Posts filed under 'Bedtime stories'
If you are under the age of five, live in the South Wales area and you are in need of some financial security then you may want to pay a visit to Trailwing Infant School. A profiteering group of young children have started up their own bank using sand as currency to the rest of the playground in an attempt to try and balance the economy.
“It was touch and go for a while,” advised Head Teacher Lucious Lush, “there was no stability at all. Most of the children were coming to school with rocks or twigs rather than toys. Nobody was trading; they would all sit and stare at trees, looking for a better future. Then two kids, Yorick and Taffy, decided that enough was enough and they set up what is now the main office of ‘Doodlebugs Plc’.”
Doodblebugs has been running for six months now. On average they are exchanging up to seven tonnes of sand every day, with a competative set of rates and exclusive accounting extras. They employ up to six staff now, with nap time and milking privileges as standard.
“There’s been a complete change since Doodlebugs started. It’s so effective that I myself have my very own bank account. I’m just so glad that someone came in to help out as we were really struggling.”
The managing directors of the bank were unavailable for comment although it has been mentioned that the bank has become so successful that a second and third branch are expected by the end of year, located next to the climbing frame and over by the pond respectively.
September 27th, 2010
I am part of some sort of collection, whether they’re actors, singers or dancers I’m not quite sure. All I know is that for some reason I’m doing whatever it is they do and they all really like and admire me for it, especially the women who all seem to be famous yet I can’t quite put my finger on it.
As we are finishing a performance one of the girls, probably dark hair and a cute face, asks me if I want to go out for drinks and I say yes. I think I do but the dream cuts it out. I’m then on a tour bus with all the others when I get a call from ex-X Factor and solo singer Diana Vickers who tells me that she really admires my work and wants to go out sometime.
I meet her in a nice restaurant somewhere. She is as pretty in the dream as she is in real life however my attention is drawn to her arms and hands which have several cuts and abrasions as though she has been harming herself. I don’t know what to think and I wake up.
What does it all mean?!?
September 16th, 2010
It would appear that under increasing strain in every day life, including rises in gas and electric, the struggle to reduce carbon emissions and a grim prospect of the coalition government trying to ensure the country recovers from the billions of debt by making sacrifices, people are unable to keep control of their finances. In a radical move though helplines and websites that offer advice to those who are unable to make ends meet have been telling their callers to listen to pop music.
“We get on average ten to fifteen hundred calls a day and that’s a lot of phones to answer,” says volunteer Jeff Noodle, “so it’s only fair that we filter those numbers down by providing alternate means. There are a lot of songs out there that quite frankly could end helplines like these. They tell you what you should be doing with a bit of sass and a catchy chorus. Who can argue with that?”
Top of the list of these songs is ‘Moneys Too Tight To Mention’ by Simply Red, closely followed by Shania Twain’s ‘Ker-Ching’.
“You wouldn’t believe the feedback we get from people once they’ve had a spin of Simply Red. They’re all smiles and laughter then. I don’t know what it is but it works and that’s fine by me.”
Sometimes the system doesn’t work however following the recent report of Charles Edmonds who half heard what the advisor told him and listened to ‘The Right Thing’ by Simply Red instead. Mr Edmonds is due to attend Leeds Crown Court on 29th October for lewd public acts and indecent exposure.
September 7th, 2010
I thought my subconscious had returned to normal but clearly it hasn’t. Luckily this was a lot shorter than the previous ones.
I’m in my old bedroom, as in the one back at my mum’s house and I must be something like twelve or thirteen. As I sit on my bed covering the wall directly in front of me is a large collection of plastic drawers and in each drawer are things like pens and stationary items. I look through each one diligently and to my surprise all the ones on the far right have hamsters in.
I shut the drawers quickly to make sure they don’t escape however I’m not quick enough. Hamsters seem to pour out of nowhere and go underneath my bed. I’m worried I’ll squish them so I move out of the way towards the window. It’s get a little too much and I weep openly and I’m pretty sure I ask for someone’s help but whoever is in the room with me offers some useless words of advice and carries on reading their magazine.
So I stand there not knowing what to do, feeling as though I’ve let my hamsters down.
What does it mean?!?
September 1st, 2010
Germany is not known for its love of cider. In fact, you are more likely to come across a dog with three legs rather than a pub or bar selling cider inside. Of course the country is known for beer and wine, so why would you go out of your way to try and find a drink that hasn’t been embraced? When you drink it most nights, that’s when.
Bruno prefers cider to most other drinks. We did our very best to try and find some. We checked online at the nearby bars to see if they had it listed as a beveridge. We looked in supermarkets. It would appear that despite having a word for cider, ‘viez’, it doesn’t get used often. We went into a restaurant half a mile away and asked for a viez only to be greeted by confused looks by the staff. Bruno then using the international sign language for ‘apples’, ‘fermenting’ and ‘the internet’ tried to explain our endeavours. One of the bar staff went away and came back with a very dusty bottle which looked as though it had languished on some shelf for a couple of years. This was apfelwine, a sort of apple liquor / wine that was as popular as a slap across the chops. We made our excuses and left quickly.
In the end, with some of Siobhan’s family travelling across Europe by car, they opted to asking them to stop off at a Tesco before leaving the UK to pick up a crate of Strongbow. Ironically by the time they arrived Bruno had gotten so drunk on vodka the previous night that he couldn’t even bear to eat let alone crack open a couple of cans. They remained practically untouched until I left.
Germany 2, Bruno 0
August 10th, 2010
Our plane got into Frankfurt Hahn at 2pm on Wednesday morning. We picked up some shopping, including some very cheap Jagermeister (bad spelling) from a supermarket called Toom, and headed back. I then proceeded to drink a third of the bottle and woke up on Thursday feeling the burn.
Later on after a day of physical activites which I mostly sat out for we went for a drink in one of the bars down the road. Where we were staying was in the bottom of this valley surrounded by many stunning views. We were dropped off at this grand-looking place over the river and went inside. Germany unfortunately has not really heard of cider much so Siobhan’s brother Bruno found it very hard trying to locate any with no concept of the language and their unwillingness to understand what “fermenting apples” really means. That’s another story.
We sit down with some drinks and Bruno heads to the toilet. He returns a few minutes later.
“I tell you what, they have some weird things here. I couldn’t find the toilets but eventually I came across them.”
“Did you know which ones to go in?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” says Bruno.
“Well, did you know which was male and which was female?” asks Siobhan.
“I think so.”
“Did they have any urinals in the toilets?”
“Erm… no. Look I went in the one that had ‘Damon’ on the door.”
“Damon means women you idiot!” laughs Siobhan.
“I went in that one because it was a guy’s name, I thought it would have to be the gents!”
Germany 1, Bruno 0
August 9th, 2010
So it began around the turn of the century when that hidden, underground factory in Doncaster started churning out fabricated women that looked real but really they weren’t. They were pretty much all identical as well. You must have seen them for they were many: Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Mandy Moore, Jessica Simpson etc, collectively known as “zombie blondes”. They played their part well and made millions for the South Yorkshire region. But what next for women?
Then came the phenomena that was known as the “piano bints” wherein another rival factory, wanting a cut of the profits, decided to try and muscle in on Doncaster’s territory. They chose the perfect time to strike as the zombie blondes were failing in the charts; nobody wanted them anymore expect for fake nudie shots on the internet. So strode forth the “piano bints”: Delta Goodrem, Lucie Silvas and Vanessa Carlton. Unfortunately they didn’t have the staying power of the zombie blondes. Sure they could play their own instruments but it didn’t matter, they couldn’t keep up. The “piano bints” died out shortly afterwards.
So strode forth another generation of musical women, but what ho, where could they go now? They needed a gimmick, another reason to stand out in-between where Katherine Jenkins belted out the tat and Dolly Parton hollered the classics. Bring forth the kooky women: Florence and the Machine, Marina and the Diamonds, Paloma Faith. They swoosh. They swirl. They sing in high voices and then don’t. It doesn’t matter that Kate Bush did it better and thirty years previous because look at the record sales!
The whereabouts of the factory that produced the kookies is still unknown but let it be known that once we do locate it, well, that would be telling…
August 3rd, 2010
I am getting very worried about my present state of mind…
It’s mid-afternoon and I’m going to a party with a friend (no idea who it was). This wasn’t just any party though it was a party being held by tiny guitar genius Prince. It is being held in a huge hall however on the inside it’s not very grandiose; instead it retains the look of a simple working men’s club with aisles of seats, various rooms and a bar on the side. I pull up to the bar for a drink and for some reason there is a rumour spread that you can’t stay at the party unless Prince’s personal physician has checked you out to make sure you’re not ill and won’t pass any illnesses onto him. This seems very strange but my reasoning is that, “this is Prince, not just anyone. I’ll take a quick once over from a quack for an all night drinking sesh.” Something along those loins, lines, lions, lines.
People keep going into a room at the back with a nurse and coming out smiling. I get the impression I’m missing out on something. The strange thing is that we’ve hardly seen Prince at all other than a man, who could have been Prince, standing at the far end of the room on his mobile dressed in a purple suit. Everyone seems to go in before I do and I’m getting pretty nervous as people are starting to leave. I get tapped on the shoulder by a nurse who leads me into a tiny room filled with stacks of chairs and a man in a white coat.
I lie down, he checks me over and does a few initial inspections; no problems. Then he puts some sort of machine over me and examines my inside, which are relatively fine, except for some gunk here and there. The doctor uses a gauze and what looks like a cloth to clean my ribs at the back. It tickles a little. I get no attention whatsoever from any of the nurses, as a few more have appeared since I arrived.
The doctor pats me on the back and tells me everything is fine. I leave the room too with a smile on my face but something doesn’t feel right. Looking down underneath my t-shirt there is a line of huge, awful, bloody vertical stitches stretching from my chest down to my pelvis. Then I wake up.
July 20th, 2010
So I’m waiting in one of the business parks in Newcastle. It’s a pretty dark evening or it could be early in the morning, there’s light about. A car pulls up and there’s a woman driving with a man around my age sitting in the back. I get in the front. We’re going somewhere but they won’t tell me where it is and for some reason I’m not that bothered.
We get onto a backwards country road and after a couple of miles our way is blocked by reams and reams of thorns and vines. I get out with the guy and we try to hack our way through, the woman remains in the car at the wheel. We cut as best we can and at the top of a hill I see a double decker bus coming at about 80mph hurtling towards us. The woman reverses the car somewhere safe. I climb into a tree but the tree isn’t high enough to take me out of the way of the bus.
I cling there waiting for the inevitable and just as the bus makes contact I wake up.
What does it all mean?
July 17th, 2010
I was attending Siobhan’s birthday party this Saturday just gone. It was going pretty well until this happened:
It would appear that the camera, after taking semi-reasonable photos of me all day, decided that it didn’t want to do that anymore and that turning me into a weird monster was the way forward. I was too distracted by the music and my memory in its current state cannot remember the “point of ming” whereby I turned from being me into Captain No Face Many Chins.
Needless to say I shall do my very best to ensure that this never happens again.
July 13th, 2010
Next Posts
Previous Posts
