Thursday, November 28, 2013

A Thanksgiving Day Letter to Seth MacFarlane

Mrs Turley
The Towers
Seth MacFarlane
The Studios

Dear Seth

You have broken my heart. You have ruined Thanksgiving Day for your fellow countrymen. You have put the world in mourning.

How could you kill off Brian in Family Guy? How could you? I loved Brian as if he were my own dog. The fact I don't have a dog is irrelevant, but if I had a dog he would be just like Brian. We would have frolicked on my bed blowing raspberries, watching porn  the Disney channel and laughing about Americanisms. What fun Brian and I would have had! But now we can't. Because Brian is dead. 

As you can tell, even though I'm English, I was very fond of Brian. As your typical English person, I am also very pro animal rights (except when it comes to foxes and badgers) so I am outraged by your cruel and needless act upon an affectionate and loveable dog. It is an act of violence which must be addressed.

Accordingly, I have emailed Her Majesty and suggested she incarcerates you as soon as possible. Thus, the good gentlemen of the SAS will soon be arriving at your doorstep. And it's no good asking your special forces for help because your government would only send Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger and ( I know this may come as a shock to you) but they're only actors. You can't really win any wars employing actors to do the work for you. And I know you think you've got an army - but have you looked in the Lego tin under your bed lately? I think you'll find it's empty.

Anyway, when the SAS have returned with you, I (as Her Majesty's chief torturer and executioner) will haul your sorry ass to The Tower and strap you to the rack. As I turn the screws, I will force you to mimic Brian, delighting in your every vowel, until your voice is hoarse and you are weeping for forgiveness. At which point, I will ignore your pathetic cries and throw you into the dungeons to contemplate your vicious act and spending the rest of your life as the most hated man on the planet. There will be nobody to listen to your jokes or bolster your ego. There will be nobody to love you. Thus, in your resulting madness, you will be forced to draw pictures of Brian on the walls in your own excrement. 

I know this seems harsh, Mr MacFarlane, but what you have done is a crime that deserves the ultimate punishment. The only way to save your soul (and intimate torture) is to save Brian. I don't care how you do it. Just do it. I'm even prepared to believe he wakes up from some surreal cartoonish dream. So do it - or risk my wrath.

Yours affectionately,

Mrs T.

Brian is dead. It's a sad, sad world. Picture courtesy of Wikipedia (Fair use.)

Monday, November 25, 2013

An appeal on behalf of mothers to the makers of Doctor Who

Dear Producers,

Are you out of your minds? Are you seriously going to have that old guy, Peter Capaldi, as the new Doctor Who? I've only just got used to the idea of Matt Smith as the Doctor and that's because he looks like a bloke in his thirties now and not like he's fresh out of nappies.

And particularly ugly nappies, if I might say so.

Look, I know most of the Doctors weren't exactly youngsters but that was before merchandising really took off. Have you any idea what it's like to wake in the night to a screaming child, run into their bedroom and find them pointing at a plastic figurine of Matt Smith bathed in moonlight? No? Well, let me tell you it's not great. But now you've gone and got Capaldi I expect the screaming to intensify. I shall probably have to hire a therapist soon.

I'd like to put forward the case for a handsome thirty/forty something Dr Who. Here's my arguments:

1. Just because Dr Who is quirky and plays with his screwdriver a lot he doesn't have to look quirky too. He could just act. That's what actors do. Well, some of them. I'm not sure about Harrison Ford but, to be fair, he does look good in leggings.

2. I'm fed up of nightmares. Looking at Capaldi bathed in moonlight would like be looking at the living dead as opposed to just looking at something out of Nightmare on Elm Street.

3. Mums like to watch TV programmes with their kids; it's a bonding experience. However, when we do this, ideally, we would like to admire an attractive man in his prime. And, if he can act quirky without looking a complete twat and dressing like Sherlock Holmes, all the better. Think David Tennant and you'll be on the right lines again. What's more, if you get an actor who looks like Hugh Jackman your merchandise royalties will triple overnight.

Now, I don't want to appear ageist, so I just like to say there are some other fine older actors who could have played The Doctor and who I'd have been happy to watch. I'm sure they would all have provided their own individual "take" on the role too. Here's a few suggestions:

I know Pierce is 60 now and old enough to be my grandfather father but he's still lush.
I emailed Pierce and asked him if he'd consider it. He sent me the above picture in return - just look at the sheer delight on his face at the thought of being The Doctor. Just imagine how much revenue the BBC would make out of Pierce figurines. I'd be happy to buy one. They could even make blow-up Pierce dolls. Again, I 'd be happy to buy one (or more) of those.

Yeah , I know Clint is even older then Pierce at 83 but I bet he could still use that sonic screw driver better than anyone else. Even if he had to perform in a wheelchair I'd be happy to be his assistant and push all his buttons for him. Who wouldn't love to see Doctor Clint shoot the crap out of a dalek? I know I would.

Chuck Norris as The Doctor. You can bet your life he'd have more than one sonic screwdriver. He'd have a whole arsenal. Brill.

But who'd be my favourite aged doctor? It's someone who I think would be just perfect. Someone who would bring kick-ass law and order to the universe in his own very individual style.

Steven Seagal. A karate-kicking, gun toting, no bull-shitting, explosive Doctor. Absolutely perfect. No one's gonna mess with this Doctor. Least of all me - which is why I say - Steven, you look great in pink. You blow me away.XXX

All the best,

Mrs T.

Ps -Pictures all courtesy of Wikipedia, creative common license. (With a little hindrance from Mrs T.)

Thursday, November 21, 2013

I am the Anti-Writer

When I first started my blog, I used to write the occasional post giving new dictionary definitions for common words. Back then my life revolved around domesticity and children so they were words like washing machine (a square shaped inanimate object used for the cleaning of clothes which holds no interest for men despite having a round door which opens and closes without foreplay). These days, although I don't write much about writing here, I do occasionally mix with writers online and I certainly read a lot about writing and the arts in general. This has lead me to put together a new set of dictionary definitions appropriate to the moment. Here we go:

Artist: someone who talks about himself a lot, is likely to be mentally unstable and draws pictures of himself as the Elephant man. Artists are usually harmless but are usually into self-harm.

Painter: someone who knows the difference between Magnolia, Cream and Apple-White and knows how to install a dado rail.

Motivational Speaker: someone who believes he is Jesus but also has a book to sell.

Publicist: someone who has an Apple Mac and wants everyone else to know about it.

Agent: someone who sits on a fence trying to avoid a nasty wooden spike.

Serial Writer: someone, who as a child, read a lot comics.

Young Adult Writer: someone who wanted to be an artist but failed their art exams.

Psychologist: someone who laughs at other people and aspires to be a motivational speaker.

Women's Fiction Writer: someone who purports never to wear anything but pyjamas.

Crime Writer: someone who used to work in forensics before their eyesight deteriorated.

Thriller Writer: someone who admires Michael Jackson, reads Dan Brown for inspiration and occcasionally sticks his fingers in a plug socket.

Adult Fiction Writer: someone who still plays behind the bike sheds.

Traditional Publisher: someone who is standing on the edge of a tall precipice feeling slightly giddy.

Self-Publisher: someone who owns more than one set of trilogies.

Amazon:  a particularly moist forest from where books originate. Contrary to popular belief, the Amazon is not decreasing but expanding. This is due to excessive moisture requirements of some of its chief occupants.

A Best-Selling Author: someone who has hit the number one spot in the Kindle charts in the Caribbean dystopian fiction genre.

Manic Depressive: someone who hasn't yet hit the top of the Kindle chart in Caribbean dystopian fiction genre.

Bi-Polar Depressive: someone who has hit the top of New York Times best-selling author list but still doesn't need an accountant.

A comedian: someone who is not Russell Brand and knows what a punchline is.

A humorist: someone who knows the truth and isn't afraid to get lambasted for saying it.
"All you need to become a successful author is this bunch of carrots. They are free with my book which is $9.99 on Kindle, $11.99 in paperback or you can buy it from me today with a personalized inscription for just $10.99. It also comes in Braille for just $25.00.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Trouble in the School Changing Rooms

Yes, there has been trouble in the school changing rooms this week. Young Master Jacob has twice had money stolen from a zipped pocket in his trousers, resulting in him not being able to buy his lunch.

Obviously, I am not pleased about this, especially as I have experienced first hand the trouble one can have with school bullies. (  I recounted one "fight" episode in my blog post Kenny & Dolly & The Adventurous Tales of Mrs T .)

So, naturally,  I was discussing strategies with Master Jacob prior to school this morning. As I was doing so, Master Benedict returned from the bathroom where his teeth had undergone the rare experienced of being cleaned.

"Why don't you just box him?" says Master Ben. (I should point out Master Jacob has a suspicion he knows who the culprit is.)

Now the same thought had crossed my mind as it is a tad silly to mess with Master Jacob who is 6ft 2in, plays several sports to a high level and recently has been learning how to box. However, being a reasonable woman, I mumbled something about violence not being a good thing blah, blah, blah, appeasement blah, blah, blah and turning the other cheek blah, blah, blah.

Master Benedict, however, thought differently and launched into imaginary fight with accompanying commentary which included the words "kick", "butt", "testicles" and looked rather like the fight scene in the film, Ted. Eventually, having thrown himself all around the lounge, Master Benedict grabbed his imaginary assailant, dragged him down the hallway by the scruff of his neck and dropped him in front of the imaginary PE teacher.

The net result was of this was that Master Jacob and I laughed so much he missed his school bus. Now, I did think about lecturing Master Ben about the inappropriate use of violence but then I remembered my own adventures....

In conclusion all I can say is: I am grateful Master Jacob is a sensible and placid young man. Master Benedict, however, is more like me - which means I am expecting his days at upper school to be more "colourful" than Master Jacob's.

 I will be taking out insurance.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

I am on Twitter!

Yes, I've finally caved in and signed up with Twitter. Now that my manuscript is out the big wide world accruing rejections, I thought I'd better join up with Twitter in case some big hot-shot literary agent pops in and thinks I'm not taking this writing business seriously. So I decided it was time for Twitter- cos let's face it at my age offering sex for publication is not really a viable option. Apart from the fact that lots of literary agents appear to be women and I'm not a lesbian, I don't think white, size eighteen thermal knickers would go down too well on the casting couch. So it has to be Twitter.

So here I am:

Now unfortunately, all the combinations of my blog title Witty Ways, Wayward Wife, Witty Wife etc etc as well as MY name were already taken. Pah!  So in the end I just had to settle for @turleytalks for my twitter handle.  I quite like it though and one thing's for sure I do actually do a lot of talking. I just hope I don't get sued. Fortunately, I've some wealthy relatives but I'm not sure if they'd cough up if I got sued for calling David Cameron a jackass.

Actually, I'd never call David a jackass; it's not his fault he went to Eton.

I could call Piers Morgan a jackass though. That's just true. You can't be sued for the truth surely?

Anyone with knowledge of libel laws please get in contact asap. Thanks.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

A quick poem about my driving skills

Nissans are blue
Vauxhalls are green
I’ve hit them both
Which wasn’t forseen

Kias are trouble
But Nissans are worse
They sneak up on you
When you try to reverse

I’ve hit so many cars
The public are wary
And my husband's so cross
He looks rather scary

The police are on the lookout
For a woman on their list
Who looks like a loony
And drives like she’s pissed.

I’m hiding in the bathroom
Until the cops disappear
It wouldn’t be too bad
But the sewerage pipe’s sheared.

Where cars are concerned
I haven't had much luck
I'd probably be okay though
If I had a big truck

Friday, November 1, 2013

An extract from White Lies, from my forthcoming short story collection.

William Baxter crosses the floor, his sharp steps echoing in the marble foyer. The security guard looks up and touches his cap and Baxter gives him a cursory nod of recognition. Baxter always acknowledges security even though most of them indulge the rumour that he murdered his mother. Baxter knows that when you have a reputation as a man who pulls off impossible deals and bankrupts other business malicious gossip is always rife. He’s learnt to live with rumours, sometimes they even make him laugh, but most of the time Baxter just shrugs them off as inconsequential gossip. As for the rumour he murdered his mother – it’s one he quite enjoys.
            Baxter ignores the fanciful stares of two secretaries returning from lunch and hurries towards the exit, securing the buttons on his cashmere coat with one hand and stealing a glimpse at his Rolex on the other. Time is of the essence. He pushes the revolving doors with an impatient thrust, exposing his crisp white shirt cuffs and gold cufflinks. A limousine pulls up outside, light ricocheting off its polished silver fender. Baxter has fifteen minutes to travel the four blocks to Saviour Investments. He’s decided to make them an offer they can’t refuse. It’s a more generous proposition than he’d normally make but, since he made a killing on the stock exchange this morning, he’s feeling almost philanthropic. The driver opens the car door and Baxter quickens his pace once more when a sudden impact throws him off-balance and sends him staggering backwards.
            “For fuck’s sake!” curses Baxter, straightening up and preparing to give his assailant a lashing of abuse. But there’s no suited employee to take the brunt of his anger, only a dishevelled young woman lying on the sidewalk.
            “Mr Baxter,” says his driver. “Let me deal with it…”
            “No, no. It’s fine. I’ll see to it,” says Baxter, waving his driver away.
Baxter inspects the woman, making a quick appraisal of her worn heels, tired skirt and saggy jumper. He’s distracted from the spilled contents of her handbag by her skirt which has ridden up exposing the smooth creamy flesh of her legs splayed wide on the dirty concrete. The desire for academic victory over Saviour seems less urgent as Baxter feels the stirrings of unexpected lust.
            “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” says the woman. 
Tearing his eyes away from the naked skin and hints of flimsy underwear, Baxter notices the dark glasses askew on a youthful face with a surge of disappointment. He distrusts people, particularly women, who wear sunglasses especially when it’s dull and overcast. He wonders what the woman may be hiding: puffy eyes from a sleepless night, a bout of tears or something else? He remembers his mother’s cutting asides dispensed from behind her designer glasses, a cigarette poised at her lips. Defence or attack? He’s never quite sure.
            As Baxter surveys the scene, he spots an unmistakable object on the sidewalk and admonishes himself for not being more observant. His fastidious nature means he normally notices even the smallest details including the unintentional vocal nuances and facial grimaces which, in the boardroom, have put him one step ahead of the pack. But today he has been too preoccupied with thoughts of subjugation as, not only did he not see the woman, but he did not see her white cane.
            “Hello…hello?” says the woman, her voice wavering.
Words stick in Baxter’s throat for a moment as the woman briefly tilts her head to one side before turning to scrabble around for the missing cane and the scattered contents of her bag.
            “I was in a hurry and didn’t see you either,” says Baxter, kneeling on the floor. At the same time as Baxter regrets the dirt on his pants, he’s aware of an emotion he has not felt for a long time. So long, he is not even sure it still existed.   
            “I thought you’d left,” says the woman, turning back towards him.
            “No…I was winded,” replies Baxter. He picks up her bag, reaches for her hand and guides it so she can drop her collection of possessions back inside the bag.  “I’m fine now. Are you?”
            “Yes. I was just disorientated for a moment,” says the woman.
Baxter likes the fact she hasn’t demonized him or referenced her blindness. He picks up the remaining articles and deposits them alongside the others, a fleeting glimmer of curiosity passing over his face as he absorbs the information they reveal:
            Mary Anne Whitmore.
            Baxter picks up the cane, places it in Mary Anne’s hand and holds her by the other.
            “Let me help you up. Ready now? One, two, three!”
Baxter pulls Mary Anne to her feet.  He doesn’t release her hand but studies her as she steadies herself; she’s taller than he expected and with decent heels she’d meet his gaze at eye level. Her hair is thick and long but in need of a stylist and, whilst she’s not obviously beautiful, she has features that accentuated by the right makeup would make other women jealous and other men licentious.
            “Thank you,” says Mary Anne, pulling her hand out of his grasp.
            “I should make up for my clumsiness,” says Baxter with deliberation. “Do you like Italian?”
 “No need,” replies Mary Anne. “It was an accident.”
            “I won’t take no for an answer,” says Baxter. “Please accept my offer by way of an apology. If you prefer, we could make it French or Thai.”
            “I have an appointment.”
            “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait,” says Baxter.
            “No…it can’t,” says Mary Anne and turns away, her cane leading the way.
            Baxter watches Mary Anne feel her way down the sidewalk. He’s intrigued by her stubbornness and her blindness but his fleeting compassion dissolves as she merges with the crowd. As she disappears completely, he wipes the dust from his clothes and realizes he’s aroused by idea that she can’t see him for who he really is.

Comments welcome. Good, bad, indifferent I want to know, so I get this story bang on!

My Nominees for the US and UK Elections and Other Waffle

It's the early hours of the morning, and I have had a large gin... Late-night alcohol is always a good recipe for writing gibberish. And...