Tag: drinking

Happy Birthday Hell

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Enjoy your special day! the tacky birthday card reads. Today it’s all about YOU! Yes it is. It’s my birthday so it has to be a special day. The sun will shine, birds will chirp from a reasonable hour (and not at bloody 5am) and everyone I meet will smile and congratulate me on making it this far, especially considering the amount of liquor I’ve consumed over the years. Hurrah for my SPECIAL DAY!

This year, I decided to make my birthday an extra special one. Let’s go camping! By a beautiful sandy beach! Near an enchanted castle! I had visions of sunny beach picnics, romantic country walks, and cosy pubs in which to drink my arse off.

The day had started well – it was only raining gently and the wind battering the tent wasn’t quite up to gale force. So far so good. However, the beach trip was off. Mainly because the ‘beautiful sandy cove’ the campsite blurb promised was in fact a tiny sliver of grimy, seaweed-littered grit, sat at the bottom of a 500ft sheer cliff. Never mind! I’ll take a stroll through the beautiful countryside to the enchanted castle.

On the way I chanced upon that most elusive of woodland creatures – the magical badger! I’d never seen one close up before, what a treat. Rather less magical was the fact that it had been dead for a week, and was now host to an orgy of wiggling maggots. Reeling from the stench, I decided that the romantic picnic would keep for another time.

Never mind, on to the enchanted castle! Well, after another five mile walk in the wind and freezing rain. It was not the mystical experience I’d hoped for. I would also have to share my birthday treat with a group of 2,000 Russian exchange students, who jostled their way up the slippery stone steps and stopped to take selfies every five seconds.

Did I mention the steps? There were 10,000 of them. I’m not exaggerating. The enchanted castle blurb didn’t mention that. I finally reached the top step, wheezing and puking and not feeling remotely special. I wiped the rain/sweat/tears from my eyes and prepared to be amazed.

The Enchanted Castle – about 500 frigging years ago

Oh. The enchanted castle was no longer an enchanted castle as such, more an enchanted pile of rubble. However, there was a very helpful sign explaining what it probably looked like in medieval times, but to be fair it was built on top of a remote windy cliff what the fuck do you expect.

Oh well, at least the village at the bottom of the cliff had some cosy pubs in which to drown my sorrows (and erase the lingering aroma of rotting badger from my nostrils).

Battling wind, rain, 10,000 steps and 2,000 Russian exchange students, I puffed my way down to the village and stumbled into the nearest hostelry. Finally my special day could begin in earnest. As a treat, I ordered the evening special – Summer Risotto! No stodgy fish and chip supper for me, wasn’t it nice that the chef was branching out from the usual pub grub slop.

In hindsight, I should have ordered the usual pub grub slop. The chef, pushing his skills way beyond Jamie’s Italian Cookbook, had produced a risotto, but the main ingredients appeared to be wallpaper paste and twigs.

Oh well, if nothing else I could post a hilarious photo on Instagram so all my friends (of which I have several) could post chippy comments to cheer me up. However, on inspection of my Instagram feed I noticed that my Former Love Interest (well, I was interested) had posted a bunch of snaps of him and his beautiful, slim, stupidyhead new girlfriend having a lovely champagne picnic on the beach. Wait a minute. It was MY birthday and they were having a better day than me?? They got sunshine, champers, and sexy fun in the sand dunes while I got hypothermia, a maggoty badger, and wallpaper paste.

Special day, my wind-chapped arse.

 

So anyway, I’ve been thinking about Christmas…


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Tiggy’s Shopping Bizarre: Happy Panda-Seal Yummy Beer Twigs

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If I'm honest, I really have no idea what this is.

Beer drinkers! Do you enjoy spending the day consuming your body weight in hoppy alcoholic products – I know I do! Don’t want to waste your precious drinking time or money on food? Fortunately those boozy boffins in Japan have been working on a super new bar snack that satisfies all your nutritional needs!

Happy Panda-Seal Yummy Beer Twigs are fashioned from shards of ancient cherry trees grown in the shadow of Mount Fuji. Each stick is delicately flavoured with tasty Teriyaki whale and a hint of Kyoto extract. One pack contains all the goodness your liver and digestive system desperately crave!

* Those 24-hour booze binges will be a breeze with just a handful of Beer Twigs – you’ll have enough energy to drink all night! Laugh at your fast-food stuffed friends as they vomit their undigested burgers all over the street.

* Beer Twigs are perfect for those wilderness campsite drinking sessions – you can even use them to start your camp fire! Simply rub two sticks together to spark an instant flame (remove from mouth before attempting to light).

* Beer Twigs can also be used as hamster bedding, loft insulation, or glue them together to create your own beer twig Bonsai tree! Ahhh so!


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Good Advice with Betty Lemons

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Kiss kiss!Good day, dear readers! Betty Lemons here, giving advice on life’s little problems! My friends at the Ladies’ Institute tell me there’s a lot of troubled folk on the internet who would benefit from my wisdom.

So don’t fear, Betty is here! Here’s a selection of readers’ questions from my postbag.

Dear Betty,
My cat just died. I cry every day, as I miss Fluffster so much. What should I do?
Jack, Fredericton

Dear Jack,
Oh, what a to-do! As the owner of many cats, I have this problem all the time. When they stop meowing and start giving off that strange smell, I know it’s time to say goodbye! My poor old back gets sore from digging all those holes in the garden.

Find something to take your mind off your loss, my dear. Perhaps you could take up a sport, visit the library, or masturbate whenever you’re feeling down. Or become a volunteer at your local cats’ home – you will soon get used to working around dead pets, which will make your own loss easier to bear. Chin up, my dear!

Betty.

Dear Betty,
I just can’t get my Victoria sponge cakes to rise! What am I doing wrong?
Anna, Moncton

You'll be dribbling over this sponge cake recipe!Dear Anna,
What a sorry tale! There’s nothing worse than a soggy, flaccid sponge. I consulted with my friend Doris at the Ladies’ Institute; she recommends adding an extra egg, a teaspoon of ejaculate and a pinch of salt to the mix, just before popping it in the oven. It makes all the difference, she says!
Yum yum, enjoy your nice fluffy sponges!

Betty


Dear Betty,
Ever since I discovered mojito cocktails, my life has gone downhill. I just can’t get enough of them! It’s affecting my work, my relationships, and my looks. I don’t want to be an alcoholic, but I just can’t resist that minty flavour!
Gerald, Grand Falls

Dear Gerald,
Now my dear, you probably won’t like what I have to say, but you must stay away from those cocktails, otherwise it will end in tears! My friend Maude at the book club went through a similar battle, in her case it was those fancy vodka shots you snort up your nose… terrible business.

My dear, every time you feel yourself craving mojitos, drink something else instead, like a refreshing glass of lemonade, cock juice, or herbal tea. If you are craving the taste of mint, try dabbing toothpaste around the rim of the glass or penis.

Take great care,
Betty.

Well my dears, I don’t know about you, but my sack is empty. But no fear my loves, just post your questions in the electronic message box below, and who knows, Betty may be giving you some Good Advice next time!

Kiss kiss,
Betty


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Losin’ My Muse

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I’ve lost my muse. My supernatural writing mentor vanished two weeks ago, leaving me alone and devoid of inspiration. Unfinished blog drafts sit neglected on my desk; a half-written movie script collects dust instead of Oscars; even my shopping lists are dull and lacking in pace.

Have you seen this chicken... I mean, man?Have you seen my muse anywhere? He’s an overweight, hairy guy called Dave. I know muses are usually beautiful Greek goddesses, but Dave was cheaper. I thought we would work well together. He wasn’t bothered about grammar rules and all that verb-participle stuff, but he liked a good laugh and a cold beer. So I took my chances with Dave.

Maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t appreciate him when he was around. To be honest, he spent most of the time asleep on my couch, waking only to scratch his ass and shout “Have ya written anything yet? No? Get on with it! Write about bees or something.” Then he would fall back into a drunken coma. Did I mention he liked his beer?

Dave might have been drunk and asleep most of the time, but whenever I felt my inspiration slipping away I could rely on him to slap me on the back, belch into my ear, and give me a few words of wisdom:

“Get drunk. Works for me!”
“Copy someone else’s stuff!”
“Go for a walk. I’ll come with ya, if we can stop at the hot dog stand.”
“Drink more.”
“Why don’t ya write about bees?”

Sometimes Dave would disappear for days on end. He would always let me know where he was going; he was good like that. He would leave post-it notes on my desk that read “Bored. See you Tuesday” or “Gone to a rock festival – back when sober”. Oh well, at least Dave’s absence gave me an excuse to procrastinate. I’d work on that storyboard when he got back.

Writer's block? Blame hot dog eating competitions.One time, Dave attended a muse convention. Muses from around the world came together, shared their literary horror stories, and took the piss out of their protégés. There were drinking games and hot dog-eating competitions too. Dave returned from the convention hungover and smelling of mustard. I had hoped he’d learned something, and would be bursting with inspiration.
“I got nuthin’ for ya. Wake me up in a few days and we’ll work on that bee story.”

This time, Dave didn’t leave a note. He just left. Maybe he read my latest script and lost the will to live. Maybe he was tired of all my penis jokes (and no man, not even Dave, can persuade me that a penis is not funny). Maybe he is now asleep on someone else’s couch, smelling of beer and mumbling about bees.

If you have my muse, please, please can you send him back? I promise to be a more attentive student. I promise to get that story finished. Tell him I have hot dogs.


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