The Demise of Bill Bond (803 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: fiction
Rating: 1.28 on 46 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Flash Harry (View user info) at 2008-03-11 06:56:35 EDT
This is Chapter 1 of a book I started writing last year. I didn't get any further than this because my mind was distracted by a scriptwriting competition. Comments about whether I should continue with it or not will be much appreciated...
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I.
I arrived at the pub at about eight o'clock, soaked to the skin and in a blind rage. The heavy, ugly door groaned annoyance as I entered the dark building, wiped my feet and ran wet hands through my wet hair in a vain attempt not to appear too dishevelled. My senses were battered as I crossed the threshold into the pub; my eyes peered into the smoky air, my ears were met with the sound of drunken debate, and my nose was accosted with the mixed stench of alcohol, tobacco and damp, dirty bodies.
"Bill," the barman boomed loudly, dirty rag in hand. "Pint?"
I nodded sternly and tried to avoid eye contact. I was in far too potent a fury to make small talk with the barman, who was a notorious bore. God, if I'd known what would come of conversation that evening...I'd have happily listened to his bile with an eager grin. Aye, hindsight's a wonderful thing, and that's the truth. A bloody stupid truth, but there it is.
"Some weather, eh?" he piped expectantly. I'd fixed my stare on a worn spot on the filthy carpet, keen to avoid the inevitable exchange the damn moron was currently pursuing. I looked into his vacant grin, and managed a weak one-sided smile of my own. He indicated my sodden clothes and dinked his head to the rain-lashed window. "Pissin' it down, eh?" He flashed a smile as dank beer poured down his hands from the glass.
Christ, I wasn't in any mood to converse with this pillock. I wanted to bound over the bar and lock him in a full nelson, driving his placid face into the drip-tray. "Aye, man," I said instead. "Fuckin' lashin' it doon".
I took my lame pint to a quiet table and settled down in an uncomfortable wooden seat, draping my soaked jacket over a radiator. I picked up my pint and sighed; there was not a sign of a bubble in the burnt-coloured liquid. It looked like a pint of cold piss. I poured about a third of it down my neck and ground my teeth at its harsh coldness, and it had a damned foul taste, too. That bloody moron behind the bar, I could hear him harassing another poor sod with his rotten patter. He was asking this guy if he'd been working today, aye, is that a fact; and where was it he worked, oh really; and was this chap local, no, no, never mind; ain't it just pissin' it doon outside though, eh?
I looked up and sunk another gulp of the piss-poor pint he'd served me, wincing at the bitterness that seemed to dry out the roof of my mouth. I braced myself and gobbed the rest, fairly quick; such a bad pint doesn't need any nursing. "Bill!" the barman called out to me from across the pub. I ignored him. He probably wanted a chat about the efficiency of the transport authorities or something equally absorbing. "Bill!" the numpty roared again. I kept my head down and pretended to be immersed by the information on my beermat. "Bill," the barman said quietly. He was suddenly at my shoulder, a frothing, clear pint in his hand. "That one was bottom of the barrel, mate," he picked up my empty glass. "See if this one's got a bit more to it, eh." He pushed the drink in front of me. Light bubbles were streaming upwards from the bottom of the glass, through a light gold liquid, forming a soft, creamy head.
I looked up appreciatively. "Thanks a lot, man, nice one," I said quietly. The big idiot patted my shoulder and wandered back to the bar, whistling. I drank my pint quietly, sobbing silent tears into the foamy cold.
Big pussy, right? Bill Bond, wide as he is tall, fairly knows how to take care of himself, a right wee unit, so he is; a hard ticket. That's how people see me...and yet there I was weeping into my pint like a wet sponge. I took a deep breath, told myself to get a fuckin' grip, drained the rest of my pint, and went up for another. The barman winked knowingly as he poured another frothy glass, and leaned forward smugly. "Don't tell me. Wimmen troubles, eh?" he whispered loudly. I looked blankly at him for a second; the idiot, the big plonker that he was (and probably still is, by all reckoning). He couldn't have been further from the truth.
"Aye," I sighed. "Bloody wimmen." I settled onto the (most uncomfortable) stool (in the world) at the bar, supped my pint greedily, and relaxed forward on my elbows. The barman's patter was rank-rotten, but it compared well to reading a beermat and havin' a bit of a greet on my own. I sat up with a start, and rubbed my sticky elbows. The bar was laminated with a layer of old alcohol, and fuckin' disgustin', so it was.
I stayed sat at the bar for the rest of the night, and what with the barman prattling on endlessly about the price of lager, the rise of the chav, the state of the State, the plight of the unemployed, his concern at his son's fancies for wearing make-up, the new karaoke night starting this weekend, and - inevitably - the pissin' weather these days, my worries were soon calmed...slightly. I happily drained the pints which appeared in front of me, smoked a few cigarettes right down to the butt, and exchanged a few daft words with the punters that came and went. I was pretty stocious by the time Last Orders were called, and ready to call it a night, when the barman appeared by my side and muttered quietly, whilst wiping down the stinking bar, "havin' a late one, Bill, if ye fancy hangin' back. Jus' me an' you, an' a couple other boys, like."
I'd been eyeing up the last of my pint, ready to leave, but only out of necessity, you understand. I was in a right state by now, fairly buggered, but the thought of staying for a quiet one sounded just reet. "Aye, nae bother, man. Cheers, eh," I tried to sound nonchalant and, well, cool about it. Came across as a right eejit, probably. Anyways, I soon panned the rest of the pint and ordered another, trying to look calm as the barman asked the other patrons to drink up, patiently at first with cries of "time, gentlemen, please!", the pretentious nut that he was, and then more keenly, with gentle urgings to "get the fuck hame tae yir wives, ya dafties, huv ye no' got beds tae git tae?!", which was met with the obligatory cries of "Aye, yer maw's!", and "Naw, I'm sleepin' in the shed the night!"
Another after-hours selectee slipped up to me at the bar and asked how I was doing, big man: aye no bad; steamin' eh, are ye: aye right enough I'm fairly fuckin' cunted and make no mistake about it; and his name was Jolly: and nice to meet you I'm Bill, and I'm fairly pissed, d'ye fancy a beer?
I bought Jolly a pint and we chinked glasses. The barman had hounded out the uninvited drunks and went back behind the bar. We were joined by three other chaps, mates of the barman, I believe. I sat on the outside of the line-up at the bar, speaking only to Jolly and the barman. The jukebox was cranked up and spat out pub classics such as 'Sweet Child O' Mine' and 'Maggie May', and we sang along raucously, relative strangers, suddenly brothers through the drunken fuzz; and sweaty, manly hugs; and fist-pumping, throat-bursting rock anthems that bound us into a tight pack. The pints flowed, and my head wiggled on top of my increasingly unstable neck. Next to me, Jolly was red-faced and wet-lipped. His hair was sweating and greying, his eyes wild and happy, and his hand-shakes were increasing in strength and regularity by the drink.
The barman had been speaking with the others at the bar, and came over to Jolly and I now; his face was also rosy and happy, and when he spoke, his voice betrayed an insouciant mischief. "Lads, there's a nice wee bottle o' whisky through the back, the boss', like, but if ye's are fancyin' a wee dram we can chip thegither an' buy 'im a new wan." He cleared several empty glasses from the bar in front of where I was now gently swaying.
"Much?" Jolly asked. His face was suddenly straight and his voice lucid; I realised I was in much more of a drunken funk than he, but his wet mouth revealed him more than a steady voice ever could. He was pissed alright, and no question...but not as bad as yours truly.
"'Bout five bucks each, no' too bad, it's a bonnie whisky too. These boys all fancy it," he indicated to the three others at the far end of the bar; three drunken devils leering and grinning and farting and burping and singing; and drinking without pause. "Up for it?" he grinned, and his eyes scanned us. Well, it sounded just reet to me. Billy Bond's not one to turn down a nice dram - and at only a fiver too, and I told the barman I'd have mine with a couple of ice cubes, and thank'ee. I spoke for Jolly too: we were in, sure thing. The barman thumped the bar and shouted "there we are, my lads!" and went behind the bar to fetch our bottle. The other three chaps at the end of the bar battered into a bastardised rendition of 'Summer of '69', and Jolly turned to me quietly.
"Fuck, Bill, man - I've no cash!" he showed me an empty wallet and frowned, his sweaty forehead wrinkling like wet paper. The barman returned with the prized bottle held high above his head and slammed it on the bar with a tribal, triumphant yell. Jolly started telling the barman he'd run out of bunce, but I interrupted him with a waving hand.
"It's easy man, I've got it," I confided, sinking the rest of my pint and smiling (probably manically). I ordered another two pints for my mate Jolly and I, and handed the barman a twenty pound note to cover the whiskies and the two beers and a few pounds for his own pocket, and for staying open, top man that he was. The whiskies came round and glasses clinked loudly, as we all drank to good health; a more unhealthy rabble I don't think I've ever been a part of either. I sipped slowly, savouring the malty assault on my taste buds, and swallowed gently, feeling the warmth spreading down my throat and into my chest and into my cheeks. The barman was right; it was a nice whisky, a damn fine one in fact. I drank again, greedily, and the barman came round and filled us up as I attacked another frothy pint.
"Thanks a lot, man," Jolly raised his glass and drank. "Nice drop this, ain't it?" He held the glass in front of his face and examined it, nodding his head in agreement with his own opinion. One of the drunken bandits from the other end of the bar was at the jukebox, swaying his hand high above his head as 'Hey Jude' rang from the speakers. By Gad, you'd have thought we were in the Cavern being serenaded by the lads themselves as we fell about crooning and wailing; momentary rock stars, playing to no audience but not giving one little shit.
We piled out of the pub at God knows what time, into the pissing rain and the biting cold which contrasted sharply with the warm, smoky pub, singing at the top of our voices and staggering aimlessly into the wee hours. I'd gone into the pub that night intent on drinking my troubles away, and jings! it had worked a treat. My fury and anger had been numbed by the booze and then pissed away down the stinking urinal in the sticky toilets. Jolly turned to me and offered another vicious, iron-fisted handshake, speaking slowly and deliberately. "Bill, come round tae mine, just over the road there," he said, pointing vaguely. "Got a few tins in the fridge like, come an' get a night-cap." I should have punched his nose and told him to bugger off, the devil that he was...but then I didn't know that then. He'd been a fine drinking partner and Hell; I could still walk and talk, so another drink would go down just lovely. I pumped his hand vigorously and told him it would be a pleasure to come for a nightcap. Bill...you bloody numpty.
We waved the barman and his troops off, and heard their roars and wailing songs drift off into the night. Jolly's home was just over the road, right enough, and once inside he lit up some cigarettes and appeared with two cans of Guinness from the kitchen.
"Och, man, Guinness? Fuckin' hate that stuff, like. Tastes like cold gravy," I grinned. He started apologising, it was all he had, sorry; and taking a leaf from his book I grabbed his fist and shook his hand fiercely. "Its, cool, man, its cool, I'm jestin' with ye," I assured him, and sank back into the couch, which was a lovely change from the numbing bar stool I'd perched on all night. Jolly laughed and sucked deep on his cigarette, glancing at me sideways.
"Bill, man, saw ye lookin' a bit bummed earlier oan, sittin' at that wee table," he said quietly. His mood had changed suddenly to that of a confidante, a mentor. He rubbed his nose and predictably towed the same line as the barman had. "Problems wi' the missus?"
I fuckin' wish. Truth is there hasn't been a missus to have problems with in years. The only wimmen troubles tormenting Bill Bond is that there are no bloody wimmen, and there never really have been. I took a sup of Guinness and grimaced as the thick oil soured my tongue and slipped down my throat; like black, slimy soap. I laughed at Jolly. "Nah, man, nowt like that. Its ma fuckin' boss at work, he's bein' a bit of a knob." I told Jolly all about the bastard who'd caused my foul mood earlier in the night. I told him how Mr. Fuckin' Fleischmann was threatening to sack me. You see, I was working as a security guard at a department store in town, and the truth is I'd never stopped a single theft: never caught a single thieving imp yet, although I knew all their faces. I watched the CCTV cameras every day, and recognised them coming in, skulking about and helping themselves to deodorants, make-up, sandwiches, juice, whatever they could get their dirty hands on. Then, when I knew for sure that they were going to get away and out of the doors and onto the streets, I'd flash out of my office, red-faced and indignant, full of spunk and wrath and charging to the front doors, only for them to just slip out beyond my reach. Fact is: I'm scared. You never know who's carrying a blade in this God-awful world, or who's capable of what, and I'm not risking myself for the sake of a can of Lynx or a BLT. So I would watch, patiently - shitting myself - and when they'd escaped into the world with their booty, I'd file a report and claim the value of the goods back. This had been my way for years, and nobody bothered to complain, for they cared not a jot either way if the little druggy bastards were caught or not. 'Til Mr. Fleischmann was brought in as the new manager, that is.
On this day, he'd called me into his office and gone ballistic. He had facts and figures and what-have-you, damning me for a joke of a security guard. He never guessed I was just a calculating coward who values my own skin far more than my ludicrous uniform. So now he was threatening me with a P45 and pissing me off no end. Jolly listened to my account quietly (minus the confession of being a coward, mind you) and drank his Guinness. I went through a couple of those dark poisons myself, too. Like drinking a meal; I should've asked for a knife and fork. After I'd ranted for an hour or so, my fury and rage were back, manifold. Aye, there's nothing like a night's hard drinking and a pain-in-the-arse scapegoat to focus your wrath. I cursed Fleischmann for a son-of-a-whore, a father-of-a-shit, a husband-of-a-slut and a damned righteous little cunt, too. I wanted him sacked, I wanted to batter his snide little face in, I wanted to strangle his dog and burn his house, I wanted the bastard dead -
"Dead?" Jolly sat up, and placed his drink carefully on the table. I realised I'd been ranting a fair bit to a chap who, whilst seemingly fine company, I'd only known for a few hours. There was something inquisitive and confident in his voice and his eyes. Hello, I thought. This boy's up to something.
"Aye. I wish. I'd love to kill the bastard...but at the end of the day, he's ma boss...so wotcha-gonna-do, eh?" I smiled, trying to make light of what must have sounded like a pretty demented tirade. I sat back and gulped down more Guinness. Christ, but the stuff was vile. Jolly got up and looked out the window, drew the curtains tightly and closed the door over quietly. Something pinched my stomach, and the feeling you get on a rollercoaster tickled my guts.
"Bill," he said quietly, and his voice contained menace; my balls retracted slowly. "If you want that pain-in-the-arse, son-of-a-whore...such-and-such...dead...I want you to tell me that for a fact right now." His eyes bore into me. They were deep and sunken, glazed by alcohol, and drooping with fatigue, but easily the most intense eyeballs I'd had the misfortune to stumble across. I picked my nose and sucked on my cigarette. I stuck out my chest and squared my shoulders; the peacock displaying his feathers in the face of danger. Jesus, this dude was scaring me. His eyes dropped, thank the Lord, at the sight of me stiffening, and he spoke again. His tone was measured, but his voice faltered. "Bill. Do you want your boss to die?"
This daft wee tube that I'd met in the pub: some kind of hitman? I didn't buy it, and drunken bravery overcame my instincts, which, by the way, were telling me to run. "I'd fucking love him to be dead", I answered, and laughed. Jolly looked relieved. What a nutter...I'd fairly called his bluff though. Dead? Bloody steaming lunatic.
"Yeah? Okay, nice one. Bill, I've actually got a crackin' wee bottle stashed away for...special occasions, you know? Fancy anither wee dram?" he asked, and the friendly bar-fly I'd met in the pub was back. I told him I'd fuckin' love a wee dram, and thanks very much - most kind of you in fact. We drank to good health, to a cracking good night, to Scotland, to the Empire, to Star Wars, to Ewan McGregor (peach of an actor, and Scottish, too, what, get it up them, son!). We drank to Blair, to Bush, to the boys in the armed forces - Jolly's brother was in the RAF - and we drank to the Death of Mr. David Fleischmann. In jest.
This 'crackin' wee bottle' of Jolly's fairly finished me off, and after a few more cigarettes, a couple of nips, a wee listen to the start of 'The Dark Side of The Moon', a look through Jolly's DVDs and a bit of cheese-on-toast, I stumbled out into the night. He'd asked me to sign something before I left; a memento, I believed, to a thumping good night, a new buddy, and a crackin' wee bottle of plonk. I didn't know the dangerous little madman was a murderous, fiendish swine, and if I had...well, I'd have never given him the time of day. Like I said, that hindsight thing...bloody marvellous.
User Reviews
Submitted by loveinbrevity (user info) at 2008-07-21 11:00:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-12 05:29:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I know. I thought I might encourage a spate of poor jokes. Alas...
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 17:48:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Your joke killed your post! 'Bad joke, naughty joke'. *spank spank*
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:55:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Q. What is a Jew's ultimate dilemma?
A. Free pork.
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:43:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
i love that yummy tummy feeling
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:43:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Yummy...best typo ever?
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:43:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Ah...
I actually quite like it when my yummy feels funny.
Just not my tummy.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:37:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I hate it when My Yummy feels odd.
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:32:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No, not floating yet thank God! I don't even have the masts up. I would have shit myself ten times over if the water had been high enough to float us, as it had just the other side of the yard. Makes my yummy feel a bit odd thinking about it.
I must stop thinking about food, I've been on a healthy living kick recently and been spending a lot of time preparing good food and such. I'm at the point where I could quite happily take a kick to the HooHar for a steak burger. With cheese, bacon, onions and mayo. spicy wedgies to boot. Washed down with a pint of Stella Actatwat.
I have no will power. I just booked a table at the pub over the road for tea.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:24:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Well, she can't compete with Nigella for looks, or Ramsey for swearing, or Jamie for campaigning...I think this is her way of trying to be controversial. To be fair, it HAS got people talking about her for the first time since that drunken half-time rant.
That must be some scary shit on the boat, LittleMonster! So you're actually floating about now?
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:16:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
http://www.makeupyourownmind.co.uk/questions/whats-on-the-menu/happy-meals/?q=4101#question10
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:16:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Hurty - Get the sand out your knickers, you'll feel better.
The weather here has been that bad (could have been a lot worse). The wind was nothing like they have been forcasting, though it did take down some masts here and chuck a few bits about. The rain was evil, at least it helped me find where the deck was leaking in to the forecabin. It was the flooding (Spring tide + heavy rain + water) that fucked everything. Yachts floating off cradles and such like. Very wierd being stranded on a boat that is supposed to be on dry land. There is also something quite awful about knowing that if the water hits a cirtain point, your boat will fill with water and sink with everything you own in it because your seacocks are broken. Tense few nights here.
Sod that woman, why would she do that?
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:14:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Great, once we've finished talking about the weather and shitty cooking, shall we talk about our crappy teeth, hooliganism, and the beauty of queuing? I for one can't wait!
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Oooooh scathing! How about you go out for a Happy Meal to cheer yourself up, hmm?
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:10:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Great, once we've finished talking about the weather and shitty cooking, shall we talk about our crappy teeth, hooliganism, and the beauty of queuing? I for one can't wait!
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:06:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
She making cooking program for tasebud challenged?
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She's trying to show that you can make nice dinners by using ready-made ingredients from packets.
But she failed miserably, I feel.
Is the weather all that bad? They won't shut up about it on GMTV, but its been fine here (Glasgow), bit pissy but that's nothing new.
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2008-03-11 11:03:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Entertaining read sir. Ta very much.
Raghrrrr, It's raining again.
What's this about Dotty D? I don't have a TV, so I need up dating. She making cooking program for tasebud challenged?
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:53:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Hurty, you are such a TV snob. Dads Army was dull. DULL DULL DULL. :)
'Allo 'Allo was classic. The gateaux in the chateaux, I mean come on!
FJ - I feel the same way about everything I write. Anyway, I am off. Toot toot everyone :)
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:47:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 14:24:43 GMT (#)
Ranking: 2
Coupling, that Jack Dee one, Hyperdrive, Red Dwarf, Mighty Boosh, all great sitcoms.
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If you mean 'Lead Balloon' it's fucking shit. So is Hyperdrive.
Hands down the greatest sit-com of all time is 'Dad's Army'.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:41:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I've just read over my sitcom script, and I won't be posting it here.
It's awful. No wonder they rejected it.
I thought it was good when I wrote it. I haven't looked at it in about a year. Funny how time can give you that bit of perspective eh.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:30:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh, if you are talking about 'oldies' then yeah, Faulty towers for sure. Black Adder, Only Fools..., the Good Life, Porridge, Open all Hours.
I had a thing about Nurse Gladys and Felicity Kendall, even as a girl. Oh, I am so old.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:27:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Fawlty Towers gets my nod for BEST EVER.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:24:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Coupling, that Jack Dee one, Hyperdrive, Red Dwarf, Mighty Boosh, all great sitcoms.
I don't remember what my point was, sorry.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:16:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:12:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I agree, but some people just need to be shown that creating a not too bad meal from crappy bits is still better than picking up the yellow pages and looking for an Indian.
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Sorry but I'd rather eat McDonalds or s chippy than tinned mince. At least that way you're being honest about eating shit.
Did you hear what she said about the tinned mince last night? She looked at the back and mused "75% meat...but the proof is in the taste."
What's in the other 25% exactly? Hooves, lips and chemicals.
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Hmmm Yummy 25% 'Unknown' Ingredient. Just makes ya want to run out and get some doesnt it. I have never tasted Tinned Mince and hope that I go to my grave having never tasted it.
Hurty- Right Ibrox, thanks for that. *Blow Job Yay* I will make sure I never go there.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:12:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I agree, but some people just need to be shown that creating a not too bad meal from crappy bits is still better than picking up the yellow pages and looking for an Indian.
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Sorry but I'd rather eat McDonalds or s chippy than tinned mince. At least that way you're being honest about eating shit.
Did you hear what she said about the tinned mince last night? She looked at the back and mused "75% meat...but the proof is in the taste."
What's in the other 25% exactly? Hooves, lips and chemicals.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:11:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 14:03:38 GMT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wasnt the point I was making Hurty me old chum.
Just saying that not everyone shares your exact views and that there is, quite possibly, a Scotman who would. I know I could find one pretty quickly. Find a Scots bum on the streets wave a bottle of Buckies wine in front of his eyes and say ' You can only have it if you toast Bush'. Sure it wouldnt take me too long and he could go off and tell his mates that some strange English Cretin gave a bottle of grog just for toasting Vaginal hair.
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Haha, fair enough, but bribing tramps is a bit low. To be fair though, walk anywhere around Ibrox in Glasgow and you're guaranteed to find someone who would happily suck you off just to be given the chance to toast Blair, Bush, The Queen etc.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:08:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:06:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh Drogo, you see the good in everything but opening a tin and slapping on the frozen tatties isn't cooking. I have some lamb cooking in the slow cooker now as we speak, took me 10 minutes this morning to do the veg, by time swim club is done tonight,it will be ready. No excuse not to eat proper food.
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I agree, but some people just need to be shown that creating a not too bad meal from crappy bits is still better than picking up the yellow pages and looking for an Indian.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:06:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:03:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
F.J Fancies Orphy la la la la laaa laa
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Who doesn't?
My Family is terrible. Have you ever seen Tittybangbang? I can't believe they make programs that bad.
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Good point.
I have only seen little bits of Tittybangbang, and they havent looked good.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:06:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh Drogo, you see the good in everything but opening a tin and slapping on the frozen tatties isn't cooking. I have some lamb cooking in the slow cooker now as we speak, took me 10 minutes this morning to do the veg, by time swim club is done tonight,it will be ready. No excuse not to eat proper food.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:03:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:57:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Apparently Delia Smith has fucking lost the plot, not that she ever really had it to begin with.
Drogo, can you honestly tell me you'd be comfortable drinking a toast to Bush? Christ.
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Wasnt the point I was making Hurty me old chum.
Just saying that not everyone shares your exact views and that there is, quite possibly, a Scotman who would. I know I could find one pretty quickly. Find a Scots bum on the streets wave a bottle of Buckies wine in front of his eyes and say ' You can only have it if you toast Bush'. Sure it wouldnt take me too long and he could go off and tell his mates that some strange English Cretin gave a bottle of grog just for toasting Vaginal hair.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:03:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
F.J Fancies Orphy la la la la laaa laa
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Who doesn't?
My Family is terrible. Have you ever seen Tittybangbang? I can't believe they make programs that bad.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:02:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Hurty, I have seen her on telly at the football matches, she is absolutely without marbles that one.
Anyway, I like nigella more, her food is scrummy. And I like to watch her boobies and little belly wobble as she fellates her fingers...
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 10:00:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
F.J Fancies Orphy la la la la laaa laa. hehehehehe
I have a sitcom Idea, but it sucks and isnt very funny, maybe the BBC would make it afterall. I mean they make My Family. hmmm?
I watche Delia last night. Awful, just awful! But there is a part of me that says 'Maybe, just maybe it will encourage some useless twats who refuse to cook anything using the excuse !I dont have Time" to actually cook for their families more often. It doesnt take long.
If you get them using this way first then you show them that actually peeling and mashing your own potato only takes a few minutes......? You never know.
Less of the shite about football would have been nice too.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:59:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh, she is absolutely dippy when talking about beloved NorwichFC.
Urgh, tinned mince and frozen potato slices? Hardly worth doing it, may was well buy an Aunt Bessies. When she told the nation how to boil an egg, I thought she had lost it, but really, this is lunacy!! What next, fishfinger sandwiches?
PS You have to re-draft those things a zillion times, even then, you likely face rejection, and a lot of red biro.
Anyway, Maury calls...
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:57:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Apparently Delia Smith has fucking lost the plot, not that she ever really had it to begin with.
Drogo, can you honestly tell me you'd be comfortable drinking a toast to Bush? Christ.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:54:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Its not student-based like Skins or Hollyoaks...its quite Office-esque I think, based on tutorials.
I am really bad for editing. i write something out and sent it off to whatever competition/publisher and then forget about it, when what I really need to do is re-draft time and again.
She didn't use Smash, but it was frozen potato discs instead. They looked horrendous. Her shepherd's pie consisted of:
Mince (1 tin - yes, TIN!)
Potato (in frozen disc form)
Cheese (ready-grated)
Then she ran about Norwich Football Club, talking to players and making an utter arse out of herself.
Can't wait for your poetry posts!
Submitted by czwij (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:49:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
damned hard to read.
ifn ya read up to the second last paragraph, i thot Bill was gonne get ass raped by Jolly.
i guess im a homophobe.
oh, well. drink some beers and shoot some queers.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:48:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Ahahaha, it is about students is it? Let's just say, I took a wild guess.
I don't think I have seen any scripts on here but I can't see why it wouldn't work. Unless it was crap, but I am sure it is not. :) It is very different though, so I think it will be an interesting change.
Haha, do you know, they are really fussy about stuff that is sent in. I hear if it isn't formatted correctly or even the right size text etc, they won't even read it! You shouldn't have gave up so easily...
On your advice, I have completed my first post on English poets and will put it p when I can be bothered to type it out. That will go down like a ton of shit on here, but I enjoyed doing it. Still, i will probably submit it on my other account :)
OMG! I saw delia advertised on the TV planner, something about her using INSTANT POTATO in recipes?! *dies* And, in between the demonstrations, you get to see more about her personal life??
I so badly wanted to watch her - did she use Smash, did she? - but i was forced to watch Corrie. :(
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:46:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it and would be interested in reading more. I agree with the comments re the speaking, just tell me where they are from and I will put a regional spin on it in my mind as I read it but then not everyone does this.
Diregard Hurty and his comment re Bush. He doesnt understand that not everyone from Scotland necessarily has exactly the same views as he does.
Right thats me done.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:29:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I wasn't too upset. Apparently they get thousands of scripts and you're lucky if a work-experience girl blows her nose on them.
I might post it here - although I don't know how well it would be received. I don't think I've seen any scripts on uber before?
It is about students actually. HOW COULD YOU KNOW THAT? Freaky. I wrote it whilst I was at Uni and its based on a few observations I made...
On an entirely unrelated note, did you watch Delia Smith last night? It was scandalous!
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:20:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Tee hee that is some snub. And you a licence payer, too. You should have demanded a response!
Sitcoms on the BBC tend to be rather good. I can think of loads they have on I love. You should post your script on Uber. (Like that would be any consolation).
What was the 'situation' anyway? It wasn't about students, was it?
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:10:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Did you win the script writing competition, btw?
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Sadly, no. I wrote a pilot episode for a sitcom and sent it to the BBC but they returned it without any feedback. Cheeky buggers.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 09:02:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Did you win the script writing competition, btw?
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 08:21:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Also, I find dialogue very hard - in these situations, it is tough making it believable.
Still, knocks the socks off most other posts recently. A solid +2 :)
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-03-11 08:19:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow, that took some reading!
I agree with Hurty, to an extent. There were too many colloquialisms for my liking and as a rule, I personally do not like reading strong accents - I find it spoils the flow.
It was still very interesting and held my attention and I would be very interested in reading some more.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 07:50:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Also, while I can appreciate drinking to the 'boys in the Armed Forces', the idea that any Scot would drink Bush's health is fucking repellent.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-03-11 07:48:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I think you've set the scene pretty well, it kept my interest and what not. My main problem with it is that at first I thought the guy was English, then Scottish and then you threw some Irish in there as well as a few American-isms. For me, at least, the voice is all over the place.