Thursday, 25 December 2014

Sabotage


    Boredom soon set in. There's not much excitement to be had from stacking boxes and making sure that a machine is doing its job. But at least I was left alone. Occasionally, when I wasn't being watched by my other colleagues, I took great pleasure from smashing my fist into the boxes of shortbread, before stacking them on a pallet. I punched hard at the boxes, smashing the fragile biscuits, and destroying the company's reputation. I then took a tissue from my pocket, and after spitting phlegm into it, I squeezed the tissue into a carton. It was a disgusting act of sabotage, but as with Fat Mary's fall, it made me laugh. Then I gave another solid punch, a whack, and another tissue was slipped into another box. Phlegm and broken shortbread. The client wouldn't be happy.
Dave Cooper is intent on destruction. Extract taken from "4 Years In London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman.


Monday, 22 December 2014

Depressed, from London


I couldn't sleep the night before my first day at the biscuit factory. I felt ill and depressed when I realised that my days of being unemployed were rapidly coming to an end. Jill was asleep, next to me, snoring heavily and twitching violently. She must have been having a dream. Perhaps she was dreaming of me – her lover – and in her slumber she was elated that in a few hours I would be going to work for the first time in four years. I wanted to shit myself. I felt like shitting myself in the bed. That's how bad I felt. I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was two minutes to midnight. In two minutes the wait would be over. I would be going to work today – in five hours – to earn some money, so that I could pay for things, just like Jill did. I didn't want to go to work. I wanted to stay at home and do nothing. I was a free man, and I could do what I wanted to do. I had fucked Jill enough, and now I was getting bored with her. Tomorrow, I thought, I would leave her, and return to the flat I once shared with Tony. We would then go to the pub, drink heavily, and I would pretend that Jill had never existed. But I couldn't do that, because I loved Jill too much. I looked at her as she slept and told myself that she deserved better that that. I then looked at clock again. It was six minutes past midnight. In just under three and a half hours I would be out of our bed and getting ready for work. I looked up at the ceiling and wanted to cry. It was all too much to handle.
Dave Cooper is sick to the stomach, for tomorrow he will start his new job in a biscuit factory. He doesn't want to go to work, but if he wants to keep his lover happy, bake cookies is what he must do.
Extract from "4 Years In London" by Luke Ryman - out now on Kindle.

Monday, 8 December 2014

Xciting Gifts dot Com


Stuck for ideas on what to get your other half for Christmas? Too lazy to venture outside and tackle the throbbing masses in the department store aisles? Or looking for something a little different to make your gift stand out from the rest? Then worry no more, because gifts to bring a smile to a face near you is what this site is all about.

Gentlemen, with Christmas Day almost upon us, why not take the plunge and treat your girl to a pair of panties.
In terms of originality, we know that panties are nothing new, but with so many colours and designs to choose from, you're sure to find a pair that brings a smile to your lady's face. BLACK, SKIMPY and TRANSPARENT are the key words to tap into our dedicated search engine, together with the size and your credit card number. What woman will not be delighted with such a thoughtful and useful gift?

Chocolate body paint made from 95% cocoa beans and dry-roasted almonds seems too good to smear over your loved one's torso, but this little jar of edible emulsion is nothing like the chocolate paste your kids like to spread on their sandwiches. After showering together, lowering the lights and pouring the champagne, what could be a better way to spend Christmas than covering her curves with this wonderful and wicked pot of paint?



The French are allergic to the stuff - as a Parisian's appalling body odour will confirm - but reports show that soap is here to stay in Britain. Coming in a variety of sizes and scents, this slippery little stocking filler is an ideal way for your girl to wash away chocolate body paint.



  




An on the fourth day, God invented lager. Well, this isn't quite right, but most men will agree that a pint of lager during the festive period is just right to keep things ticking merrily along. I bet you didn't know that the world record for lager consumption on Christmas Day stands at one hundred and eighty-five pints, and that this hideous record was achieved by a man from Leeds in 2013. Lager is here to stay, and coming in cans or bottles, ladies, lager is panties in a glass.


Football is a game which all men love. So during the holiday season, ladies, let your man indulge in his passion, without nagging him to death. He'll be good enough to let you watch the special edition of Strictly Come Dancing, so play fair with him, and let him spent ninety minutes with Wayne Rooney and co.
Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

Friday Night




The constant supply of fizzy drinks was a great benefit of having a mum who worked in a pub, but one of the downsides was having to spend Friday nights with our neighbour, who looked after me, whilst mum worked and dad stood on the other side of the bar, getting drunk. I often pleaded with my parents that I was old enough to look after myself, and that our neighbour had her own two kids to look after. But my words fell on deaf ears, and so every Friday night, at about seven o'clock, I was frogmarched to the house next door, where Mrs Green welcomed me, and looked after me, until my mother collected me later in the evening.

The Greens had two cats, who pissed throughout the house, giving it a disgusting odour, that headed directly for my nostrils as soon as Mrs Green had waved my mother off and closed the door behind me. And if the smell of feline urine wasn't enough to leave me feeling sick, the smell of whatever it was the family had eaten, just before my arrival, certainly did. But there was no escape from the house from hell, and after I had managed to get use to the terrible smell, I was forced to spend the evening playing Monopoly with Mrs Green, and her two sons, whilst Mr Green sat in front of the television, drinking bottled beer, whilst watching something that made him laugh occasionally.

Cats pissing, playing games and drinking beer - when Tony Joy was a young boy in need of a good hiding.

Extract from "Dad drove a bus" - out now for Kindle via Amazon

Sunday, 16 November 2014

The Platform


The sleepers went years ago
For firewood and missiles
The panes were smashed from the beginning
Replaced, replaced and no longer replaced
The bench was unbolted
The booth was attacked
The clock was stolen
The toilets were pissed in
The canopy was cracked
The posters were torn
The steps were pissed on
The bins were booted
The rails have resisted
The weeds have run wild
The rainwater comes in
And still we find things to do

A tattooed beast sprays his poem
Over the toilet walls
A cocky lad draws up phlegm
To fire in the air
A pretty girl takes a six-incher
From a small boy
An ugly girl laughs and swears
She's seen it all before
The boy takes vodka
The pretty girl is tired
The small boy is proud
The cocky lad is tired
The rails have resisted
The weeds have run wild
The rainwater comes in
And still we find things to do

(c) Luke Ryman. November 2014.

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

A Plumber Called Deano

There's a plumber called Deano - he's young, rich and quite good looking.
Then there's his mate, Phil - he clings to Deano because Deano is the one with the money. Phil likes cheeseburgers, drinking lager and having a good time.
And what about Sarah? Well, she's common and vulgar, she wears supermarket clothes and she drinks vodka and orange.
And finally there's Clare - Clare Green, from Canterbury - who is Deano's long-suffering girlfriend.

Clare hates Sarah but tolerates Phil.
Deano loves everyone, because that's the sort of guy he is.
Sarah loves herself.
Phil loves double cheeseburgers.

"Welcome to Normandy!" shouts Deano, as the four friends arrive at their gite, which Deano has hired for their two-week holiday.

The girls aren't impressed but Deano is sure that a good time will be had by all.

Just what will Clare do to amuse herself in a village that time forgot?
Where will Phil find his precious cheeseburgers?
What will Sarah make of the locals?
Why has Deano got his eye on the girl with the guitar?

Find the answers, take a trip around Normandy and laugh a little in "But Bloody France!" - the first of three short ebooks, out now on Kindle via Amazon.

Monday, 20 October 2014

Swearing in Private


We shared a bottle of white Bordeaux – very dry and perfectly chilled - as we sat side by side, with me giving her a detailed account of my first day at The National & American Biscuit Company. It had all started so promisingly, I told her, as I swept shit from the floor of the warehouse and enjoyed coffee with Craig and his gang.

I refilled our glasses, and then I continued, telling Jill about Smallcock's annoying habit of calling me the New Boy. We both agreed, as I temporarily abandoned my lover, to get a second bottle of wine from the fridge, that Smallcock was a cunt. This was one of the great things about Jill. I could freely use the word cunt, fuck and bastard, and she wouldn't be annoyed. She even referred to some of her own colleagues as fucking cunts and mother fuckers. It made me chuckle to hear a woman use such phrases, although our foul-mouthed rants were always confined to our home, and never aired in public. Fat Mary, she thought, was obviously a frustrated woman, who probaly lived all alone, and hadn't fucked for years. I agreed with Jill's assessment of the bitch from the cookie production line, and told Jill that a man would have to be seriously inebriated to even think about fucking that.

Extract taken from "4 Years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

4 Years In London





Tony and me are in our mid-forties, but we were acting like a pair of brainless teenagers. That's no way for a grown man to act, and that's no way to live. I suppose he's jealous of Jill, because she has driven a wedge between him and me. And now I have a comfortable life, in Jill's tower block home, whilst he has our flat all to himself, and nobody to speak to. I think Jill would like me to detest Tony, but just because he was a bad influence on me, and was happy to see me ruin my life, that's no reason to hate the man. After all, I'm an adult, and I'm as much to blame as Tony if my life was going off the rails...

... By the time I made it to the factory I was drenched, with the grey London sky having shown no mercy to a poor man who was looking for a job, and who wanted to make something of his life – if working in a biscuit factory could help me achieve my wish. I looked at my shoes. They were caked in mud and grass, and looked nothing like the well-polished footwear I had been wearing when I had left home. My trousers were equally dirty, and my white shirt looked like I had dragged it through the rainy streets that had eventually brought me to the factory gates. I was cold and uncomfortable, and as the wind decided to batter me sideways, I took shelter from the weather under a tree, which stood all alone at the entrance to the factory, and looked out of place. I looked around me. It WAS the only tree to be seen on the industrial estate where the factory was located, and it brought some much-needed colour to an otherwise very grey and dull place, which up to that point I had never seen before...

...I didn't shower. I felt too depressed and tired to bother with such a trivial chore. Instead I smoked a cigarette and drank two cups of coffee. In the fridge were cheese sandwiches and a slice of apple pie that Jill had wrapped in plastic film, ready for me to take to work, so that I would have something to eat, at what she had jokingly referred to as half-time. I took my lunch from the fridge and sniffed. Fucking cheese sandwiches. That's what my life had become. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was four o'clock. It was time to go. I felt ill and wanted to empty my bowels on the kitchen floor. I wanted to go back to bed. I wanted to watch the television. I wanted to fuck Jill. I wanted to do many things – except go to work.


Extracts taken from "4 years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman

Thursday, 2 October 2014

Football Forever!

Ooh la la

Online dating has never been so much fun, and as you email your application to join BOYS & GIRLS FOREVER, you only hope that your first potential partner resembles this delightful example of womankind.

The membership of this elite club is a thousand pounds, but who cares? This will be money well spent if you end up with a beauty like this.

So off you trudge to the Plough & Harrow public house - a delightfully stinking pub set back off the main road which cuts through Leeds like a knife through butter, for it is here that Jenny C, aged 26, with no children, has opted to meet you.

You can understand Jenny's logic. After all, you're a complete and utter stranger, so she wants to feel secure when she meets you for the very first time.

In your flat, in a suburb of Leeds, you have believed that Jenny C, aged 26, with no children, will be bursting with all the right signals, she will be refined and she will be wearing very sexy lingerie. You have doused your skin in very cheap aftershave, you have picked your nose clean, you have put on matching socks and you have told yourself, in front of the bathroom mirror, that the moment for true love to enter your life has come.

The Plough & Harrow is heaving with unemployed bricklayers and greedy plumbers, but after pushing your way to the bar like a beast in search of its prey, you order yourself a pint of lager. This, you tell yourself, is what REAL men drink.





You scan the sea of faces for HER, for it is HER that you have come to dazzle with your wit and charm.

A tattooed beast sends your pint of lager flying, as he wades into a crowd of rowdy football fans. You curse your rotten luck and want to cry, because your new suit smells of Carling Black Label, and the damp patch over your trousers gives the impression that you've urinated in your underpants.

What will Jenny C make of this? You now resemble a drunken yobbo who can't control his bladder. You start to cry, and weaving your way through the crowded pub, like a defeated gladiator, you ask God why did it have to happen to YOU.

And then you cross, like ships in the night. You instantly recognise Jenny C, and as she takes you by the hand, a warm feeling fills your lager-stained trousers.

True love blossoms that very night, but after downing eighteen pints of strong lager, before leaving the pub, you decide that Jenny C is no match for Arsenal versus Tottenham, on the pub's wide-screen TV.

Jenny weeps. You belch. She feels sad. "Come on yer bastards!" you cry, as Tottenham rush at Arsenal's goal.

In another life, you would have been happy together. In this life, football is the only thing that you want - morning, noon and night - as well as a refund from BOYS & GIRLS FOREVER and another pint of lager.

Monday, 22 September 2014

Fish & chips


What would be a better way to start the day than by feeding one's face with a full English breakfast? The smell of the sausages, the sizzle of the bacon and the crackle of the eggs is what breakfasts should be about, and is why our green and pleasant land is a cut above the rest, when it comes to culinary delights.

Those pesky froggies on the other side of the Channel are having a tough time at the moment - soaring unemployment/rising taxes/rising inflation/storms destroying vineyards/political turmoil - and the good times seem a long way off. But when the chips are down and the shit is coming in from all directions, our continental cousins still adhere to their philosophy of we live to eat and don't eat to live!

In other words - as the country falls apart at the edges - the two-hour lunch break is still the priority of the day, as is the national pastime of criticising the eating habits of their British cousins.

How, they sniff, can one eat baked beans and fried bread for breakfast? And, ooh la la, mint sauce with lamb - whatever next? 
 Saturday night is curry night, and although curry is as English as the Eiffel Tower, this wonderful food has been adopted by our people, with love and affection, just in the same way that we love to dine on Mexican and Chinese food.

Ooh la la, Jean-Pierre, how can anyone eat THIS? says Francoise, as she takes her first taste of vindaloo. Jean-Pierre looks at his wife and wants to cry. They came to London for a romantic break, and because they like to try anything once, they decided to visit the Indian restaurant next to their hotel. Their guts are destroyed and their weekend is a nightmare. They curse and swear and they want to go home.

Vindaloo, chicken madras, roast beef and yorkshire pudding, bacon sandwiches, steak and kidney pie and chips, fish and chips, bangers and mash, ploughmans lunch, steak and chips, cheddar cheese and pickled onions, cheese on toast, roast beef and horseradish sandwiches and a full English breakfast help to keep England steaming along in the right direction, and when lunch is over and our appetites have been satisfied, we're ready to tackle anything!

Beans means there are no two-hour lunch breaks here and vindaloo is only for real men.

The white cliffs of Dover is where the action starts, so step inside and give your stomach the treat it deserves!

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

And the winner is...

Asbestos

Thanks to all of you who entered our recent competition (see previous post "Inside FOREVER") in which YOU were invited to send a tedious turd or pompous politician to prison, on Christmas day.

All the votes have been counted, and the Peter Pan of pop - aka Cliff Richard - is the one who will be doing time over the festive period, in one of Her Majesty's crumbling and overcrowded prisons.

Mr. & Mrs. D. Smith, from Leeds, are the first prize winners of the competition, and they will be flying off to the Greek island of Asbestos, next spring, for a wonderful two-week stay on this charmless and abandoned island. Well done to them, and may God go with them on, what is bound to be, a holiday from hell.

Yes, I know what you're thinking: is this one occasion when it would be better to stay in Leeds? Well, quite possibly - but that's for our northern friends to decide.

Mr. A. Nelson, from Norwich, wins the second prize of a weekend for two on the Isle of Wight. A visit to Parkhurst prison is part of his prize, where he will get the chance to eyeball, from a safe distance, some of Britain's most evil criminals.

Third prize goes to Mrs. J. Hartley, from Maidstone. Her prize is a copy of Cliff Richard: the golden years and a meal for two in a Travel Lodge of her choice.










Ten runners-up will receive a year's supply of sausages and charcoal, to help make next summer's barbecues something to remember.

The final votes were as follows:
Cliff Richard: 65%
Angela Merkel: 25%
Sepp Blatter: 6%
Roy Hodgson: 2%
Francois Hollande: 2%

We wish the Smiths a happy time on the isle of Asbestos.

Tune in on Christmas day to see how Cliff Richard adapts to prison life, and hope, like all of us, that this vile entertainer changes his ways and comes out a reformed character.

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

Inside...FOREVER!

 



As Christmas is almost upon us, here, at Ryman Towers, and in association with ARSE TV, we are putting the finishing touches to "Bang 'em up NOW!!!" - due to be aired on Christmas day on BBC1.

What a wonderful programme this is, and what a wonderful chance, YOU, the viewing public have in ridding the world of the person you consider to be worthy of spending the rest of their days inside FOREVER!

Sir Cliff Richard has never done time, but throughout his sick and tragic career, in which he has forced billions of people to listen to his insipid, crap and tiresome songs, we have all asked the same question: Shouldn't this irritating turd be behind bars?
In his youth he sang about a summer holiday and the young ones, before mellowing and becoming a devout christian. This is when mistletoe & wine was born - a Christmas song which clearly ranks as the biggest load of dross ever to come out of a recording studio.
And don't forget - if you choose to send Sir Cliff away forever, the Queen will duly strip him of his knighthood.
SMS the word "CLIFF" to 0898 111 110 if you've really got it in for him.

Sepp Blatter is the president of FIFA - world football's governing body. This man is the Adolf Hitler of the beautiful game, and he has no intention of stepping down from his post. Loathed by millions and loved only by his immediate family, Switzerland's worst export is slowly destroying the most popular sport in the world.
Yep! This bugger should be kicked into touch, and what better way to batter Blatter than by sending him on a lifetime holiday to one of Her Majesty's finest prisons?
SMS "BLATTER" to 0898 111 111 if you've really got it in for him.

Angela Merkel is here to stay, and don't forget it! This is the message that the most powerful woman in the world posted on her twitter account, just before she took a shower and went to bed.
When she's not trying to take control of Europe, Merkel can be seen hosting her own television chat show, in which she tells world leaders why the world would be a better place if everyone spoke german, we all drove Mercedes and we all ate sausages.
Some people call her a cuddly bear with a heart of gold, but I know what YOU call her!
SMS "ANGELA" to 0898 111 112 to send her packing.

The boy Roy did well in taking England to the World Cup finals in Brazil, but after being beaten by those pesky Italians, it's clear that England football manager, Roy Hodgson, has got a lot of work to do, if he's to get a knighthood and live happily ever after.
The man is oozing with experience, is well respected and knows what he's talking about, but is Roy Hodgson really the right man for the job?
I can't see Hodgson being still in charge at the end of this year, and if you send him to prison on Christmas day, my prediction will be spot on!
SMS "ROY" to 0898 111 113 to rescue England in its hour of need.

He's already got enough to be getting on with, so does Francois Hollande really need the threat of prsion hanging over him? BUT YES!!! cry millions of froggies, clearly upset by Hollande's presidential performance.
THE WORST PRESIDENT OF ALL TIME scream the headlines, as the economy suffers, unemployment soars and the laziest race on the planet get even lazier.
He's out of his depth, he's french and he talks utter rubbish. Would the world miss this bungling buffoon?
SMS "HOLLANDE" to 0898 111 114 to send this socialist to the Big House.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Go south, young man

Where dreams came true

This is Dreamland - or it was the land of dreams - before it was shut down and left to decay.

And where was this amusement park located? Well, the answer is Margate - a seaside town in Kent, which is now just falling apart at the edges and, like Dreamland, dead on its feet.

A small strip of sand, a cold sea and the smell of seaweed and fish and chips. Children screaming, dogs barking and drivers going around in circles, looking for somewhere to park their cars. Exhaust fumes, foul language and kids with only one thing in mind: to hell with the shops, just take me to Dreamland, PLEASE!

And so through the entrance and into the park, where the big wheel turns, the dodgems bump and the waltzer waltzes. Down comes the sun, up goes the noise and for one brief moment - too brief - you think that you're in another world. Then onto the slot machines, the bingo and the flashing lights. YES! You are in another world, and this world is called Las Vegas.

You fucking idiot! You are only ten and still in short trousers. You have never been to Las Vegas, you don't know it exists and you don't know where it is. This, my friends, is Margate - the most wonderful place in the world...

Paradise on the southeast coast of England? No! It never was and it never will be. It's just another town where, for an afternoon, the world seemed a better place to be.



"I've never been there before," you say, as you flick through your mind's photo album. "I've done Folkestone and Ramsgate, but I've never been there before," you add, hoping that it's true.
"Oh, it's wonderful," I say, as I see Kent disappear from sight in the rear-view mirror. "Shit now, but back then..."
"...come off here," you say, as you point at the overhead roadsign. "I want to go to Reading."
"Good God!" I reply, "I'd rather go to Folkestone."
"Take me to Reading, Swindon and Bristol, too..."
"It sounds like a song," I say, as we leave the M25 to join the M4.
"This IS fun!" you say, as we pass a sign for Slough.
"It sounds like a song and I need a drink," I say, as we continue on our way.

Tune in next week for another instalment of "An afternoon going nowhere."

Saturday, 23 August 2014

Movers & Shakers

Shit-for-brains

As summer evaporates into an autumn mist, the days become shorter and the nights become colder, it's time to see just how the final part of 2014 is going to evolve, and how the world of politics, sport and entertainment will throw up some surprises.

In international affairs, Francois Hollande, the unpopular and ugly French president, will resign from his post, citing personal reasons. No-one will shed tears when this turd calls it a day, and to celebrate his departure, the good people of France decide to make the entire month of November a bank holiday.

Getting pissed on red wine, eating cheese and talking bollocks may be a great way to fill the eleventh month of the year, but when the French economy finally falls to pieces on the 15th of November, people start to drift back to work, to try and revive their country's fortunes.

But it's all too late. France is sold to a bidder on e-bay for thirty-five euros, and when the identity of the myseterious buyer is revealed - it's none other than Angela Merkel - France turns to its most hated enemy, England, in its hour of need.

"Sorry, we're busy this weekend," comes the reply from the head of the British armed forces, when the newly-elected French president, Johnny Hallyday, asks for a British taskforce to be sent to save his country. Hallyday calls it a day after only three hours in charge, and France becomes a dumping ground for millions of sausage-stuffing germans.



In the world of music, Chas and Dave, the much-loved cockney duo, decide to buy Manchester United from the highly unpopular Glazer family.

The billion pound bid is financed from royalties the two artists have stashed away at the bottom of their gardens.

The Glazer boys take the money and run, leaving the most popular football club in the world in the hands of two fading singers, whose best years are behind  them.

Chas and Dave waste no time in making radical changes at Old Trafford, which include making Rolf Harris - the disgraced TV celebrity - manager of the under sixteen side. When questioned about their decision, the new owners reply that "Harris has got a beard, just like us, so he's got to be the right man for the job."


The town of Swindon, in Wiltshire, is officially declared the worst place to live in Britain. Bradford finishes second in the list of the shittiest shite-holes, with Great Yarmouth finishing third.

With its awful housing estates, rowdy nightclubs and stinking town centre, Swindon appears to be in need of a major make-over.



Enter Francois Hollande - the former French president, with time on his hands.

In a bold move, he presents himself as the "French One" at the general election, claiming that with his flare, wit and charm, he can bring the glory days back to Swindon.

Voted in with a massive majority, Hollande wastes no time in transforming what is essentially a cesspit of a town into England's answer to San Tropez.

"The Boy Done Well!" boasts the tabloid press, when Swindon is named as one of the most seven beautiful places on the planet.

"Ooh la la!" declares Hollande, basking in the glory of the hour, before declaring that Hastings is the next town which will benefit from a thorough overhaul.

Watch this space for more predictions, holiday destinations for the mentally insane and ideas on how to make this autumn really special.


Sunday, 10 August 2014

In search of bread

We're closed!

Here in the town where I live, in Normandy - on the tenth day of the eighth month of the year - I've just enjoyed another game of spot the resident. This amusing game is a bit like spot the ball, but instead of working out where the football is located, spot the resident involves finding a resident - anyone will do - on the streets, in a bar, in a park or dead, in a gutter.

Now, you may think that there could be nothing in simpler in life, but you have clearly overlooked the fact that (a) Normandy is VERY rural and rustic and (b) we are in the month of August. Therefore, ghost towns are all you can expect to find here, in this very irritating time of the year.

It is irritating not for the French, for it is at this time of the year that the shutters go down, doors are bolted and the whole world heads south, for the annual three-week holiday. Of course, some people will stay behind, but where they stay remains to be seen - because it's getting bloody hard to spot a resident around here.

Okay, the boulangerie was open this morning, but when the shop assistant served me my baguette, she told me that the shop would now be closed for three weeks. I took my bread and smiled. Happy Holidays! On driving back to my house I passed two youths and a stray dog. All of the bars and hotels seemed to be empty and the high street - a tragedy at the best of times - was dead.

In the week, you will of course spot more people than at the weekend, but these bodies seem to be just passing through, like interlopers, in search of something better than this.

But ghost towns in August can have certain advantages. The supermarkets - which certainly don't close for three weeks - are virtually empty. Oh what joy it is to do one's shopping at this time of the year. The aisles are free of old people and children - all of whom are somewhere else - but where, I cannot say.

But where am I heading with all of this?

Well, as France slides gently towards third-world nation status, no-one around here seems to care. Just don't ask me to work more than thirty-five hours a week, give me five weeks holiday a year and don't think that my high street will take on an English accent, and actually bulge at the seams, even in the month of August.

The English complain about shops being open on Sunday, but to those people I say one thing: come over here, right now, and you'll soon see things differently. Long live England's out-of-town shopping centres and long live Tesco, Asda and Sainsburys, for on a Sunday, in the hour of need, one of these three beasts will be open to sell us bread, cheese and wine.

I'm now off to play another game - an amusing variation of spot the resident, which is called spot the English tourist wandering around in circles looking for a shop which sells bread, cheese and wine.

Tune in next week for a list of last-minute holiday destinations in England, for the mentally insane.

Until then, Happy Holidays!


Thursday, 31 July 2014

That KILLER look



Grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-bar, Tony announced that the only way to conquer girls like Candy and Jenny was to go in all guns blazing, woo them with food and drink and then move in for the kill. He then added that if we played our cards right, we could wine them and dine them out of town, and then come back to the casino for cocktails in our room and round the evening off with rough sex. I said that he was a genius, but added that although we had almost five thousand dollars, we didn't need to blow all of our cash just for sex, because, after all, a decent prostitute wouldn't cost that much. Finishing his beer, and opening a second bottle, Tony agreed with my statement, but he thought that girls like Candy and Jenny were better than prostitutes, because he was certain that they were still virgins, and, as he added, it's always better, even if it costs a little more, to be the first in line with girls like them.

His choice of costume for the evening was truly inspired. Smart black jeans, a crisply ironed white shirt and a glittering suede waistcoat. Then, for the killer look, he pulled on his handmade cowboy boots, which he had stolen from a shop in London, just before the holiday, and stuck on his head his beloved cowboy hat. After looking at his reflection in the mirror, he announced that he was ready to set the world on fire. We then split our cash between the two of us, before heading off to meet up with the girls.

Dave & Tony are looking to have fun with a couple of girls, but how will their evening end?
Extract taken from "Dave Cooper: Tony, me & Vegas" - an ebook for kindle about two British buffoons who should have stayed at home.



Sunday, 27 July 2014

When Merkel met Roy



The sun is beating down and the beer is flowing. The sausages are sizzling, and your neighbour - a fine fella of a man - is entertaining your guests with wonderful jokes and amusing anecdotes.

This is going to be a barbecue to remember. But wait - what the hell is Angela Merkel doing here? Well, she explains, as she peers at the barbecue, any party WITHOUT Angela Merkel is likely to be a dull affair. Her arrogance stuns you and your other guests, and when she starts to criticise your outdated and rusty barbecue, you must hold yourself back from giving her a good beating.

"In Germany, everything is a hundred percent better than in England," she boasts, as she nibbles on a peanut. "We won the world cup, we drive fast cars and everyone has a job."

You look at your chipolatas and want to cry, because you know she is right.

"Fuck you, Angela!" cries a familiar voice, as Roy Hodgson comes bounding over, to help you in your hour of need. "Fuck the world cup!" he continues to rant, clearly drunk on vodka and strong lager. "There's no way that you'll ever rule Europe."

Merkel is stunned. She came with rosé wine and flowers for your wife. She feels hurt and humiliated.

"Continue like zat and I'll bloody go home," she giggles, hoping to impress your other invitees with her mock English accent.

"Piss off!" squeals Wayne Rooney, as he throws a burnt sausage at the most powerful woman in Europe.

You look up to the sky and praise the Almighty one, for you know that Wayne Rooney, after fifteen cans of cider, is game for anything.

Rooney starts to jab his finger at Merkel's left breast. "If you didn't have tits and wear a skirt, I'd swear that you're Adolf Hitler reincarnated," he sneers.

It's then when Francois Hollande - the inept, ugly and very tiresome French president - arrives at Merkel's side. He is seething with anger. He hates Liverpool (even if he's never been there) and he thinks Roy Hodgson should know better, and should send his young striker home.

"Now look, Francois," says Hodgson, slurring his words and stuffing a sausage in his mouth, "Wayne and me don't need much to give us an excuse to give you a bloody good hiding."

"Oh, mon dieu!" says Hollande. "I thought you were better than this, Roy" he adds, upset by Hodgson's behaviour.

"And what's more," says Hodgson, "you're on OUR patch."

Hollande strokes his greasy hair and tries to think of a way to resolve the potentially explosive situation. He is secretly in love with Merkel but he also admires Hodgson's flair and style. Hollande therefore decides to get drunk on Martini and whisky with Rooney and Hodgson, telling himself that Merkel, nude, isn't something he would like to see. Wayne congratulates Hollande on his decision, and presents him with two tickets for Manchester United's next home match. 

"Bollocks to Germany!" screams Hollande, as he asks you for another bottle of Martini.

Peace has been restored and you feel happy that your barbecue is going well. But wait - what the hell is Rolf Harris doing here?

"G'day Sheila," chuckles Harris, as he pinches Merkel's left buttock. "I went over the wall last night. They'll never catch me," he adds, as he sucks on a sausage.

"Fucking pervert!" shouts Hollande, as he dials 999.

"It's all lies," explains Harris, as Mrs. Smith from next door pins Harris to the ground. "Bloody lies and deceit."

Your neighbour pokes Harris in the eye with a chicken leg. He cries out in pain, and wishes that he was back in prison.

"You bloody Sheilas - you're all the same," he moans, as he's dragged away by two police officers.

"And any more from you, and you'll be sharing a cell with 'im," says one of the policemen, giving a warning to Angela Merkel.

"But I am Angela Merkel," she explains, to the baby-faced officer.

"And I'm Father Christmas," chuckles the second policeman, as Harris is shoved into the back of a police car.

"Long live the Queen!" shouts Rooney, as he drops his pants in front of Hollande.

"Long live afternoons like THIS!" shouts Hollande, as he vomits three sausages and two bottles of Martini over Merkel."

"Long live England!" you cry, as you shove a chipolata into your mouth. "Summer was made for THIS."

"WHO WANTS TO SEE ME NAKED?" shouts Merkel, as she gets out her two bazookas.

"Not I," replies Hodgson, as he opens another can of strong cider, before impressing your guests with his impression of Rolf Harris.

HAPPY BARBECUE!!!