Category Archives: Creative Writing

Flashback Friday – The Fanny Club

When not composing her much loved symphony in D minor, which she did often and wisely, Fanny Mountjoy-Williams could be found picking up stray boys from the streets of Dungeness. Her mission was to round them up and escort them to school, thus ensuring that they received an education of sorts. Some people mistook Fanny’s activities as being purely altruistic, and seldom suspected that Fanny had an ulterior motive. Few people knew it, but during the early sixties Fanny had been recruited as the International Global Universal Ambassador for Persil soap powder. Fanny took her promotional duties seriously although she was not adverse to mischievous tinkering.

In her role as ambassador, Fanny would locate a random urchin, preferably grubby from playing on the bomb-sites, and then clothe him in a shirt that had been soaked for several months in a solution of 5 parts hydrogen peroxide, 7 parts ammonia, 4 parts baking soda, 9 parts arsenic, and 1 part plutonium [do not try this at home]. This recipe would guarantee that the shirt would glow brilliantly with a blinding whiteness.

As we are all aware, Fanny Mountjoy-Williams was a formidable woman – by the age of twelve she had already written a groundbreaking thesis on high wire acrobatics and aerial fire eating, which in turn led to her being nominated for a Nobel prize in chemistry, so it is of no surprise that other women were easily impressed by her lofty demeanour, and by the luminous urchin that would often accompany her on her jaunts around town. Who could blame these women for peeking into Fanny’s basket and, on seeing the box of Persil, jumping to the wrong conclusion. Thanks to Fanny Mountjoy-Williams and her novel approach to marketing, Boxes of Persil flew off the supermarket shelves, but sadly these new consumers were left dismayed and disappointed because their children refused to glow, they instead remained dismal, dull, and decidedly grim in comparison to Fanny’s urchin.

Not a woman to miss an opportunity, Fanny realised that she could make a pretty penny from selling her secret recipe to laundry obsessed mothers at the school gates. Eventually, due to demand, she formed The Fanny Club, collectively known as The Fannies. They were a large group of discerning women [think Tunbridge Wells] who would meet every other Tuesday for Fanny workshops to discuss folding techniques, and what to do with two large sheets in a high wind. The club motto, which they would recite at the start of all club meetings, was as follows:- Persil washes whiter and it shows, but with a touch of Fanny it really, really glows.

In 1975 the Fannies were disbanded after a member complained that the secret recipe had been the cause of an unsightly rash on her rear. Overuse of baking soda was believed to be the cause.

Originally posted HERE
Also, none of this will make any sense until you watch the Youtube :-) And then it’ll make even less sense.

COMING SOON:- Something new!!! Maybe.

Until…. [Part 2]

….I went rummaging through my old blog looking for an old advert post for mascara when I found this instead, from 2009. Shocked!!! Did I really write such things??? I’m not even sure if I should republish this…..but I am going to because this blog has been far too gloomy lately, and this is a different spin on toothache.

This is possibly one of my worst posts, EVER. From HERE

Cathy is not a dentist [she states this quite clearly]. She has spent the last 4 months detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Holloway as punishment for making films featuring scenes of torture and abuse; she is now unemployed but enjoys dressing up as an air hostess. Cathy has toothache, and an oral fetish; she has now broken into the dental surgery to polish some instruments. Mr Davis [the real dentist] is startled to find her in his surgery handling his scarifying tool, and a tube of toothpaste, but he is impressed by her tonguing action, and he has a professional interest in her misshapen mandibles. Because of his attention, Cathy gets a little overexcited and flashes her Crest. In a fit of wild abandon Cathy slips and knocks out her front tooth on the narcosis apparatus. She is crestfallen. Mr Davis ushers her into his black leather chair for a thorough examination. Cathy sighs as she feels him in her mouth – she is in her element, she begins to froth and lets him poke around until he fills her all of her cavities….

Soz.

A Write Panic!

Good Afternoon!

Apologies, I have been so engrossed with the ongoing saga on our new blog A Write Panic that I have forgotten to update this blog.

So far A Write Panic has featured amongst many things: robots; a brewer’s goitre; a pink rabbit onesie; a Jason Bourne character; a golden retriever called Scarlet with dubious glands; a short man with a large gun; chairs; Ferrero Rocher; nose picking; and a brassy blonde. If you signed up to write then please do – the more the merrier!! If you don’t feel like writing, then music and picture posts to illustrate the story are also very welcome.

How am I? Up and down. I guess we all are. Some days I am overwhelmed by graphs, and figures, and projections of what might be. Other days I can distract myself.

Take care, stay home.

A tune…..

The Writing Project

Invites have gone out. The blog address for our writing project is: A Write Panic. Yes, I have chosen Blogger as I think this will be easier for most of us. I will help anyone who doesn’t like it, i.e, you can email me with your chapter and I will publish it on your behalf.

Anyone up for writing the opening chapter [post]???? Shout now!!!

A tune? Yes, of course.

Let’s Write A Book!

And so the dystopian nightmare begins – I can no longer reserve a Waitrose delivery slot. Sigh. AND, the BBC have suspended filming Eastenders.

Anyhow, I have had an idea. Back in the day when blogging was fresh and new I worked on a project called Burning Lines with a cluster of writerly bloggers from around the world. It was organised by Kate Lord Brown [now a highly regarded published writer] and it was one of the funniest blogging projects I have ever been involved with.
There were about nine of us and together over the course of a month we took it in turn to write a book using the blogging format. The ongoing saga featured exploding dwarves, macaroons, mysterious parcels, and a couple of angels. Put it this way, some of us took it seriously… and some of us didn’t, but it was hilarious.
I was wondering if anyone would like to give it a go? If there is interest I will set up a blog [probably on Blogger] specifically for this project and give authors permission to post – like a joint blog.

Personally I feel like I need something fun to take my mind off this virus pandemonium thing. What do you reckon? If no one is interested then I will simply go off in a huff and write more Mogwash posts, so no worries.

Each and Every Day

Dove Chocolate 'Each & Every Day' from Luc Job on Vimeo.

I seldom speak of the day when I woke up in Paris, and decided to live my life within a 24 hour timeframe. Friends and family considered the idea to be ill-conceived, and my chosen attire too flimsy for November, but they didn’t have my vision, or a swanky teal dress from Rhyll.

It was fun to be a child again, eating chocolate for breakfast, wearing white plimsols, and traversing the streets on my skateboard. Gone were my worries, gone was the weight of responsibility. I no longer had any baggage, or a wardrobe, or a toaster for that matter, and I was determined to cling to this feeling of freedom, at least until lunchtime.

At 1pm I was a teenager, and in the spirit of youthful rebellion I cut my fringe without a ruler; threw darts at an innocent gentleman in the hope of causing a romantic incursion; flirted with a riot policeman called Tom; and then finally, as the afternoon drew to a close, I pranced precariously on a balustrade with Dick. Strewn in my wake were broken hearts, chocolate favours, and a trail of twinkling wrappers spinning through the air like confetti from a shotgun wedding. I shall not mention Harry.

At the age of 69 I caught the night bus home. My hair was streaked with silver and my skin was crying out for a good moisturiser – possibly something from Estee Lauder, failing that, Nivea would do. At the age of 87 I collapsed into bed exhausted; I was also a little bit forgetful, and free from teeth. I sucked on my last chocolate and with the realisation that life is very short I resolved that from then on I would live each day as if it’s the only one. I mean, who needs a toaster/wardrobe/good shoes/a hairdresser/or a high fibre diet anyway?

Apologies. I began writing this post way, way back in May 2019 and since then the Youtube has become unavailable. Please click on the Vimeo link to view the film of my antics. I thank you.