January Newsletter 2014
COUNTDOWN to the end of “Dryathlon”……..
At last a feeling I have always desired; to feel so Carole Vorderman! I think I should write the newsletter, one letter at a time, give me a consonant, a vowel, a consonant, a consonant, then give me a vowel, a consonant and finally to finish off another consonant! On second thoughts that’s exactly what you might say. I’ll leave you to work that one out!
Let’s see. Well as we have no new stock to send you pics of, and I’m not putting up the ones I’m using on Tinder which are not fit for this auspicious tome. Shirtless and sockless, you will just have to make do with an update of my exploits, including some of those involving you lot.
Extra thanks for all the kind, but confused words about the blog, and where it is actually going; goodness only knows, but at least I now there are more than two of you reading it, and thank you to the person who has just said to me that I have too much time on my hands, if I have time to write this. Damn you Moriarty!
The fact is the newsletter is now read in over 80 countries, which according to the advertising is more countries than where San Miguel is drunk, this includes Scotland, and Wales for fear of leaving out those of you who might be offended, desperate to leave our happy union, and talking of happy union we are slowly, I hasten to add slowly, getting some wedding photos up on the blog. So those of you who want to be famous in over 80 countries, let’s be ‘aving you!
Very well; as for San Miguel being drunk, give the guy a break, it’s still only January. My alcohol consumption for the month? More than Mother Teresa, less than Peter O’Toole.
But, there is one of you whose ‘Out of Office’ automated reply says that you are out of the office until 28th August, are you coming or going? Sven it’s not you.
This is the point where I’m going to mention football, so for those of you who might want to skip the next few paragraphs or leave the room to make a cup of tea. This is the time to do it!
Meanwhile a little something for the ladies. No, not Matthew MacConaughey or Ian Somerhalder. That one’s for Emi, she loves The Vampire Diaries. Well she would wouldn’t she, she is after all from Transylvania!
Much is made of great rivalry between football supporters and perhaps none more so than between the supporters of Tottenham Hotspur (Spurs) and Arsenal. Both clubs are based in leafy North London, and are perhaps are the only exponents of gentlemanly banter and Marquis of Queensbury rules when it comes to chants and football violence. The reduction in alcohol consumption during the “Dryathlon” has meant that the atmosphere between the clubs supporters is currently almost cordial.
Tony, Neil, Tim, Maria and Ian are all Arsenal supporters, John, David, Mark and Dave are all Spurs supporters. One of the Spurs supporters confided in me whilst having a coffee in the shop, was overcome by a weak moment following the Average Vite Band (AVB) incident; and admitted that Arsenal in fact were playing decent football, and weren’t a bad side.
I was shocked, treason, how could he admit that? Suddenly he threw his hot, milky coffee over his head, ripped off his clothes and ran off naked down the street shouting “Take me back to Smaug; Smaug is where I belong!” Eventually he came back and we dried him off, sat him down and gave him a flaming Sambuca. Obviously he was just feeling a little under the weather; he’s now feeling much better. I just won’t tell his wife.
You can come back in now those of you who went out to make tea whilst the footie was on.
Mind you, given what is to follow, you might as well go back to that book you were reading.
Michael (Perseus) has been relaxing in Miami; apparently he is lying on a chaise longue munching on strawberry bonbons. He will insist on sending me these messages, and leaving me with confusing mental images. He’s been to the beach to bronze himself, all but his whiter than white legs and ankles. It always makes me think he is more Persil than Perseus.
Now he’s been away for the best part of a month, and the thing he always finds so difficult about this trip, is that he has to be nice to people.
The flip side to this is upon his return we are treated to a month’s bottled-up “bitchfest”. He pours forth vitriol like Vesuvius upon Pompeii, turning one and all to stone. He could be Medusa turning her gaze on all before her and woe be tide you if you try a witty riposte, you will find she has turned your blade on yourself, all Blurred Lines and Amanda Byrnes! However we are working through Pharrel Williams and Happy, all 24 hours of it.
Sam has been home from outer space, although I must say he was looking a little worried. The introduction of superfast broadband on flights has meant that he may be contactable after all. Hitch a ride on the back of that comet Sam; just tell them you’re headed for Mars. I have a friend whose wife is an astronaut; she could give you some tips. I find the space nappies incredibly comfortable.
Neil is still swapping love tokens, currently he can only take a shower because the bath is full of formaldehyde and things he wants pickled. Oh dear, back to last night!
Damian has been in, and hence forth he will be known as HRH King Damian of Krug. If only he’d drunk Cristal, I could have called him Crystal Tips….Can’t really say anymore, except the slop I serve as champagne just doesn’t cut the mustard, with his hoity-toity tastes. Perhaps I’ll serve him my latest non-alcoholic tipple, liquorice tea. It’s disgusting, not only does it smell bad, it tastes even worse, and I like liquorice. I now have to wade through another 143 bags. Any takers please email, I’ll send the taste of wood your way! *Update the lemon and ginger is just as bad. Couldn’t even get through half a cup…..
But I have been missing a trick, so I have saved the best for last……
You know how I love my diminutive foreign leaders. Silvio, Vladimir and Nicolas.
No sooner do you get rid one, than another comes charging over the horizon like the cavalry astride a Shetland pony.
Exit stage left Nicolas Sarkozy (full name – Nicolas Paul Stéphane Sarközy de Nagy-Bocsa, which if stood vertically in Times New Roman 12 point, would be taller than the man himself!), with wife and bambina in tow. Apparently this is the first time that the French President has had a child whilst in office. Pah! Ce n’est pas vrais!
Enter stage right Francois Hollande, in a crash helmet like an extra from Cirque du Soleil, I remember the first time I was shot out of a cannon. Will Valerie Rottweiler drag the safety net away! He will now be living the life of a bachelor, does that sound any better?
He’ll be like ‘Donkey’ in Shrek, leaping around shouting pick me, pick me. Oh of course I forgot politics is a popularity contest. Won’t do well to upset ‘les femmes’ Francois especially if they have you by the short…. Well in our case there is no other option.
Why has it taken me so long to comment on this? It seems I overlooked him. Hahahaha
And the reason we make coats, to get them young. The twins obviously like daddy’s coat!
Finally, as a friend recently said to me:
Life is a rollercoaster we are strapped in and holding on, or are we strapped on and holding in?