Slut-Dropping in the USA

I am the master of the slut drop.

This is not one of those X Factor “I can sing and I’m going to show the world just how good I am only to fail miserably as it turns out I’m not very good at singing in the slightest and I’ve just shown sixty million people how stupid I am” moments. This is one of those “I am so good” moments.

For those who are not in the know, a slut drop, as defined by the urban dictionary, is, “a move in “dirty dancing” involving standing with legs bending the knees, squatting until the buttocks almost reach the floor and standing back up with a body roll.” I have unwittingly been doing this most of my modern life and it wasn’t until recently that I learned that it was an actual thing with an actual name. It’s a little like Stop, Drop and Roll but with less roll.

Having conquered the world of fixing washing machines (erm…), it was only a matter of time before I moved on to the next thing. It had occurred to me that the list of things I am excellent at is so vast I wasn’t sure how I was going to narrow it down. Whatever I needed to do to work it out, it was certainly going to be an all-nighter. And just so you know, it’s very difficult being this accomplished because it opens you up to an awful lot of criticism and jealousy.

So, what does one do when one possesses talents such as these? Sit on them and hope to get famous anyway? Hide in a cupboard? No. I have to take this out on the road and head direct to the heart of the action. The World Slut Drop Championships are held in Kansas City, Missouri each year. Without a shadow of a doubt I am convinced that I can win it. So, with the financial help of the beans massive, I will be flying out in the next couple of weeks to face the creme de la creme of the slut-dropping community.

Can I beat Sophie ‘Um Chuka Chuka’ Candice? Will I be able to defeat the two times winner Bish Bush Cacklewonker? Will I have the strength to take on the Qwindle Twins?

With your money in my pocket, I’m sure I will.

The Timps Chea Party

It was a small gathering, but it was enough to garner interest from the highest rungs of society’s ladder. That was always the case for the Timps Chea (pronounced “Chi”) Party.

Bolderville sniffed at the contents of his cup and scoffed; a little noise emanating from the back of his throat, “Is this what counts as an acceptable blend these days?” Emmental peered up from the book she was sifting through, mid-sip of her own drink, and shot a daring, lacklustre look in his direction. This was not the first time Bolderville had interrupted her book, her story, her line of thought. His opinions could be heard from the other side of the room, even through the most heated of debates. Once something upset his tastebuds, or his stomach, he was first to announce it and always at the top of his voice.

“If you don’t want it you are more than welcome to try to find something more to your tastes in the back of Nanny’s cupboard. I think she still has some Oakenfold Harbinger from her trips to the Ivory Coast. It goes remarkably well with civilised company,” she quipped, hoping to dismount his verbal attack before he even had a chance to regroup his efforts. Bolderville didn’t even bother to acknowledge her remark; he was too preoccupied with the flavour rolling around his mouth. Usually he had ripped the drink to pieces by now.

Could it be that he had changed his mind and the chea was growing on him?

“I’ve tasted better down the crack of even the most slimiest, more repugnant shops in the sweatiest districts of Backgammon. In fact, the last time I threw up I’m almost entirely sure it had the texture of this!” That was more like him. Those were the words of a blunderbuss, a person botherer, an unpleasant, parsnip-twitching, egotistical hammock of a man.

Emmental sighed. Her own chea, a blend she had cultivated herself after long afternoons in the portland stiles, was as light and bewitching as the eyes of the black kitten Nanny had given her just the other day for her twilight birthday. Between the two of them they had enchanted just about every member of the Tripod Dynasty, even burned out Haggard McPondPoodle. The chea reflected her personality. It gave good lips and a savage grace. There was no point wasting any on Bolderville though; he would not understand the subtle nuances, and fake a gagging noise to attract attention from the clot of Susan beasts in the courtyard.

No, today was her book and her chea. Let him with his he and his ho waddle in the puddle of his own discontent. Let him dampen the air with foul language and disharmony. Crash away, my good man, Emmental thought, for you have no business here.

Only one problem but remained; nobody knew what a Timp was.

Spread the Word

From the recent statistical analysis, and customer satisfaction questionnaire, carried out earlier on this year it is quite clear that the average number of visitors to the Beans on a weekly basis has reached it’s highest numbers since the ‘zorse years’. It is estimated that approximately six people, including Kev, come to read and sometimes share their thoughts with the Beans collective. Now I’ve never been known to shunt a positive acumen up the ajax but with winter fast approaching and nobody having suggested any zany ideas for a while I feel we need to double or possibly triple those numbers in order to justify the size of Chris’ dance studio and Kevin’s virtual poodle bar.

Having briefly glanced through a list of possible ideas with which to boost the visitors to the site, it has been decided that I should venture forth to the small village of Ivalo in Finland in the hope to gaining their sponsorship and their patronage.

Ivalo is a village in dense region of Inari, Lapland. It currently has a population of just less than four thousand and, as of 2003, includes the benefit of a small airport. It is this very airport I am hoping to fly to in order to encourage the mayor of Ivalo to seal a deal in a wigwam and have hundreds of Finnish tourists knock knock knocking at the doors of the Beans. All I will need is a small contribution from the kitty and I’ll be on my way.

I’ll meet you in the first class lounge on C deck.

Trekkin’ Abroad: Futuristic Edition

Tomorrow morning I set sail for Greece. But what do we know of this far-off land of mystery? Until recently, perhaps only that everyone there was a god and they eat a lot of yogurt. But now it’s all over the news. Just look at some of these recent headlines:

Greece Is In A Right Old State (The Telegraph, 28 June 2015)
No Money Left In Greece At All (The Mirror, 30 June 2015)
Official Greek Currency Now Yogurt (Financial Times, 2 July 2015)

With this in mind, I have taken the latest Foreign Office advice and will be taking all the money I will need in the form of cold, hard cash, in a range of denominations and currencies. In the event that the Euro is scrapped and Greece returns to the Drachma, I have spent several evenings drawing my own Drachma notes and will be taking those with me. I am also taking a considerable amount of yogurt in the hopes that I can use it to barter for basic goods and services.

I’m not sure whether this approach will be enough to see me through a holiday or even if I will actually survive the trip, but I will attempt to keep you updated when I return as to whether I am still alive or whether I have been confiscated by the Bank of Greece as a hostage due to the deteriorating state of negotiations with the European Union.

The Trip Home

Last weekend was mostly spent discovering how difficult it is to be a rapper. Not only in spirit but also in words, and that whilst I may be adept at sweating lyrics I’m not particularly great at spitting them. In any case eventful as the Saturday and Sunday were they could not prepare me for what was about to happen on the train ride home.

Kevin was selfish enough to leave the train at York to go home and see his wife, or whatever. What was I supposed to do for the next hour and a half until I reached Newcastle? Luckily we had clocked an acquaintance of mine in the other carriage, Tony, and thus once Kevin had departed I moved down the train to sit with Tony and his friend Tony. Their other friend, Tony, had unfortunately had a few too many drinks before getting on so when he tried to leave and piss on the platform it took Tony, Tony and Tony to restrain him and drag him back to his seat.

Tony meanwhile regaled me of their antics over the weekend, which mainly consisted of football, sausage rolls and soiled pants. Tony couldn’t help himself and bellowed down to his counterpart, Tony, who had sat in the wrong seats, and ridiculed him openly much to the bemusement of the other passengers. Tony had passed out, which was for the best. It also meant that Tony and Tony could join myself and Tony for a few drinks of our own.

It didn’t take long before Tony was waxing lyrical about all manner of subjects. It reminded me how lucky I was to know these people who were so generous and kind and lived a rich and wonderful life. One only had to gaze upon the cheery faces of the rest of the carriage to know that I had made the right decision to move into the group and join in with the camaraderie.

Newcastle station came all too soon and it wasn’t long before Tony and Tony climbed into the back of Tony’s car and all four of them left into the darkest night. Tony helped Tony into a taxi leaving Tony to wait for his wife to pick him up.

I only wish every journey could be as memorable as this.

Trekkin’ Abroad – France (Part 4)

Having discovered a secret tunnel under the sea, I passed quietly across the border into France undetected, arriving in their capital city, “Paris”, in the early afternoon. I took an apartment in the 16th arrondissement and started my new life cycling around parks and examining museums for clues. Nothing. Then one day, in the lift, someone else rode all the way up to the 8th floor with me. An enemy agent? One of their informers? I couldn’t be sure.

I packed my bags and left early the next morning, covering my trail with stories of a poorly relative in Geneva. It was a bittersweet departure; my apartment had the finest coffee machine I’ve experienced in recent years and I couldn’t fit it into my suitcase. I will remember it always.

I took a train somewhere, anywhere, ending up in the far west of the country where I spent the last two weeks hiding in a barn before negotiating my return to Plymouth on a fishing smack, hidden under a pile of nets and fish.

I’m never leaving England again. I am a scarred man. I still smell a bit like fish. So much for France.

Pouring
Beans

Category: Foreign