not exist outside of Frankie Boyle’s autobiography. Oh, and I don’t want a bloody autobiography either. How hard can it be to write funny? Is it that it isn’t hard but that there is just no pigeon hole for it in Waterstones? “Sheldon Wortley? Yeah, he’s in the puerile section of humorous fantasy fiction with a heavy sexual overtone and bad language and violence; aisle fourteen, left hand side, top shelf, of our London mega store… sorry.” I’m figuring I may be the first author to be forced to have an 18 certificate for political incorrectness. But even so, how bad is it that no-one can really propel a novel based purely upon making us laugh? There are so many avenues to explore, humoristically, that it becomes strange to me that genres do not have a tiered approach to seriousness. With situation comedy being rife on TV, why isn’t situationally funny science fiction more prevalent? Or forget about the situation, what about the incompetence of the lead character? I mean, how hard is it to write fiction from the perspective of a complete twat? Is it because, in theory, the reader must empathise with the hero? A weak hero turns the reader off and that is obviously bad. But a div of magnitude 40 on the “prichter” scale doesn’t have to be weak; they just have to be un-pc. I am warming to the political incorrectness more and more as I must have some innate trigger that makes anything that is just plain wrong exceptionally funny. (Don’t get me started on the use of the term “retard” as a nominative declaration of undying admiration in our current jobsworthian dystopia.) Although I am fed up with typing political incorrectness and PI just doesn’t cut it as a suitable acronym. PI is, however, an accurate acronym, but I could round in circles all day with this one. See? Not very funny was it? Almost contrived, and I think that alone is another reason why I cannot find a funny author; they tend to try too hard; you can almost see the gag coming from twelve pages away and the longer it takes you to get there the more you cringe until you get to a (and this is, thanks to climate change, the phrase of the century…) tipping-point where your desire to read on is overwhelmed by your desire to flush the book down the loo, to hell with the library’s late-return fees and thankfully the lack of any “why is this book soggy and smells faintly of wee?” fee. (EzBird did it again, by the way; (not flushed a book down the loo but…) for Christmas I got a nice shiney new Dan Brown book – the lost symbol, obviously – and with it came the caveat “must read it by the weekend.” Oh? Why is that light of my life? “Coz it’s got to go back to the library…” Ahhh. Gotcha.) I have a steely determination to retain a couple of things in Paradise Falls that, to this day, nearly three years on, make me laugh out loud: When something obvious is pointed out to Sariro, the hero…, he replies (as do I) “You know, you’d think I would…” and this has been marked as “annoying” for its many appearances throughout the text. But the thing that makes me laugh most and the one piece that I would re-write the whole novel around if I had to, was a segment of battle where a weak lad is surprised to find he holds the only sword between him and his adversary whilst an on-looking crowd drop into stunned silence. He looks at the sword, he looks at his attacker, he looks at his sword and then looks to the crowd whereupon one of his erstwhile colleagues screams “fucking twat him with it!” and a small farcical demi-execution is played out. Unsuccessfully, I might add. See, you don’t get that raw, gutter humour in the novels I have read. There may, of course, be a bloody good reason… So, lovely people wot read my drivel; off you go then – what book has made you snort? What fiction has you keeping your spouse (not partner – because obviously you’ll not be reading with them, eh? Eh? Eh? Know what I mean? Eh? Yeah, EzBird tends to read… during. Short sentences mostly. Sigh.) up late at night whilst you annoy them with your cackling and worry them into intense concentration whilst they work out whether the bed is rhythmically vibrating due to your laughter or due to your smutty ministrations? Your mission, should you accept it is to name a book – preferably science fiction, could be fantasy fiction – that makes me laugh out loud and I’ll… I’ll… laugh and say thank you afterwards… I warn you, though. I’m a prolific reader and Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Jasper Fford (thanks EmmaD… whatever happened to EmmaD?), Richard Ranking and Tom Holt are all well worn out with my demands. Oh and I have read “Spindle” by Ian Taylor which was the last time I ever really did snort mucousously. Ez
Jan 23rd

Mental Blocks

By EzBloke

Usual story; I have just vomited onto the keyboard and, remarkably, this is the result. I swear, am un-PC and mention boobs. Except I don’t. Mention boobs. Well, I did, just then, but this is the “Warning! EzBloke is being inappropriate!” section so it doesn’t count.

Mental Bollocks. Sorry; Blocks. That should have read “Mental Blocks” not "Bollocks". Although... Anyway, never mind that! This blog would be a damn sight funnier if I didn’t have to explain the bloody jokes because you won’t let me have fucking “strikethrough” as a font option...! Jeez.


It’s late, and I really should be writing (or editing) but I can’t be arsed. It gets you like that some days (nights) but the truth is, no matter how much I push, I won’t be sharp enough to do my opus justice. So my mind wanders and, yes, I know, something so small really should not be allowed out on its own. EzBird is restless, she hates these long nights where writing and brick-walls meet. I don’t quit in the designated three hours, I just sit here, tapless, staring blankly at a white screen wondering how long I cankeep up making my eyes cross and uncross.

Why can’t they make a quiet pc? It’s like bloody Heathrow airport in here. The fans are chucking out more noise than a Led-Zeppelin concert. Ok, maybe its not, but I’m struggling for decent analogies tonight. (“Snapping together like… like… like the jaws of a piranha on a burglar’s leg.” What?! What the fuck is that? Where the bloody hell did that come from?! How craps is that for chrissake? Oh, that reminds me, must move the Piranha tank from under the window. Oh and maybe feed ‘em.)

It will, of course, be the heat (the noisy pc, not the shockingly poor analogy). As I sit here much longer due to inactivity, the hotter the PC gets. I am wondering if I could call a halt to tonight’s incessant blockage (like a cess-ant blockage; just as shit but never looks like it will stop…) when small flames emerge from the large venty things on the front. Oh wait, are those venty things? Hmmm, I may be just guessing here but I’m going to say that EzNephew has nicked my fucking Blu-Ray player the thieving little bugger. Oh, no, maybe not, that might just be the blanking plate that was caved in when I put my foot through it a while ago – its amazing how fidgety you get when you sit still for five bloody hours; yer bum goes dead and you have to shuffle round and sit on one of the other cheeks… I really, really must lose some weight…

Or perhaps little wisps of smoke float effortlessly ceiling-ward. Oooooh, that reminds me, must get rid of that cob-web up there.

Maybe not the flames and wisps but I’m sure I can call it a day if it starts puthering smoke. Although… probably not.

EzBird is probably thinking all this activity is because I have overcome my dry spell. I’m banging away on these keys like a good ‘un, and she’ll be all jolly because I’ll have finally done my quota. Of course I’ll bugger it all up tomorrow when she pops onto Word Cloud and has a look around and finds I posted it all as a blog instead. Sorry, hun, just cannot be arsed.

And then there is tomorrow. I’ll be alright tomorrow. Maybe have a fresh splurge and all that (Chortle). Pick out a scene or two and add in a squirt of humour (Hee he he he). Heaven only knows it needs a squirt of humour. Or just “humour”…

Of course, I’ll get up in the morning early and the alarm will probably wake EzBird up too, which isn’t a good thing early on a Sunday. I always wanted a vibrating watch for an alarm; If I have to get up extra early of a morning, my alarm wakes up EzBird and she gets all narky. I imagined that if I had a watch that had a vibrating alarm, it would wake just me up. Well... the watch wouldn't really wake just me up; the sudden shock of a vibration on my wrist would possibly send me into paroxysms of girly screaming having woken up thinking I was being eaten by rats or something... and that kerfuffle would then wake EzBird up... and she'd get all narky... sigh.

That reminds me; one of the hardest things about writing Fantasy fiction is keeping an eye on anachronisms. I had great joke about one of the characters threatening another with “a split britney” – it was a broken spear ergo it was like Britney Spears; pointless. Geddit? Pointless! Ahhhh, I spent minutes on that one. Of course it has had to be culled – it anachronistic. And not particularly funny either. Oh god, yeah, and of course, soooo not true; love you really Britney! I think you’re gorgeous! If you’re listening. Reading. Not listening, reading. This. Drivel. Hmm? Love the socks, babe. You never seem to wear them any more hun, why is that? Or the pig tails. Why is that? Or the plimsoles. Hmm?

Ok. I’ve had enough. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you've had enough too)  I’ve been typing away for, let’s seeeeeeee now, that would be, ohhhh fifteen minutes precisely… sigh.

I’m off. No really I am. It must be the late nights. Or the smell. Or something.

I know! I’ll ask you a question! Yes!

Right, this blogs question is; anachronism, is it me or is there just no place for it in these modern times…?


Oh... nearly forgot; "bobs" bugger... so they do have strikethrough after all. Awwww, tits.

Jan 21st

On... writing...?

By EzBloke

Curiously... devoid of smut, this one.
Disappointed? I know, so am I.
I'll still swear though; can't be doing with all that clean language at my age. Fuck it.


Today I shall astound you with the wonderful world of EzWriting…


Some of you have read the first draft of Paradise Falls, my Hopeless Opus. For those of you that have been saved this misfortune I can say it is without doubt the worst tosh I have ever had the misfortune to have set eyes on – and I’ve read all the Dan Brown novels, so there’s a yardstick to beat me mercilessly over the head with. Now, I don’t necessarily revel in the rubbish I have written, but I am a gloatingly smug kind of person, especially when you realise that it is finished. It’s complete crap, but it is finished. I have the words “The End”, appropriately enough, at the end, and prior to that there are some one hundred thousands words; some are real, some are imaginary and most are found in what can be considered “sentences” by any six year old. This is important for many reasons; one, I never finish anythi





(See what I did there? Chuckle.)

Ahhh, anyway… So I have a “complete” collection of words. Do you notice the care I am taking with collective nouns? I shall endeavour to refrain from calling it a “novel” because that has a tendency to romanticise the scrap paper it is currently printed on. And, some of you are aware that I have been systematically reading, editing and refining those words for at least a year now.

My current exercise is, because PF is written entirely in the first person perspective, to write every single scene from the perspective of every single character in it and then to merge those together. To achieve this I have employed the use of a little (free) program called YWriter5. This expects you to either, in your original Word document, delineate scenes by special characters (which I have not) or to cut and paste every single “scene” (which I am doing). 

The truth is, reading tripe created by mine own hand is bad enough, but having then to analyse it too, is a nightmare. But it is absolutely amazing what you learn from it. I have learned, for instance that I have the attention span of a gnat. I’m in a deeply moving, serious and important scene and then bam! I’m off flying over rubblised fortresses and poking chicken spits in people’s arse’s. I have whole scenes that consist of two fat blokes running after another bloke, lasts for three (granted tortuously long) sentences and then terminates. And I don’t do this once, oh no, the whole bloody manuscript is full of the sodding stuff. I have more scenes than the whole Lord of The Rings Trilogy put together. Throw in the soon to be released “The Hobbit” and hey presto! I’ll still have more bloody scenes.

So the culling begins… and this is where it gets interesting; if my whole writing premise is to make you buggers laugh, then where’s the snigger when an old fella dies of fright? With a metaphorical wave of the inky wand, ‘tis gone and with it, about seven hundred words that set it up, pad it out and warm it’s jets. Nice. Character list is now down one old fella and I’m off and running again.

YWriter5 (and this is not an advert, I promise) also wants characters, locations, objects and plots listed against scenes too. It is with this toolset (still to be done, sadly) that I shall reduce my mountainous pile of locales, my scrofulous pile of characters and curiously my complex box set of plots. I won’t say interwoven neatly into the novel. It’s more, thrown in with gay abandon and left to fester where they fall.


So that’s what I’ve been doing these past weeks… what about you? How have you been?


Dec 22nd

Toilet... humour...?

By EzBloke

I wonder if I can get Harry to alter The Word Clouds blog engine to automatically put the words "tripe repletive expletives" at the head of every blog I post? I also wonder if I can ever post a blog sans colourful language. Sigh. (The answer is "no" by the way, just in case you were wondering...)

Pick your way carefully though this drivelling nonsense, peeping carefully out through finger covered eyes and making sure not to step in anything unsavoury...

Ok. So last night was a late one; EzBird’s best friend’s birthday is always a great laugh. Good food, plenty of alcohol, eye watering giggles plus a devil may care attitude toward old father time tapping his watch, tutting and pointing out that it’s a school night and I will regret this in the morning. Paying due deference to the venerable fella we drag our sorry arse’s in through our own front door at two this very a.m.

Bed is a an “ooooooooh that’s niiiiiiiiiiice” moment of the non-sweaty variety as the winter duvet is crushingly heavy and, I must try this, hot enough to cook a pizza in, I’m sure.

Now the flaw in my plan is obvious; whilst I remained tee-total (tonight was my turn to drive, so just the one pint passed the lips, before a big meal and “diet” coke for the rest of the night – being entertained by watching my gorgeous missus get slowly, merrily, pished through the evening. I say “diet” coke on account the less palliative alternative was “fat” coke with all the calories spat back in by gum jolly pensioners… apparently.) I did imbibe a good two litres of fizzy fluid. (Steady, this is not the time to make up your own jokes…)

So at 4am this very lovely looking morning I was awake once more and needing to pee, which in and of itself is not a surprise. Sadly, at 4 am this very lovely looking morning I was dog tired and that combined with a fresh snowfall and our frugal “economy” drive (i.e. EzBird turns the heating off during the sleepy segment of a night) it was brass bollocking cold which made me shiver as I stood marvelling at the power of “gravity” and worried about the “age” of my bladder. And shivering is not a good thing when you stand up to pee… so a slight (honest, it was only a tiny drop) clean up was needed.

Trouble is I dropped the bloody toilet roll in the loo, didn't I? Sorry, that should read I dropped the bloody toilet roll in the frothy, slightly golden yellow, loo. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Thankfully wedged at an angle we didn’t achieve complete submersion and I grabbed it just before capillary action would have made this story far more… “eeeeew”… than it already is.

So I’m standing at the loo, with a sodden toilet roll dripping noisily from my hand, my mind is foggy at the best of times but at 4am in the morning I hadn’t got a fucking clue what to do. Do I chuck the bloody thing back in the loo? Nooooo! It was a good quarter of a roll and, well, it got wedged when I dropped it. Aha! What about slowly (from the dry end) unravelling it and flushing it bit by bit? Ok; so soggy loo roll does not “unroll”… empirical evidence now shows this. Leaving me with just the one option; drop the bastard thing in the bath and hope I get up before EzBird… “hope” is such a naïve word, don't you think? Sigh.

The alarm duly kicks off and I dozily drift between “snooze” and “there is something important that I must do…” which took, ooooh, all of fifteen minutes before EzBird screams out “Shelley! What the fuck did you do last night?!” Eyes spring wide open and for a bloke who has had just the three hours uninterrupted sleep I sprang out of bed muttering those immortal words “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” but shouting out “Sorry! I dropped the bloody roll in the loo last night and wasn’t sure how to dispose of it. I’ll sort it out, no worries!” and got to the bathroom.

It was a war zone. EzCat had only got in the fucking bath in the night and decided that this strange piss-smelling object was a threat and decided to rip tens bells of shit out of it. There were shreds of once wet bog-roll everywhere. Christ only knows how the little bastard had done it but I swear there was a bit stuck to the mirror over the sink.

EzBird was helpless with laughter and I just could not see the funny side. I still can’t, to be honest. See first thing every morning the little sod comes and sits on my pillow and we rub heads and do a father-son bonding thing. Unfortunately, today the little fucker still had a piece of (now dried) bog roll attached to his chin…




Dec 21st

Life's little voiceovers

By EzBloke

Usual warnings, blah blah blah, bad taste, blah, blah, swearing, blah, blah, schmah.

You know when a song comes on the radio and you have a little side dialogue going on at the same time? What do you mean, ‘no’? Oh you so do. You know you do. I know you do. Hell, even the other readers of this tripe know you do. You so do.

Well, anyway, I was prodded into a Christmas blog and was thinking seriously about a deep and meaningful expose of the virtuous nature of the season... and then thought, ‘nah’.

Instead I thought I’d bring you to a Police station probably somewhere near you, on the eve of Christmas, at two in the morning and the charge of assault and battery following a works festive party. It seems our anti-hero has lost his temper and, collecting his statement, PC Anybody realised that it was a familiar tune but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

According to the transcription, here’s how the end of a promising night went…


‘I really can't stay’
Ok, bye then
‘I've got to go away’
Riiight. Bye then.
‘This evening has been, so very nice’
Ta. Close the door on your way out.
‘My mother will start to worry’
And that interests me because…?
‘My father will be pacing the floor’
He’s not the only one
‘So really I'd better scurry.’
Yes, you said.
‘Well maybe just a half a drink more’
Oh for fucks sake make up your mind will you?
‘The neighbours might think’
‘Say, what's in this drink’
Rohypnol. What will the neighbours think?
'I wish I knew how’
What?! What will the neighbours think?
‘To break the spell’
You can’t just start saying something and then not finish it!
‘I ought to say no, no, no, sir’
Oh for heavens sake, what is it the neighbours will think?
‘At least I'm gonna say that I tried’
You’re certainly trying something woman…
‘I really can't stay’
Oh I give up! Are you bloody going or not?
‘Ahh, but its cold outside’
Of course it’s cold outside! It’s Winter and three degrees below zero!
‘I simply must go’
Well bloody go then!
‘The answer is no’
I didn’t ask you anything
‘This welcome has been’
What? This welcome has been what?
‘So nice and warm’
Oh. Right. Ok, thanks. Wierdo.
‘My sister will be suspicious’
Of what? You just got here and now you want to bugger off home
‘My brother will be there at the door’
Why? Hasn’t he got an XBox to play with?
‘My maiden aunt's mind is vicious’
What?! Who cares? Maiden aunt? Who uses that term anymore?
‘Well maybe just a half a drink more’
Oh for fucks sake; you’re just taking the piss now
‘I've got to go home’
YES! YOU SAID! Off you go, then!
Say, lend me your coat’
What? No! Fuck off! Get your own coat, you cheap cow
‘You've really been grand’
I’m warning you, bitch, get out
‘But don't you see’
You won’t see in a minute, I’m telling you if you if you mention its cold outside one more time, I swear I’m going to batter you
‘There's bound to be talk tomorrow’
About what?! We didn’t do anything!
‘At least there will be plenty implied’
Well whoop-de-fucking-do; implication? As if that's going to clean my pipes
‘I really can't stay’
‘Ahh, but it's cold outside’
Right that’s it, you’re fucking dead meat


Soooo, that’s what goes through my head when I hear that song…*cough*

What goes through yours…?



Dec 18th

Tod the Second returns for... er... seconds.

By EzBloke

ClaraW has reminded me that I had a Tod blog going some time ago where I promised to return with more outlandish tales of derring don’t and, as no-one begged to be released from this promise, read on…

Usual warnings about language and apologies to our younger viewers, if there are any terms of endearment that you do not understand then you are too young to read them so stop immediately, rinse your eyes with neat Sarsons and never speak of these things again...

So let’s recap or... let's not - if you want to know who Tod The Second is go hunting for my blog 'Liars'; it won't help but you'll get my 'viewed by count' up and it will make me think I'm popular.

So, in brief; Tod is a nice enough chap, with just the one failing; his brain is missing a link between reality and fantasy.

These last months have seen our hero visit his dentist, a trip he loathes, for some needlework. Now, the concern is that he is a big lad, not in height you understand, but in… girth and as anaesthetic is delivered by body mass index apparently (…!) he has to have not one, not two… oh this could go on for ages… but five, that’s five, times the dose of the average mountain gorilla. So Tod is lying back in the chair waiting for a sharp prick (…oh go on, make your own jokes up…) only to find nothing happens. ‘Is it done?’ Asks he. ‘Why, yes’ replies our oral specialist. ‘Then why is my shoulder wet?’ asks Tod… The dentist has only gone and stuck the needle in through his gum and out through his cheek and squirted over Tod’s shoulder! Oh, how I laughed. No… wait… no I didn’t. Oh, how I smacked my head on the keyboard.

So my colleagues took umbrage at my lack of assistance in their puerile games and dropped all pretence of secrecy when goading and poking the fantasist into action. One of our lads went to Australia on the “Postie bike challenge” (Google it, I can’t be arsed to explain) and managed no more than a stuttering sentence before Tod cuts the air with his wonderful life knife. It turns out that, prior to being legally able to ride and, by my calculation, being able to walk…, oh and prior to being legally over the limit for an eighteen wheeler’s axle weight limit too, Tod was a bit of a rebel without a clause. Yes, it seems, Tod, brought up within the mean streets of Mumbai (read Stoke Newington) took to the world upon a moped. Not a mop head as I first assumed, no, something far more pedestrian… or a motorised push bike anyway. Whilst he retold his journey from the class bound city-scape out through the wild and woolly countryside, turning left just before Afghanistan (which as we all know has been a western war zone for at least fifty years and has never been under Russian control at all… don’t ask… just don’t, ok?) and swinging on down to the Nile delta… possibly just before lunch…, I was inundated with giggling emails. In spite of various electronic retorts of “kill me” and “kill me, now” I was left in no doubt that this one was going to run. And run. And run. And run. And, so help me, run. My final concession was an email advising one and all that I had “heard this one before” and that I was sure this is the one “in which he dies”… for which raucous laughter duly broke out around the office, mercifully stopping the Todster mid-gibber but, not so mercifully, almost demanding an explanation.

He is a true legend. Sorry… leg end. His life is so full and rich and exciting that he shames James Bond with his globetrotting, wears pistol bearing hips and shorts better than Lara Croft and has to be knocking on the door of Methuselah for the Guinness Book of Records oldest living man. He has stripped and rebuilt both his German car and his mansion house chimney, no doubt liberally exchanging parts with no adverse affect ergo being the only person on the planet who drives to work filling up only upon brick dust and pixie piss.

Now I have to avoid so many subjects when he is nearby that it is truly becoming a Trappist (why the hell does Microsoft Word want to change that to ‘rapist’…?!) monastery, replete with shush-ing and celice, a much less painful mechanism of masochism and no mistake. The latest is Artificial Intelligence, of which our eponymous hero is a Jedi master and, sadly, a subject which has lost me years of my life in study.

I am ashamed of my meagre life, with it’s “holiday’s” abroad wasted pool-side instead of lassoing ostriches in the Chinese capital and using them to fly south for the winter. I feel let down by my inability to rebuild my humble abode from atomic nuclei and worst of all I hang my head in shame that when asked what it is I did for a living I replied ‘I’m a dextro-gynaecologist; I spend all day looking at a right…’



Dec 15th

A little bit of soap...

By EzBloke

Ok, this one kind of caught me by surprise… in places it is straight off the cuff *cough* and also has to contain the “swearing” warning accompanied, nay prefixed perhaps, by the words “contains a lot of”. Usual suggestions, if you are not comfortable reading this out to your children as a bedtime story, I applaud your strong moral backbone. If, however, you are willing to read this to your children as a bedtime story then all I can say is “what are you thinking?!”


Is it just me or is there just the one script writer that writes both Coronation Street and Emmerdale? EzBird was watching her Monday night soap fest as per usual and, picking up bits and bobs as I do, I was jerked into a “hold on a moment”… moment.

As far as I can work out, Emmerdale has recently introduced a new character who is blind and bugger me if, not a month later, in comes a deaf character for Corrie! What?! No! Think up your own storylines! (I daren’t ask if Eastenders has a "dumb" character… because I suppose it stands to reason really…)

Emmy’s blind woman mistakenly thinks she was robbed, but being blind she didn’t know her bag had actually been knocked into a nearby stream instead. This is a “good storyline” so far by the way. She’s believable as a character, the situation is believable as an event and the aftermath – her internal struggle – is genuinely giving us an insight (that’s a crass way of putting it and no mistake) into the daily tribulations of blind people. It’s a bit of a sad window into an unknown world but on it’s own it is quite good. And then I’m thinking; if the deaf woman in Corrie gets “mugged” because of her disability I am going to scream “foul” and no mistake.

What ruins the Emmy storyline, however, is it is a spin off from yet another bloody “to-date-straight-boy-tries-to-kiss-another-to-date-straight-boy-denies-trying-to-kiss-straight-boy-acts-moody-as-if-fighting/denying-his-sexuality-but-no-one-really-bloody-cares-because-heterosexual-boys-have-been-embarrassing-themselves-by-attempting-to-kiss-uninterested-girls-for-centuries-and-the-fact-it’s-a-gay-version-no-longer-has-any-shock-value-because-being-gay-is-no-longer-and-has-not-actually-been-“mortifying”-for-at-least-a-bloody-decade-so-the-psuedo-gravity-of-the-situation-is-bogus-because-we-all-know-(and-“love”)-at-least-one-gay-person-these-days-so-get-over-it”.


And what the hell is going on with “misery” stories, anyway? I banned EzBird from watching Eastenders years ago because it was depressing. (I didn’t really, EzBird gave up on it herself with lots of effing and blinding about how pathetically dismal it was. Oh and no-one tells EzBird what to do, either…) But now, both Corrie and Emmy are revelling in dragging the season of good cheer into the season of manic depression.

Is it just me or is everything we read or see at the moment deliberately aimed at pushing stressed and unhappy people further into despair? Is this a misplaced concept of wanting me to feel good about my situation by showing me someone worse off than myself? Purlease! It doesn’t work that way. It never has, and it never will. It’s so badly contrived and false that, as intelligent human beings, we completely see through the façade. Throw a character we don’t care about under a bus and guess what? We don’t bloody care! That’s the point! We didn’t care if they lived, what in god’s name makes you think we care if they die?

"It’s a soap" I hear you cry; "it reflects the angst and turmoil of everyday life." No it doesn’t. Sorry, but I live in the real world and there is none of this crap down my street, my families’ streets or my friends’ streets. Ah but, I hear, this is a microcosmic take on the wider issues that do occasionally face real people. Then it’s not a soap; it’s a drama. It doesn’t reflect the everyday life of a street at all; it’s a fantasists (remember them?) wonderland (is that the right word…?), a veritable “Murphy’s Island” where everything that can go wrong, does. Sometimes with “an hilarious consequence”. Now, again, don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate that, unlike me, Soaps want to avoid moralistic preaching but once in a while, surely, we can stomach “don’t go in the cellar!” guidance?

For example, the Carla Conner storyline; how is it that a nationally loved and adored programme (that must be influential) is allowed to portray the Police as sleazy, dirty or scum? (The “Beccy drugs fit-up” abomination and now the Carla Conner bobby – very dislikeable chap; all sneery and intense.) Don’t get me wrong, the acting is, for the most part, acceptable and would be believable if the characterisation was realistic.

I mean; a nasty little policeman turns up to Carla’s place of work, has a business meeting interrupted and announces a requirement for a “few words” but, and this is key, "they’d be best back at the station where the paperwork is." All done in front of her “potential” customer... NO!! No no no no no no no! NO!

Firstly, they come in twos!
Secondly they DO treat you with respect, despite their narrow eyed suspicion that you are, in fact, the scum of the Earth.
And thirdly; they will wait and talk to you IN PRIVATE!!!!! GAH!

And then, right, not only do they screw these simple facts up but they go and dump the poor woman, sans solicitor (which could have been voluntary, granted, but we don’t know that) in an interview room on her own with the same male policeman! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Since when?!

No statement made in the interview will be legal! She doesn’t have representation and there is no proof he didn’t coerce her or even bloody molest her! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!

This is so badly unbelievable that it denigrates the meaty real story that she lied about subsequent “contact” with her murdering husband let alone never reporting his confession of killing her lover – which are totally believable and completely wicked storylines in and of themselves. Obviously the real target for this crap is the build up to a “conflict” with Michelle later on (probably Christmas day – oh joy, yet another jolly story to brighten up our festive bloody season).

And this isn’t the first time they’ve missed a golden opportunity to educate their loyal watchers; I remember getting all pissy some time back about Rosie Webster’s handling of being ripped off to the tune of £100,000+. SHE DIDN’T CALL THE POLICE!!!! Noooooooooooooooooo! Just FUCK OFF! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! That is complete and utter bollocks! Even the most anti-Police/hate-the-Police person in the bloody country would have phoned them the instant they realised they’d been robbed, for fucks sake.

Honestly, "the suspension of reality" is a spice, people; to be added cautiously to flavour the food. It is not the meat and bloody potatoes of a sodding story. For chrissake it’s obvious to any dim wit that had the Police known they would stop him at the bloody airport! What is it with these scripts? Honestly? I know she’s characterised as a div, but not everyone around her is, her own father runs a business for heavens sake and that alone gives him a smidgen of common sense. Even the most stupid of people know that the Police will help if you’ve been bloody robbed like that. Jeez. What a waste of a story. Makes me so angry. Er... in case you didn’t get that… *cough*

Look, I’m not saying I’m a script-writer or anything but come on, a small child could do better. The plots are weak because they are all trashy unrealistic sensationalism. You know what, I’m blaming the script writer but I really shouldn’t because ultimately I don’t know who is responsible for this tat; it may be the director, producers, or the executives, I don’t know. 

What I do know is that "cringeworthy" is not enjoyable to watch. (Actually EzBird ditched Corrie all through the Gail’s boyfriend drug addiction storyline because it was just too much.) What brings her back, and what chills me out, is the comedy which they can still do with aplomb. I’m not going to go into it here, but the balance of misery and comedy is too heavily weighted towards garbage to be honest.

Oh but I should point out that I do like Rosie Webster for two very outstanding reasons. I’m betting that Helen Flanagan is going to be the first “topless on a soap” star. Either that or her storyline is going to take the prostitute route – a la Belle De Jour – because we are slowly crumbling away at the clichéd image of prostitutes as scabby, drug-ridden, Dickensian disease vessels of disrepute and starting to portray them as clichéd hard working, clean living, societal-situational victims of… er… repute. (Slight tangent; does anyone read New Scientist? How bloody horrible was the short question box interview with the newly outed Belle De Jour (Dr Brooke Magnanti)? Three questions about her scientific achievements, all very good and correct for the nature of the magazine but then five questions about prostitution! Bloody hell! She’s not a sodding social commentarist! Or a political tour-de-force looking to change the social stigma of the sex worker industry! She’s a bloody scientist! With serious scientific credentials! Focus on those you bloody idiots! Leave the prostitution interviews to the wipe-off glossy’s and the tabloids. Sheesh.) I can see the rocky road ahead as clear as can be; with the babes of soaps increasing in scantily-clad-loveliness (to attract a broader spectrum audience – or “blokes” as we call them) and the toe dipping “ladies that lock lips” storylines checking to see if (when) the coast is clear ready for a full on frontal assault. The other soap (the one that no-one watches) has an after-dark segment which is their way of warming up the spice rack ready for a good healthy meal of dumplings and sauce. But, as usual, I digress. The truth is that Rosie Webster has so much potential storyline alone that I feel for Helen with the lack of thought (such as that tiny amount needed to stop me screaming “call the sodding cops!” at the telly) put into her increasingly bizarre situations.

As for Ken Barlow… this is a strong case in point for every wannabe writer; when you have a character that is intelligent and morally strong – don’t ignore his intelligence because you want a bloody conflict based on his ethics. Ken wouldn’t have gone to the papers; he knows what they are like – and making Dreary say that same sentence does not vindicate poor, or no, thought in this storyline. Ken is intelligent enough to have looked at ALL the options – including helping his son with the bar. He would have known, fiery temperament included, how Peter would have reacted to his interference and WOULD have wrestled with finding an amicable solution. This story is just conflict for the sake of conflict and show’s no character progression or lesson’s learned. Once again it’s a weak, “misery” story. And because it’s so weak, instead of taking our hearts and getting us to feel for the characters it just makes us baulk because it’s wrong. Ken is acting out of character and anyone who has watched the programme for any length of time knows it. And that stops it being enjoyable. As a writer don’t let this happen in your manuscripts because no self respecting publicist is going to touch you with my ten-foot barge pole, let alone theirs..

So, we’re rapidly descending upon Christmas and at no point do these dweebs want to turn this incessant reminder of what a cess pit our country has allegedly become around. (What the hell, let’s have a go at the Americans now; don’t get me wrong, I love Americans, I know a few of them and they are wonderful people but a lot of them are... how can I put this… gullible. They really do believe what you tell them – why shouldn’t they? It’s actually very endearing to know that a nation basically believes in the good in you without question right up until you slug ‘em between the eyes and take their wallet.) So imagine the damage that this out-pouring of gutter-life storylines has on the British image abroad. How many Americans (and I’m only using them as an example) believe that all Brits have a drink/drugs problem, a criminal record (due to corrupt and thoroughly distasteful Policemen) and a shitty Christmas every year because some disaster befalls them, their relatives or their neighbours. Oh, and not forgetting the stupidity of a nation that WONT PHONE THE BLOODY POLICE WHEN WE’VE BEEN FUCKING ROBBED.



Oct 28th


By EzBloke

WARNING: Contains foul language and disturbing imagery. Not to be consumed whilst... consuming.

Some of you may know that EzBird has me on one of these new fangled things called a “diet”. Well, I’m here to tell you that, cheese aside, it’s not all that bad. See this is based on lifestyle (sedentary to comatose), height (5’ 10” – and almost that around the belly too; in truth I’m starting to look like a bloody Christmas tree bauble…) and weight (17st 6lb when I started, which is the heaviest I have ever been) and a website that tells you what you should be doing – exercising more (or “at all” in my case) and eating less. (Like I didn’t know.)

It seems that my calorie intake for my lifestyle and height may be a tad… high. According to the website if I want to lose weight (well, it’s not me really, it’s EzBird; she wants me to lose weight. Sigh.) I should be consuming no more than 2000 calories a day. Easy, I thought. Weeeeeeell… no. See before this “diet” do-woppy-thing I appear to have been consuming around about, and not in excess of, some where in the region of, um… *cough*… three, er, calories a day. Oh sorry, my mistake. I mean four. Thousand. Seven hundred and forty nine. Ish.

See bacon sandwiches for breakfast are all well and good and set you up well for the day but they just don’t last. Lunch could wander between MaccyD’s, The Colonel, Subway, Pizza hut or, if I was feeling righteous, another bacon sandwich. Not all on the same day of course. Well… except there was that one time… Anyway… Oh and on Thursday lunch it was “all you could eat for a fiver” at the local Thai restaurant and I’m a sucker for shredded duck. Not that I did that *every* week. That would be silly… *cough*

Then home for tea and whatever delights EzBird had cooked up for me. Or maybe a takeaway.

Then there were the weekends… obviously I don’t drink alcohol. Copiously. So no worries there then…

Not any more.

Now my diet hovers around 2000 calories. I still have a rice crispy square and I still have chocolate; one Rolo in my pack up because EzBird loves me (who made vomit sounds? Who was it? You know who you are! Go on, get out!) and a two finger (steady) kit-kat. I still have crisps; just the one packet though. But most of all I have a hand made salad (with salad cream, granted) of chicken, plum tomatoes, pea shoots, baby spinach leaves and red or yellow pepper. Every day. And you know what? It’s bloody handsome. We eat healthy in the evening too. So food is no longer an issue.


I drink two litres of water every day. Two whole litres. I go to the loo every five bloody minutes and watch it change colour as the day progresses from a deep golden (de-hydrated) to an almost drinkable clear-with-a-duluxable-hint-of-yellow…

See, here’s something I just did not know; the signal “feed me” or “hunger” is the exact same signal for “I’m dehydrated, water me.” What’s the point of that?! Every time I got the munchies, and duly satiated same, it wasn’t bloody munchies! It was drinkies! I was thirsty, not hungry! It’s farcical! Talk about mixed sodding messages. You’d think biological evolution (unless you believe in creationism in which case you should blame God as opposed to blaming Darwin like I am about to…) would have made the two signals far more clear wouldn’t you? I mean, what if your diet only ever consisted of, er, dried food…? Hmm? You’d dehydrate to death… or something…

Anyway, not only that but also…;

I now park far away from work and it takes me ten minutes brisk walk up hill to get to my desk. (A journey I perform at lunch too. I must be mad.)

And I’m rewarded with what? The pleasure of sitting at my desk in my own sweat for five minutes, not daring to go downstairs to the gents because cold damp shreddies are ok when in situ but are gross when they return to position after a brief sojourn floorwards, and five minutes of terror waiting for the palpitations to turn to stabbing pains, for the pounding in my ears to turn to sirens and the flashing lights in my eyes to become blue – the same colour as my lips?

I figure it takes one and a half hours of sweat-free, are-you-sitting-comfortably, chewing and swallowing (easy girls) to chuck four thousand seven hundred and forty calories down your (well, “my”) gullet. A day. However, ten minutes of walking up hill until the sweat seeps through my expensive (£12 from Matalan) shirt and starts to wick into my even more expensive wool (but not a loose knitted) suit and the pedometer reads one and a half miles…vertically (ok, maybe I’m exaggerating but it bloody feels like it) and the calorie counter gloriously exhorts “Congratulations! You have burned 46 calories…” Forty-six?! Forty-fucking-six?! What I just farted would burn more than forty-fucking-six calories! I’m taking in two thousand of the insidious little bastards and nearly killing myself crossing busy roads and walking up half a mountain for forty-pigging-six calories burnt? Give me a break!

On hindsight, though, we decided the calorie counter may be buggered. I think it stopped working after I sat on it. And in four weeks I have lost 9lb’s…

Anyway, according to EzBird, next week I’m going to be jogging round the block after work. God help the local neighbourhood; if their houses didn’t have subsidence before I’m bloody sure they will afterwards.

So, keep an eye on the news and listen out for the words “seven point two”, “Richter scale” and “Kettering.”


You know what? I really need to post a blog about writing...