Category Archives: Humour

A Birthday Post featuring Mr Devine…..

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….with a nice knitting pattern resulting in World peace. In September 2022 Devine was coerced into a writing collaboration with Ms Scarlet Ambrosia Blue [1917 – ?]. This arrangement proved to be beneficial for them both as each time a new instalment was published readers would clamour to their blogs desperate to be the first to leave a pithy insightful comment, and perhaps be instrumental to furthering the plot. However, the collaboration was short lived and ended when Blue cried foul play. During the climax of their epic adventure Devine turned Blue into a mouse thus rendering her a mere squeak in the Blogosphere. With hindsight it is clear that Blue was suffering from the delusions that would later become the inspiration for her Mogwashian Opus [paperback only – £0.99, Amazon] – as with all of Blue’s work it contained too many commas, lacked a perceivable structure and a satisfactory conclusion, and, to make matters worse, it had an irrelevant, long-winded chapter about using cheese as an insulation material.

In March 2023 Inexplicably Devine had another birthday, specifically on the 22nd March, although it was seen to spread well into April, and popped up again in both August and November for an encore. By this time Devine was at his most creative and influential; aided and abetted by his new familiar, Bertie, Devine found fresh impetus to watch science-fiction based visual media whilst ensconced on a long upholstered seat with a back and arms that provided physical ease and relaxation. It was from this place of comfort that Devine was kidnapped and then trapped in what he colourfully described as the ‘Rubber Ducky Room’. This room would become the blueprint for Devine’s much lauded….

Wilmslow, Peter (2036) Blog Communities, The Early Years, Vermilion Press

Of Unicorns and Boobs

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Phew! Wot a scorcher, etc, etc… I am a day late with my promised post, apologies, but I am still wafting aimlessly, and playing around with my curtains/windows as per my last post. It is exhausting.

And, speaking of my last post, Mr Mags enquired about the background paper that I use in my collage photographs. It is this:-

Back in 2012, or thereabouts, I decided it would be a challenge to paint some text from my favourite book – a book that always makes me laugh until tears are streaming down my cheeks and I am reduced to a hiccuping mess on the floor. It is this book:-


I originally bought it for my Dad when I was about 10, and didn’t quite understand it like I understand it today. It is a collection of misprints from the world’s press. And I can’t even read the cover without snorting and getting a stitch in my side.

The clipping I was trying to paint was this one:-

I will zoom in…

I was trying to paint it so that I captured the print quality, and failed miserably. Sadly, today’s press is digital and therefore news-sites are less likely to make such comical errors, however this didn’t stop me from reading this morning that Unicorns Warn on Cost of Living Crisis….

A tune, I think, with a seventies vibe…

Happy Christmas!!!

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I

t is Christmas Eve, and I have decided that I will start a new Wonky Words Christmas tradition. From now on I will publish this old post every Christmas Eve to herald the festivities.

I really am spoiling you…

Here we see Darren. He is hoping to be selected as an ambassador for the Littlehampton Confectionery Display Team. He is submitting one of the finest examples of his work in their annual ‘Exposure’ competition. It is a grand affair. It is held in a disused caravan park close to Southend pier, and display enthusiasts come from far and wide to exhibit their elaborate confection. For example, competitor Annie has flown in from Amsterdam and has done something gratuitous with a fudge finger fan, whilst Gavin from Gateshead [the winner in 2006] has been imaginative with a Toffee Crisp and an artfully adapted 12 inch Twirl; Maggie, a mother of three [the winner in 1908, but never since] has chosen a minimalist/conceptual approach – her piece is entitled ‘Red Smartie with Toothpick’.

So far the judges have been less than impressed with the entrées, but Darren is confident that he can lick his rivals. Darren has a secret. Darren has balls, golden balls, and he knows how to arrange them. He waits in the wings as poor Simon, a professional kitchen fitter from Stevenage, sobs and stumbles from the judging panel after his Sherbert Fountain fails to font, and his Lion Bar goes limp.

Darren feels the tension rising – his moment has arrived, he takes a deep breath and walks into the spotlight. His golden balls are piled pyramid high upon a silver platter creating a sophisticated yet captivating display that brings the essence of Egypt to Essex. Darren stands proud. It has only taken a smidgeon of superglue to keep everything erect.

Alas, Darren is unaware of the envious Maggie who will do anything to win, and from the wings she gives Darren an almighty shove sending his nutty nibbles into orbit to splatter down upon the judges heads. Horrified, Judge Erica picks golden nuts from her hair, and exclaims, ‘With your display you are soiling us!’.

Darren hangs his head in shame, but he is not downhearted. There is always next year when he is planning an ambitious assemblage with Annie, they are hoping to cause an extravagance of good taste with a giant curly wurly and a custard cream flan.

First published on the Scarlet Blue Archive 8th January 2010 12:45 BST

Nice’n’Easy…… [A blast from the past]

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Here we see Louise, she’s been feeling a bit dowdy lately having recently been dumped by her boyfriend; for the past week she’s been holed up in her bedroom scoffing chocolate and peanut butter sandwiches. She’s also been devouring self-help books, her two favourites being, ‘How To Get More Than Even’ and ‘Men Are From An Entirely Different Planet Altogether’. To cheer herself up, and to help her face the world again, Louise has decided that she needs a make-over. It only takes five hours, three boxes of Nice’n Easy Natural Baby Blonde, and forty-five ruined towels to turn Louise’s mousy brown locks into a brillo pad of ginger. Louise sobs, wishing she’d done a strand test first as per the instructions on the box, but who ever does? She spends the rest of the evening drinking neat gin and avoiding her reflection in the mirror. In the morning she awakes, still slightly sloshed, but remembers that her Dad keeps a selection of wigs in his dressing-up box. She chooses ‘The Cher’, in natural nylon – it’s bright red, but what the heck it’s better than the ginger brillo. She tops off her new look with a pink crochet beret. Feeling a shade braver she heads out the door to her local salon, hoping against hope that they can fix the damage. On her way she passes a shoe shop and is transfixed by a pair of red stilettos in the window, but there, looming behind the display, is Catty-Mean-Mouth-Bitch-Face-Fanny – the last person you want to see when you’re feeling less than your best. Louise, still fuelled by gin, whips off her beret and tosses her mane of nylon cherry red hair; she struts into the shop and she buys those shoes [you go girl]. We see her striding up the High Street to the salon like a graceful 7ft pillar box on a trolley, towering over all other pedestrians.
At the salon, Terry, who studied ‘Directional Hair Design with Pubic Topiary’ at Southend Tech, transforms her matted bush of ginger into a halo of golden blonde [amazing what can be achieved with industrial bleach, hair straighteners, and a pot of VO5]. Louise smiles at her reflection in the mirror, and it is in this moment she realises that life is never Nice’n Easy; Louise winks at Terry, and resolves that from now on she’s going to be easy’n nice….

Va Va Voom… And Other Words Beginning With V

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And now for a repost from June 2010….

Vuvuzela – now here’s a word I will practice before saying in public. It is a word to be rolled around the tongue and swiftly blown. And not to be said with your mouth full.
As a child I was prone to verbal mishaps, mostly my mistakes were gently corrected, laughed at or ignored. Denim became deminimum and aluminium became aluminiminimummmn. I tried never to mention Birmingham and would often find myself steering the conversation towards Manchester. Like many children I had a problem with the Grand Prix, and of course with that well known car manufacturing firm…
It was a special occasion, friends and relatives were coming for Sunday tea; Mum had opened a fresh can of spam and had baked a Victoria sponge. She’d also done a salad and some other boring stuff featuring pineapple chunks and half a grapefruit. As we sat around the dining table my Aunt began to tell us about her brand new car, marvelling over its luxurious leather interior and its faux wooden dashboard. I could see it through the window parked on our driveway – new, red, and very shiny. I was most impressed. Loudly and enthusiastically I asked, ‘Dad, when are you going to get a big vulva like Auntie Pam’s?’
Such a shame that my Uncle had just popped a pickled onion into his mouth, but at least his choking provided a welcome distraction….

 

Lucky You…..

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….or not so lucky.

I did used to enjoy writing those old advert posts, but over the past few years I have been consumed by calligraphy, and, to be fair, I haven’t seen many adverts that I’ve felt inspired by. Is it my jaded old brain or the new swathe of boring adverts that are to blame? Bit of both I reckon. Also I have a tendency to be scrolling through my iPad whilst the adverts are on so maybe I should pay more attention?

Anyhow, here is an old advert post from 2011.

Due to the sluggish financial market the Halifax staff have little to do. They are under strict instruction to only authorise two mortgages this year and can only lend to people who don’t need loans. The financial advisers have all been made redundant and now the entire business is propped up by the canteen staff who have diversified by setting up a radio station in the basement of an NCP car park in Buttocks Booth just off Lumbertubs Lane. They broadcast daily, via telegraphic transfer, to five mountain goats on a farm in Southwold, Suffolk.
Scottish widow Sandy and Co-operative Carol provide the morning entertainment with a breakfast show. They are a tight team; they have a mutual interest in investing extra digits in their hedge funds and have bonded over unit banking. Alas, they are so enamoured by one another that they have failed to notice the potential threat of a hostile takeover bid from tea boy, Derek. He has coveted their breakfast slots from afar and, in an effort to remove the women from the helm he has sabotaged Sandy’s liquid assets. He completes the arm’s length transaction by passing Sandy her mug. The mug handle breaks causing hot tea to spill across the mixing desk. Carol and Sandy are unfazed by life’s little dramas. They have each other and therefore the accelerated depreciation is negligible. They smile sweetly and, still laughing, still singing from the same spreadsheet, they tell Derek that life is better with a beaver.

And to finish on a topical note a little gilded insult from Lulu’s suggestion on a previous post,

gilded-insult-gold-leaf-calligraphy-uk

Trump?

NEXT TIME: Under the weight of all the books, the chair breaks, leading Ms Scarlet to enrol on a chair restoration course where she meets a man in a bobble hat who offers her a hobnob and a cup of tea from his tartan themed thermos flask….