Sunday 26th July 2009 - It happened in Burnley

I didn't even tell you why yesterdays blog was called Deckchair Disaster. Basically, when I was drunk at the party I was sat talking to my mum when the deckchair I was sat on suddenly ripped and I fell straight through it! Fat fat fat fat fat fat fat!



I've got a hangover now, and can't be arsed telling you about my day (I've not really done anything) so instead, here's the first part of my new novel I'm writing. It's really, really good!

So, PRESENTING;





It happened in Burnley




I was slowly making my way down the lane that leads to the crossroads when it happened. A sudden feeling of fear and dread ran up and down my spinal column. I just didn't expect to see him there. After all it had been three years since my ex boss Jonathan 'Page-a-Day' Epson was imprisonned for illegal smuggling of oysters from Madagascar. (Not the film you understand).
"Hello Polly", he said in a voice so low his underpants tightened. "Nice to see you", he murmered.
In a shakey breakey voice I replied, "to see you nice". He opened his lips and sharply inhaled, taking in a small piece of grit that was passing.
"It's been too long!", he said evily. I could see that in his right hand he had a key for what I assumed was a tractor. In the other hand he had the latest Take-a-Break issue. I was terrified by the prospect of what was going to happen next. To say this man was unstable was an understatement. To let him loose on a tractor was crazy. To let his loose on a crossword was just plain stupidity. The two together could result in many, many people either dying or falling over lots.
"I see you've got another job then?" he enquired, pointing to the medical syringe I had draped around my neck on a thong.
"I couldn't be a welder forever Jon." I replied, quivvering like a cold walrus. "I needed to get out and see the world... you understand that don't you?"
He placed his Take-a-Break gently down on the steps of the Bridget Bardot Appreciation Hall and put his dirty hand in his hairy pocket. I shook. Slowly he pulled out what appeared to be a letter from the Sea Lion War Recreation Society. He handed it to me.
"I want you to go here tonight", he suggested suggestively.
"I can't go there. You know I was barred from entering the house of recreational societies after the Boston Bankers fiasco. It's too risky".
He just looked straight through me at the shoes in the window behind me. I could see his eyes moistening at the sight of those clogs, as if to say, 'Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmoleskin.'
"You'll be there. You know you will. Because if you don't, everyone will find out your terrible, horrible, edible secret."
My lips trembled, as did my gobblers. I've managed to keep it secret for twenty years and I'll be damned if anyone was going to blow it for me now. You see, when I was younger I used to have an obsession with boats and ships. Anything floaty. Barges, yatchs, fjords, canoes, you name it, I loved it. One day, when I was about 13, I decided to climb on the local tramp and take a ride to the harbour. The tramp didn't mind. He was glad of the exercise and the bottle of cherry 20-20 he received made him equally elated. When I arrived I immediately ran up to the first floaty thing I saw. It was a houseboat.
I could see flashes of blue and orange lights coming from inside the window accompanied by a loud buzzing noise that went BUZZZZZZZZ. I knew a buzz when I heard it and that was definately a buzz. I shimmied down the pier a bit further and put my arms into the water to feel for the tie rope so that I could hoist myself aboard. I felt what I thought was a Lambseye Knot, so called because when the knot is completed it looks like the iris of a lamb. (You have to gaze ridiculously close). As it turned out, I was horribly mistaken. A lambseye knot it was not.
I yanked my long, spindley arm out of the water and found an extremely rare, endangered Anne Boleyn Octopus attached to my fingers. Panicking, i picked up a nearby whisk and whisked it right onto the deck where it promptly stopped living and died. I screamed with horror. The flashy window opened and a face appeared. It was, as I later discovered, Jonathan who was welding handles to tea cups.
"You've killed it", he shouted. He was crazy and just kept shouting "YOU'VE KILLED IT!".
I crumbled to the ground like a cheap sausage roll, crying. Killing an Anne Boleyn Octopus is punishable by up to 13 years imprisonment, or 50 years dry-stone walling in Bolton. I couldn't imagine losing my freedom at such an early age. The only witness was Jonathan. He came off his boat, waving his welder and telling me to stay exactly where I was.
"What's your name?" he spat.
"Polly... Polly Limply".
"Well Polly. You'd better come with me............

TO BE CONTINUED - IF I CAN BE BOTHERED!


Sleep tight! Coops. xxx