My short story Fantasia is free to download as an ebook on Kindle for five days. Please feel free to share with friends and anyone who might be interested. It's already gone to no 1 in the free children's environment with just a few downloads. It would be lovely to see it there a little longer. Any reviews would be most welcome!
Friday, November 20, 2020
There was a buffoon called Johnson
Who thought he was Charles Bronson
But he fucked-up Brexit
So attempted to exit
Dressed as a woman in Labour
Unfortunately for Boris
No one was fooled by “Doris”
So he pulled out a gun
Broke into a run
But was caught in the commons by Keir Starmer
“But… but…. but, Boris stuttered
“Brexit is oven-ready. And buttered!”
“Don’t give me that clap-trap,
You’re just a tabloid hack
And as thick as a brain-dead lama”
As Boris started to weep and plead
Keir pulled out a writ and began to read
“I don’t need no fancy prose
Let’s pelt him with tomatoes
And leave him for the Tories to dismember!”
But out of the throng rushed Dom
Fresh from his castle with aplomb
“I’ll save the day,” he said
His face a beetroot red
“We will never give up or surrender!”
“Not you again, Dominic
You’re a number one prick!”
Said Keir as he summoned the judge
“We’re done with this fudge.
And you and your visionless glasses.”
Then out of the chambers came Her Majesty
To sort out the political travesty
“It is time for the tower
On your knees and cower
You’re a pair of unwholesome arses!”
Down went her thumb
As a guard beat the drum
And Boris and Dom were hauled away
“Let’s do this in style,” said the Queen with a smile
“Take the offenders and whip them in my blenders!”
So this is the end of this sorry tale
Where justice did rightly prevail
There is some last advice
Which I hope will suffice
To ensure this will never repeat
Never, ever, piss off our Queen
She’s old, stubborn and very mean.
And when she is moody
She will mix a smoothie
Made from kale and her secret cream.
Wednesday, November 18, 2020
It is more than likely I will change my name in the very near future which will no doubt please my husband and his family.
However, I will be probably be keeping Turley as a pseudonym for my comedy writing since I've been writing under it for over a decade. So, I am afraid my ex is just going to have live with the potential of my embarrassing him.
Oh dear. What a pity!
Initially, I plan to use my new name in my private life only, but it's possible I might use it for my planned crime writing. It depends on how I feel at the time.
Of course, I have thought about reverting to my maiden name or another family name which makes complete sense. However, I quite fancy to revert to total anonymity for at least a brief period.
One of my sons has suggested Jane Bond.
Which rather appeals. For obvious reasons. Luckily, I can still laugh at myself. I can only thank God and my family genes for blessing me with a sense of humour.
Anyway, I am not sure if Jane Bond is the name but it would certainly fit on the front cover of a book well and I am looking for a name that has a "ring" to it.
If you have any suggestions please do drop me a line or leave a comment. Give it your best shot. I am open to all wild suggestions!
Monday, November 16, 2020
Yes, I have had three glasses of wine as I am off work for a few days as I am self-isolating prior to a minor medical procedure. I am, therefore, feeling a little ribald. So, I decided to write a poem.
Now, before some of my lovely American readers go apeshit, please remember this a comedy blog (even if it has been slightly lacking in humour for a while.) As a consequence, the poem is in my usual eloquent style which required some deep thought for all of 5 minutes.
Here we go:
There was an old man called Trump
Who had a particularly small lump
For a brain
He lost an election
Got a floppy erection
And was never seen or heard of
Quality stuff - although the last line is probably rather optimistic. Let's face it who doesn't want to see more of Mr Trump. He is pure comedy gold as is our own Mr Johnson.
Let's see what I can manage tomorrow night after a few drinks. Nominated subject matters welcomed.
Tuesday, October 27, 2020
A few months ago I was generously given a phone as mine kept dying on me and the battery was one of those irreplaceable ones.
I duly set-up facial recognition in addition to a password.
Unfortunately, since then it has only recognised my face... maybe once.
I can't decide whether on the day I set it up I was looking astonishing gorgeous or completely hideous... or perhaps like a female version of Boris Johnson.
I think Boris and I have a lot in common at the moment. He looks completely shagged-out running the country during the pandemic and the Brexit crisis; I looked completely shagged-out through the stress of my elongated divorce. We both look our ages of 55. I used to look ten years younger but lately, I am looking battered.
The only real differences between us are that Boris has a 32-year-old girlfriend, a top job and a stack of cash whereas I have two cats, a tea cosy and haemorrhoids.
It's a man's world.
Sunday, October 18, 2020
Friday, April 10, 2020
This makes complete sense. However, I am someone who generally doesn't sleep that well but I do occasionally have quite vivid, obscure and often frightening dreams. Sometimes I experience sleep paralysis.
Last night, I had an entirely different dream. I rarely dream about people in the public eye. The last one was Hugh Grant. (Hey ho.) But last night I dreamt about Boris Johnson, our PM, currently laid up in hospital with Coronavirus.
Basically, I dreamt I was having sex with Boris. I have no idea what this means (other than I am probably very, very desperate for sex.) However, I am somewhat relieved Boris is making a recovery. It would have been awful if his condition had continued to worsen. I would have felt guilty somehow - killed by my enthusiasm for sex!
On balance, I suppose because Boris has been mentioned in the news 24 hours a day for weeks perhaps it's not surprising. We are also the same age so I suppose somehow I was willing him to live as a reflection of my own life and mortality.
Still, sex with Boris? I don't even fancy him! I think I need to see a psychiatrist. LOL.
Thursday, April 9, 2020
Now when you reach my grand old age of 55, dressing to kill takes some skill. It's also preferable to have a large glass of gin before you look in the mirror. Because you look a lot better when your vision is blurred. You can also try and kid yourself you're only 39. I have been telling my boys I am 39 for years. I don't think they believe me any more. Well, not since the tooth fairy quit.
Now, even though I'm past my prime, when I go to work, I attempt to look as smart as possible with clean, pressed clothes and fresh make-up. I find a trowel is excellent for putting on my foundation and a kids' washable thick felt-tip pen great for eyeliner. (If you've not got one of those try a permanent marker and save yourself a daily chore. I also recommend a mirror which at least X20 magnification, especially if you wear glasses otherwise you'll look like Coco the Clown.)
So anyway, in this time of lockdown, when there is not much to be happy about not having to put my make-up on and iron a mountain of clothes for my boys is one small benefit. Yay! My utility room no longer looks like a laundrette hit by a freight train. In fact, the only clothes I iron are the ones I wear for the two nights week I work in a supermarket.
Yes, I am working in a supermarket. It's a bit of risk when there's pandemic on, but where needs must. We'll talk about that another day.
Anyway, on other days when I am home, I'm generally looking like a total scruff. I am not sure if my elderly neighbours are more afraid of the pandemic or the unrecognizable women walking up and down the street looking like a cross between Worzel Gummidge, the scarecrow, and a potential murderer.
But hey it's great. I can wear the same trousers for days! And (cough, cough) I think I've worn some knickers for two days running. My mother did always tell me to wear clean knickers every day in case I got run over by a bus but there are no buses running around here so I've no worries now. Hurrah!
Well not unless I get Covid 19, in which case it won't just be me who needs a ventilator.
Stay safe, everyone. And God bless all our wonderful medical staff all over the world.
Saturday, April 4, 2020
So basically, last week when I was looking desperately in the fridge to see what concoction I could manufacture from the rotting contents, I discovered two well-past-the sell-by-date cabbages. You know, where the outer leaves have gone yellow and look as appetising as a snot-covered handkerchief.
Anyway, times are hard. So, I tossed the cabbages in the air with gay abandonment and consulted my recipe book for a dish where the ingredients consisted of two mouldy old cabbages and very little else.
Sadly, there were none. I did think about disguising the mouldiness in vinegar and making sauerkraut. However, I've got to be honest, pickled cabbage holds no appeal to me. I gather sauerkraut is a German dish - so maybe I shouldn't be surprised it's only marginally less offensive than a blitzkrieg.
So, folks. I settled on the easy option.
Luckily, I had all the other ingredients I needed: water and salt.
So, to make my delicious cabbage soup, all you need to do is:
1. Chop up your cabbage. You may or may not wat to check for caterpillars first depending on your protein requirements. Personally, I couldn't be bothered. I just went for it with a large knife.
2. Shove it in a pan with some water and salt. Bring to the boil and then simmer so the caterpillars rise to the surface and you can decide whether to leave them there or fish them out and use them to stuff some out-of-date vol-au vents which you can have as starters. Alternatively, you can puree them and pass them off as pesto.
3. When you have done that you'll end up at this stage:
Thursday, April 2, 2020
An eclectic choice, I feel.
So, to live up to my previous posts I decided to opt for the words Baloney and Bog Rolls. Now, in order to make sure I am not misinforming people I decided to check out the definition of baloney. I discovered there were in fact, three definitions.
The first is a sausage, the second is a resident of Bologna, Italy. The third fundamentally describes this blog which means nonsense.
So, to incorporate the two themes have come with an (almost) nonsense poem:
Bog Rolls, I like them.
Soft and cushy on my bottom.
It's a pity I don't have any
'Cos some fucker at Sainsbury's bought the lot.
I hope they get diarrhoea
Which runs down their leg
And smells like putrified egg
Then I will be happy
Even as I wear my nappy.
As I said, nonsense.
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