I walk into the room, a smug look glued onto my face. I have just come from 'looking after' Sir Bruce, who is still recovering from the... incident. I turn on the computer, and start typing.
"I went into an art shop the other day, to buy a new fountain pen and some ink cartridges. The shop itself was a little shabby, I thought, but that's just me because I normally shop at that place just down the road from Death's place, next to the postbox of decaying tissue. Unfortunately, there was an incident to do with some tentacles, an inflatable chair, and a pair of Gucci shoes, which left the shop owner a little reluctant to let me in... But no matter, I thought to myself at the time, surely these normal people have no use for pens, so they will be quite cheap. This was half true, because I knew that the Sir had bought a pack of 50 biros from a convenience store for a pound only the week before. Well, tried to buy. Unfortunately, he hasn't quite grasped the whole thing about 'currency', and he'd just finished reading Shakespeare's 'The Merchant of Venice'. The manager fainted when he dumped a pound of human flesh onto the counter with a knowing smile. I got him out of there so fast, the wheels on his chair left burning trails on the concrete floor.
I'm sure I'd still be allowed in, but no matter how cheap the pens are there, I prefer to buy my supplies from proper places, where they have proper stock. Anyway, I walked in to this shop, saw the discount price tag, and walked right back out. £200?! For a pen? I mean, what's the big difference between those and the ones Sir attempted to get?"
I lean back in the hot pink leopard print swivel chair I bought earlier - As long as he can't argue, I'm going to take advantage of Sir Bruce's condition as much as possible. And his wallet. She thinks for a while, then starts typing once more.
"Colour. The pens in the shop which cost so much were all coloured [or silver]. Not like the little grey ones at the convenience store. There were pink and green stripy ones, blue ones with red circles on them, and purple ones with rings of black. All patterned and coloured.... This has given me an idea, so I will have to take my leave to go to a... different convenience store to get some pens and coloured markers. *pause* Make that felt pens. They're cheaper."
Friday, 7 November 2008
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
Vodbog: Old Ladies
I sneak into the computer room, hiding under the invisibility cloak I ‘borrowed’ from Harry Potter. The computer is already on, so I brush the pins off the cushioned seat, and sit down. I quickly switch the keyboard with one of my own, and start typing.
“Currently being on my holiday in Brittany, I have come to see that old ladies in Britain are very, very different from old ladies in France. For one thing, I’m not at all scared of the little pensioners who fall about in the care homes in Britain, sucking their dentures back into place every five minutes or so. I’ve always joked about them having bricks in their handbags, along with their sticky toffees, but over here they carry anvils!
Everyone thinks that old people in general are annoying to have on your roads, if not dangerous. We all complain about how they trundle along the outer lanes of the M4, shitting their pants at 12mph, causing several crashes a year because everyone wants to kill them for blocking up the road when they really need the loo - but seriously, you don’t know how safe you are around them until you’ve driven along some dark country lanes in France, being very much aware that a ninety seven year old woman with a sour face and a Ford Focus is trying her best to make sure you pay for keeping her down to 180km/h, by ramming the bumper of her car right up your arse. And she’s cackling. There is no French phrase for Personal Space.
I’ve always thought it nice that they say to everyone not native to France to have a ‘Bonne Voyage’. I used to enjoy the knowledge that the old women aren’t that bad, even if they drive like cows on steroids - although I’ve always wondered why they say it even to the people who have moved in permanently for their retirement.
No more. I’ve worked it out, and I don’t like the answer. They’re telling us to have a good journey, because where we’re going, there will be no more good times. All foreigners, whether they know it or not, whether they have been good Christians or have been going to scouts since the day they were three, are on their way to hell.
I’ve been scared half way there already. I spent most of yesterday hiding in the boot of a car, terrified beyond the common use of the word. I was just wondering innocently down the street, when I saw in the distance, a small shape that looked to me like fury in human form. I gave a panicked look around, trying to find a place to hide. Had it seen me? It was just me and the kind Sir. At first, I hid behind him, but as the old woman neared, he stopped laughing at me, and we both searched desperately for the nearest object that could withstand her hot stare. There wasn’t one, so we had to make do with the boot of a Citroën AX. It was tiny, but we managed to get in when Sir sucked all of the groceries into the black hole he’d taken to carrying around in his pocket since that incident with the horse and the ten foot pole.
What happened next was one of the most petrifying things I’ve ever had to go through - and that’s saying something, because I’ve been sat on by a pig with rabies. The woman stopped right outside the back of the car, and had a little chat with another from her coven, while Bruce and I quietly wetted ourselves. Finally, the talk came to an end, and the second old lady stalked off to find some new prey. Meanwhile, the first one walked up to the driver’s door of the AX and got inside! I cried. She drove all the way to Cannes before stopping. Over the two hours it took to get there from Pontivy, the piss got company many times as she slammed on the breaks whenever she was stopped by a police man. Strangely, she never had to show the men her licence, let alone get fined. They’d come up to the car, see who it was in the driving seat, then run away screaming that they were going to have a nice holiday somewhere very far away. Like Barbados. Or the North Pole. Or maybe even the afterlife.
Eventually, we got there and she stopped the car. I almost laughed with relief, but then she began to walk, excruciatingly slowly towards the boot. Oh god, I thought, she’s come to get the groceries! As soon as she opened the boot, Bruce and I were away almost as quickly as she had driven to get there! The policemen might like some companions, we reasoned. We half expected a click of her fingers to crush every bone in our bodies while turning us inside out and simultaneously burning our eyeballs to crisps inside our heads. But that didn’t happen, thank Bruce Almighty. She gave us a look that could have melted a six by six metre block of tank armour in less than five seconds as we sped away, then a loud pop brought her shopping back from beyond and she took it inside, mumbling about black candles and cinnamon sticks.
There is no doubt in my mind that Granny Weatherwax was French. None at all.”
I hear an echo of the squealing breaks in my mind, and quickly pack up my things and leave the room. It didn’t have enough exits to be safe, and the walls were only fourteen inches thick. After what happened to the Sir [Hit and run incident. No one knows who it was, but he swears it was a Citroën] , I’d rather not be in a place where the walls will hurt so much when they melt.
“Currently being on my holiday in Brittany, I have come to see that old ladies in Britain are very, very different from old ladies in France. For one thing, I’m not at all scared of the little pensioners who fall about in the care homes in Britain, sucking their dentures back into place every five minutes or so. I’ve always joked about them having bricks in their handbags, along with their sticky toffees, but over here they carry anvils!
Everyone thinks that old people in general are annoying to have on your roads, if not dangerous. We all complain about how they trundle along the outer lanes of the M4, shitting their pants at 12mph, causing several crashes a year because everyone wants to kill them for blocking up the road when they really need the loo - but seriously, you don’t know how safe you are around them until you’ve driven along some dark country lanes in France, being very much aware that a ninety seven year old woman with a sour face and a Ford Focus is trying her best to make sure you pay for keeping her down to 180km/h, by ramming the bumper of her car right up your arse. And she’s cackling. There is no French phrase for Personal Space.
I’ve always thought it nice that they say to everyone not native to France to have a ‘Bonne Voyage’. I used to enjoy the knowledge that the old women aren’t that bad, even if they drive like cows on steroids - although I’ve always wondered why they say it even to the people who have moved in permanently for their retirement.
No more. I’ve worked it out, and I don’t like the answer. They’re telling us to have a good journey, because where we’re going, there will be no more good times. All foreigners, whether they know it or not, whether they have been good Christians or have been going to scouts since the day they were three, are on their way to hell.
I’ve been scared half way there already. I spent most of yesterday hiding in the boot of a car, terrified beyond the common use of the word. I was just wondering innocently down the street, when I saw in the distance, a small shape that looked to me like fury in human form. I gave a panicked look around, trying to find a place to hide. Had it seen me? It was just me and the kind Sir. At first, I hid behind him, but as the old woman neared, he stopped laughing at me, and we both searched desperately for the nearest object that could withstand her hot stare. There wasn’t one, so we had to make do with the boot of a Citroën AX. It was tiny, but we managed to get in when Sir sucked all of the groceries into the black hole he’d taken to carrying around in his pocket since that incident with the horse and the ten foot pole.
What happened next was one of the most petrifying things I’ve ever had to go through - and that’s saying something, because I’ve been sat on by a pig with rabies. The woman stopped right outside the back of the car, and had a little chat with another from her coven, while Bruce and I quietly wetted ourselves. Finally, the talk came to an end, and the second old lady stalked off to find some new prey. Meanwhile, the first one walked up to the driver’s door of the AX and got inside! I cried. She drove all the way to Cannes before stopping. Over the two hours it took to get there from Pontivy, the piss got company many times as she slammed on the breaks whenever she was stopped by a police man. Strangely, she never had to show the men her licence, let alone get fined. They’d come up to the car, see who it was in the driving seat, then run away screaming that they were going to have a nice holiday somewhere very far away. Like Barbados. Or the North Pole. Or maybe even the afterlife.
Eventually, we got there and she stopped the car. I almost laughed with relief, but then she began to walk, excruciatingly slowly towards the boot. Oh god, I thought, she’s come to get the groceries! As soon as she opened the boot, Bruce and I were away almost as quickly as she had driven to get there! The policemen might like some companions, we reasoned. We half expected a click of her fingers to crush every bone in our bodies while turning us inside out and simultaneously burning our eyeballs to crisps inside our heads. But that didn’t happen, thank Bruce Almighty. She gave us a look that could have melted a six by six metre block of tank armour in less than five seconds as we sped away, then a loud pop brought her shopping back from beyond and she took it inside, mumbling about black candles and cinnamon sticks.
There is no doubt in my mind that Granny Weatherwax was French. None at all.”
I hear an echo of the squealing breaks in my mind, and quickly pack up my things and leave the room. It didn’t have enough exits to be safe, and the walls were only fourteen inches thick. After what happened to the Sir [Hit and run incident. No one knows who it was, but he swears it was a Citroën] , I’d rather not be in a place where the walls will hurt so much when they melt.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Vodbog Replaces...
Vodbog walks steadily and coolly into the room, trips, corrects herself, then continues towards the computer. With a grin that could shave off an iron skin, she starts typing.
"Sorry to be the one to continue, but Sir Bruce has been called to an important meeting with the four riders of the apocalypse. Due to unfortunate circumstances that, I stress, have absolutely nothing to do with the kind Sir, the four apocalyptic horses have been cruelly slain. The only clues left behind are the deep gashes along their bodies, and some traces of compressed carbon. The police are still investigating cause of death.
It is indeed a terrible and foul time in which we live, when Death, Famine, War, and Pestilence must ride out to the stars on three cows and a wheel-chair with fire extinguishers attached."
She glances over her shoulder at the giant clock Sir Bruce was 'borrowing' from his old class-mate, Big Ben. She guesses she might have about ten or fifteen minutes left. Shame Sir forgot to go back for the hands... She turns back to the computer, and her hands dance over the keyboard like trolls on a bouncy castle.
"Ah yes. Exams. It is extremely important to revise for exams, for you will not do well if you fail to memorize everything on the answer sheet given to you.
As the teachers stride between the rows of innocent children, like cats in a meat-pie factory, glaring and hissing, the call out things like "Could Histories please stop trying trying to copy one another", and "Could the English put in the effort to refrain from talking - the Welsh are trying to work." Well, they do say 'You are what you take', which can sometimes get quite complicated - I take Welsh, English, French, and sometimes Latin, when I'm in the mood."
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Blogging
Sir Bruce leans into the camera lens, sqinting in an effort to see who is watching him on the other side. No use. He breathes on the glass, then licks it, before looking back inside. Still nothing but a little red dot. They were watching him, and he couldn't watch them back. Tch - cameras. They were all the same, unless he was the one taking the pictures. Oh yes, he likes taking pictures. Of people, of nature, urban nightscenes... You name it, and he likes taking pictures of it. For those who are sick of the mind, that serves a deeper meaning, but he doesn't like to go into too much detail about it... In public.
And talking of pictures, it has come to his attention that Rhys of Festering Times has stolen some pictures from his gallery, without his knowledge or permission. Punishment has duly been served, but such a crime deserves more than just a noogie. Sir Bruce shall take revenge.
It has also dawned on Sir, after much reading of other people's blogs, that people talk about things that have happenned to them during their day. However, since Sir lives outside time and space, nothing really goes on around him, let alone to him. He has decided to actually listen to Vodbog complain about her day, and write about that, since he has nothing better to do. Besides cause nuclear wars and stop new medicines from being made and tested. Oh, and eat toffee waffles...
Today, Vodbog had exams. And that's when Sir, after a gruelling 3 seconds of listening, gave up.
And talking of pictures, it has come to his attention that Rhys of Festering Times has stolen some pictures from his gallery, without his knowledge or permission. Punishment has duly been served, but such a crime deserves more than just a noogie. Sir Bruce shall take revenge.
It has also dawned on Sir, after much reading of other people's blogs, that people talk about things that have happenned to them during their day. However, since Sir lives outside time and space, nothing really goes on around him, let alone to him. He has decided to actually listen to Vodbog complain about her day, and write about that, since he has nothing better to do. Besides cause nuclear wars and stop new medicines from being made and tested. Oh, and eat toffee waffles...
Today, Vodbog had exams. And that's when Sir, after a gruelling 3 seconds of listening, gave up.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Sir Bruce, on Goggles
Sir Bruce enters the room. He would like to introduce Vodbog. Unfortunately, she is busy writing an essay on Educating Rita for her beloved friend. He sighs, and moves towards a long, dark red sofa, opposite which is a smaller, light brown padded chair. The room is un-necessarily bright and anti-shadowy. From his pocket, he takes a small piece of plastic. He unrolls it, showing that it is in fact a semi-transparent wrapper with a sealable top. He flips it from hand to hand before setting it down on the coffee table that has just appeared. That's the thing about him. He's special. No, he wasn't born into the best of magical bloodlines... In fact, he wasn't born into any magical bloodline, and has had no reason to believe in magic whatsoever. So what does he know makes him special? Well, he knows... The Truth. He's decided that he knows the truth about absolutely everything. You see, you're all just a figment of his imagination. Even he is. The body, anyway.
Only a true genius like himself could invent such a balanced universe. Yes - it would be much better had he not made humans, but by the time he realised that the experiment had gone haywire, they'd already made pretty little orange lights, and killed off at least seven other species. He was starting to like them... He thought they were a lot like him. How wrong could he have been? Alright, some of them were pretty cool. You've got to admit that Darth Vader thing was a stroke of genius, eh? Nothing wrong with hippies, or anything, but peace? That's so boring. His perfect world would have plenty of wars and racists, and sexists, and religionists, and satanists... Much like this one, actually. Anyway, he just knows that nothing actually exists, and due to that, he is able to manipulate the 'world' due to his belief. It's simple enough. He thinks that if people stopped believing in gods, they stop exising, then he should be able to make things appear and disappear whenever he likes.
Anyhow, as much as he'd like to carry on talking about his pure marvellousness, he should really get onto the actual topic... He picks up the packet again and reads the print aloud to himself.
Splashappy
Swimming Goggles
- Polycarbonate lenses
- Soft neoprene seal
- Adjustable rubber headband and nose piece
- Conforms to BS 5883:1996
What he'd like to point out is that the colourful blue, yellow, and red plastic covering is quite obviously directed at young children from the age of, say, 5 to 12, with the little smiling faces just... All happy... Just... Looking at you... Smiling... As if they know something... He quickly flips the wrapper over on the coffee table before continuing.
The all-in-one adjustable rubber headband and nose piece is understandable - everyone knows what rubber is, right? But... Polycarbonate, and... neopets... No - wait, that's a virtual pet website for children... Not that Sir Bruce would know that... What really got him was the conforms to BS 5883:1996 . How are small children between the ages of 5 and 12 supposed to know that that means that the contents reach the specification for surface swimming goggles by the British STandards Institution?
His eye is caught by the text on the back of the wrapper:
Eye safety Warning
When wearing these goggles, to avoid discomfort and possible eye damage:
DON'T dive.
DON'T swim under water below 2m
DON'T pull them away from face.
He can't help but wonder why one would bother wearing the goggles in the first place, then? For one thing, you'd never get them off again. He doesn't know about you, but he doesn't fancy wearing pink coloured lenses for any longer than necessary. If he wanted to view the world through rose tinted goggles for a while, he'd simply strive to become an optimist. Much less embarassing... And it doesn't last as long, either.
And what is he supposed to wear while diving? Beer Goggles? There is a slight pause as his voice rings around the room. Actually, that's not such a bad idea... Hmm...
There is something in the small print at the bottom of the text that he thinks might be more to the 'for children' theme... He squints to try and read it. Ah, there he is... "The headstrap is used to keep the goggles in place." Really? He thought it was just an ornament. And anyway, according to the laws of Sir Bruciness, you don't actually need a strap to keep anything on, because the imagination can do it for you.
Hmm... According to those laws, you don't even need goggles at all, because water doesn't actually affect your eyes, because the particles are all just a figment of his imagination... Damn! Vodbog wasted an imaginary £4.50 on those! Oh well, it's only Vodbog... He thinks, glancing through the doorway to see if she's finished his essay yet.
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