WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, YOU POOR LOST SOULS…..?!
I HAVE A NEW WEBSITE WHICH IS BRIGHTER AND SHINIER (AND A DAMN SIGHT EASIER THAN WORDPRESS, LET ME TELL YOU…)
Come join me……bring your absinthe……no, really……
Welcome back to Mary Christmas’Christmas Mary message at Christmas, with me, Mary Christmas. You’ll notice I’m more cheerfully attired. Well I couldn’t do the mourning for long. Never liked Uncle Roy anyway, miserable bastard.
So, being sexy is about more than just pulling your tights down behind the bus stop, although some girls don’t even bother with that. Yes Becky, I am referring to you. Most men said, when encountering Becky for the first time: ‘If I’d known you were a virgin I’d have taken more time.’ To which Becky would reply: ‘If I’d known you had more time, I’d have taken my tights off…’
Anyway, I digress. To make yourslef more alluring, ladies, you have to make the right noises. I’m not talking the ‘oohhs’ and the ‘aahhs’ here. I am talking wild animal noises. Literally. If you can roar authentically like a lion then roar, girlfriend. If your speciality is giraffe whoops, then that’ll make somebody very happy. As for myself, my noble beast of choice, the specialite de la maison, if you will, is the majestic pigeon.
Men like to get in touch with their inner beast. And I like to get in touch with my inner pigeon. I used to hang around Trafalgar Square hoping for action, but all I ever got were bits of bread and the odd peanut. Once I chased Boris Johnson, trilling ‘COO COOOO!!!!’ but he was ashamed of the rampant passion I aroused in his manly bosom – he put me on an ASBO.
I think the lesson to be learned here is, don’t peak too soon. When you spot that gorgeous hunk in the pet aisle at Sainsburys, confine yourself to a hushed ‘croo – croo’. You’ll get his attention. When you’ve got him down the nightclub, you can go a bit further. Flap your wings, flaunt your tail feathers. And when you’re finally at home with the lights down low, stripped to a cardboard beak and a few plumes, then go, sister, go, fertilise those eggs, crack that shell and have a spurty white Christmas. Ding dong, merrily on high, ding dong!
Festive greetings from Get Laid! My name is Mary Christmas. Would you like to take a wild stab at guessing which special day I was born on….?
The answer’s Good Friday. Ironic really considering my life has been a never-ending dirge of pain and misery. Joking! The Steeple Bumstead Sisters of Hellfire take their fun very seriously.
Now, sorry to put a downer on your festive cheer, but I’ve just been at a funeral. Bit embarrassing because I was late. Although not as late as my Uncle Roy, whose funeral it was. I don’t know if any of you have ever been on a deathbed, but it’s not as much fun as it sounds. My uncle died from a rare condition which combined a strange muscular twitch with severe Tourettes Syndrome. Shocking it was. In his last moments, he grabbed my arse and shouted “Bollock off, spaniel tits!” Not something I will pass on to my children. Not because I don’t think it’s a nice story, but because I don’t have any children. Although tonight could be my lucky night. Or even yours, handsome.
A little lady of my acquaintance saw one of my previous philosophies on You Tube and said ‘I don’t get it. Are you supposed to be funny?’ The answer, Becky, is No. My commitment to Get Laid is unstoppable at all times.
I know this time of year can be difficult for single ladies but don’t feel despondent – Mary Christmas is here to set all of you on the path to lasting fulfillment – the non battery reliant sort!
Ladies, you have to make yourself alluring. Speaking French is always an asset….’Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir…?’ as the great Lady Marmalade once said. Believe me, you can trust those posh knobs to tell it like it is, especially if they’ve got jam all over them, the dirty beggars!.
French is the language of love. Par example-r -French kissing – snogging with a load of these garlics around your gob, French letters – when you have sèx with an accent on the ‘e’. And best of all, French polishing, when you have sex on hard shiny tables with garlics placed in every orifice.
Now you’re all warmed up and panting for more, you’re ready to learn the smooth talk, so get yourself a nice glass of absinthe and hurry back for the next installment.
Lord Sugar said Kylie can help him with the casting. Suddenly she’s everyone’s best friend.
Not mine though. Her demands include:
1. Kicking up a fuss about Pippi Longstocking being a redhead (v desirable IMHO). She feels it might compromise her image.
2. She wants a name change to PippA Longstocking, to be in keeping with the most famous ass of our time. Frankly, Kylie had her chance as Rear of the Year ten years ago, it’s time to move on.
3. Lastly, she’s insistent on David Tennant being a love interest in the show. I pointed out Pippi is a tomboyish girl. Didn’t go down well.
OMG!! Kate Middleton reduced to wearing something she wore only 3 years ago! The poor lamb. I rushed over one of my hats immediately.
Kylie still too big for her stockings. She says the show needs to end with her marrying David Tennant. For real. He’s looking anxious.
As a distraction I asked her if the Lexus advertising people insisted her dress be made of car upholstery for the ads. Got that shiny grey leather look.
David Tennant has pulled out of the production!
Kylie unrecogNISable when she came to rehearsals. Gin-soaked, hair trailing limply, very hoarse due to wailing. You’d never catch me behaving like that.
Only one way to deal with the ilotoleable pressure in life. Those @$€%<$! Treat me like that! I am vey vey drunk. I might fall off my…
Hangover..? Me? That’s for wimps. Bounded into the cast’s sleeping quarters to welcome the day. They’re still shouting. Off to get coffee.
Kylie’s worn David Tennant down. He’s playing an entirely spurious love interest in Pippi! with songs written by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Poor bastard.
Lloyd Webber’s throne has arrived into rehearsals. He’s not due till next week. I suspect it might be the worse for wear by then.
Turned on the telly and there was Lloyd Webber at Wimbledon! Siralun is not best pleased. He’s done something unspeakable to the throne.
Sugar has pushed me OVER THE EDGE. David Tennant feels the same about Kylie. We’ve gone on a pub crawl mini-break to Droitwich. Back Monday.
Pressure taking its toll on Kylie. She’s started speaking entirely in Stock, Aitken & Waterman songs. Sugar’s phoned Jason Donovan for advice
Former News of The World employees attending last performance of Macbeth tonight. Well, they could do with a laugh. Better keep an eye on the daggers.
Kylie appeared in rehearsal today wearing Rebekah Brooks’ wig. What? You mean it’s her real hair?! Shit!
Brad Pitt’s turned up again. I’ve told him I’m only interested in drunken wastrels who frottage in alleyways but he doesn’t get the message. Have sent him to Frotters Anonymous.
Might send George Clooney and Orlando Bloom along too. They’re so demanding & there’s only a finite amount of Mary.
Like those BBC types I’m also on strike. I have decided not to wear underwear as a mark of protest.
Frotters Anonymous spurned the Hollywood A-Listers. Brad, Orlando & George currently playing catch with Jordan’s discarded breast implant.
Brad Pitt invited me on a luxury yacht with the Falkirk multi-millionaires. Am tempted, even though Steeple Bumstead is glorious in the rain.
A decision’s been made. Have decked myself in a sailor suit (I tossed the sailor overboard). They won’t notice I’ve gone.
I said to Brad just now ‘What about Angelina?’ He said ‘If you take away the gorgeous face, the hot body, the fabulous career and Earth Motherness, what have you got?’ He has a point. Have rounded the McDonalds Peninsula to the Nediterranean, home of the Great Horn of Ned.
Good Lordy, we’ve acquired a pirate. Johnny Depp, that is. He’s brought some of his undead. Brad Pitt not best pleased. He’s so possessive.
Pirates. PIRATES!! Not really, just my summoning chant. Fed up of Hollywood A-Listers, I need a stubbly smelly old fart to remind me of home.
The pirates came. They are NOT AT ALL like in Pirates of the Caribbean. Just had their captain sobbing with pity as I told him my life story
I have taken the Pirate Captain to a cave for comforting. I may be some time
Been in this bloody cave far too long. The stalactites look like beer cans. Rock pools are full of absinthe.
Well it had to happen. Siralun has sent Nick & Margaret (hey I’m old school) to ask ‘politely’ if I’m coming back to Steeple Bumstead.
I’m playing Sardines with them. Gosh Nick has frisky hands! Now I know what happens under that table in the boardroom.
Margaret is jealous. Now you know the cause of the arch remark and sardonic eyebrows.
Rest of cast came popping out of Sugar‘s seaplane.
I’m judging a sandcastle competition. Predictably Piers Morgan & Rio Ferdinand are boasting about whose is the biggest.
We’ve built biggest sandcastle in the world. Well we had to, to accommodate the poor dears from Branson’s Necker Island. In it now. Drinking commenced.
Having imbued a curious mix of raki and absinthe am now seeing in double. There are four Jedwards. This is a nightmarish vision of the future.
A load of conspiracy theorists just parachuted in. They were mumbling about grassy knolls, so I gave them some hash cake. They’re happy now.
Saw sign today asking for nominations for the Olympic torch bearer. I’m happy to be suggested. I’m nimble & have a handy hip flask if the flame goes out.
Sugar has worn me down and I am returning home.
Brad Pitt’s yacht nosed into the harbour at Greenwich. An inexplicably large crowd was there to greet him, as if he was famous or something.
Me and Brad Pitt, SAS and rest of Sugar crew all getting dogfaced in The Dastardly Dog & Dandy Duck in Deptford. Jedward were plaiting Jonathan Ross’ hair. Somewhat predictably they plaited themselves INTO his hair. Idiots. Don’t be fooled by the Jedward who appeared on Celebrity Big Brother, by the way. Those are in fact aliens. As are the real ones.
Tales from Steeple Bumstead 5 – The debacle of Jedward, the machinations of David Tennant and the hump of Cheryl
Sugar sent Arlene Philips to check out the ‘proper’ Macbeth at The Everyman. Not impressed. ‘There’s no glitter or sequins’ she said. ‘So dull.’
‘The glitziest Macbeth in history’. That’s how we’re billing our Magnum classic, I mean opus. Cherie Blair, as Macbeth, is wearing sequined fishnet tights, velvet breastplate & pom-pom helmet.
Unlucky indeed. Or not. Last night Jedward (idiots) were screeching to Arlene about how Cheryl, Posh & Kylie should re-form Hot Gossip. This morning we saw a note pinned on the rehearsal room door declaring they’ve gone off to be on ‘I’m an X-Factor Potato Face Celebrity Big Brother has Left The Jungle!’
Poor George Michael has taken Jedward’s departure hard, so to speak. He sat in a corner to sing their greatest hits. It kept him occupied for 14 seconds. His Old Man may suffer.
Alan S. stomped about all afternoon. ‘I’m doing a musical of Pippi Longstocking next. Especially for Kylie. There’s too much doom & bloody gloom in this Shakespeare.’
Saved! David Tennant & Catherine Tate, warming up for their other Shakespeare outing, will play Malcolm & Donalbain following Jedward’s exit. SAS barked: ‘I don’t want no Tardis shit here. You gotta remember I made Amstrad from sticky back plastic & string. I’m the boss.’
That evening David came sobbing to me: ‘Mary, the cast keep taunting me, saying “You’re not the doctor, ner ner ner ner neh”. I patted his arm comfortingly, but can’t see his problem. Being a doctor is ever such hard work, he’s much better off acting.
Tennant settled in now. I had to rouse him from the cauldron where he’d fallen into a drunken stupor last night. Dress rehearsal later. Checked my Twitter and noticed a personal injury claims company is following me. I know I muttered earlier Brad Pitt was hanging about but I didn’t expect such speedy action.
Dress rehearsal not very successful. We’re in that cafe they use for the losers on The Apprentice.
Opening night! Nerves all round. Piers Morgan and Rio Ferdinand bickered like mewlish kittens. Then Billy Connolly brought out his hip flask. Everyone better now.
At the Stage Door I was given a leaflet by a sandelled beardy man which said smoking and drinking were very bad for you. That’s it, I’m giving up reading.
Anyway, all troubles aside, the show was a rip-roaring success! And the witches were hilarious. Bravo!!! We are the toast, crumpet and brioche of the town. Riotous after show party. Piers looks lovely in a tutu.
I’ve stationed Kylie, George, Piers and Ferdy at after show party to flirt with press. All tastes covered.
The press have been rubbed, scrubbed and plied with booze and mini Amstrads. We can only await their verdict on Lord Siralun Sugar Daddy’s Macbeth.
I thought the Rapture died out years ago. Oh, hang on, I meant the raptor. Best carry on drinking.
The Guardian loves us, The Times doesn’t, The Sun loves us, The Mirror doesn’t. The Mail got lost on the way & The News of The World thought….. not enough tits in it. We’ve got Piers Morgan, what more do they want!
The Daily Mail were defamatory about Posh’s acting. Becks is going to ‘take them out.’ Otherwise we are a hit, according to Amstrad Weekly!
A lot of Marmite-loving Danes have arrived in the supermarket to stock up before going home. I lured them into the theatre with marmite on toast.
Cast of The Apprentice met the cast of Macbeth before the show tonight. Our lot are well ‘ard. The apprentices started whimpering about 150%.
The two worlds collided horribly on stage. Macbeth said he wanted to take Macduff & Malcolm into the board room with him.
David Tennant was exceedingly masterful. Mirroring the play, he’s ejected Cherie Blair & taken over Macbeth with full-bodied Scots accent.
George Michael & Kylie Minogue have been entertaining the audience in the interval with a magazine style segment called ‘Life on Fife.’
Cheryl Cole has had the right hump. I said ‘Express yourself in the show’. She destroyed a life size effigy of Simon Cowell in her Act IV dance.
Cast have entered the complacent stage of the run. To liven things up, I replaced one of the stage daggers with a real one. Joking!
Gotta admire Sir A.S’s gumption. Not content with a hit (Macbeth) and a nightmarish version of the future (Apprentice), he’s now starting casting for Pippi Longstocking. Kylie Minogue will be the feisty sprite. The stockings won’t have to be that long obviously.
Tales from Steeple Bumstead 4 incorporating Royal Wedding Nuptials, The Westminster Abbey Wood Theft and Superinjunctions
First day of rehearsals for Lord Sugar’s Macbeth with me as your humble producer. After the readthrough Billy Connolly announced he would teach the whole cast Scottish. Jedward got lost after ‘Och ay the noo’. Idiots.
To redeem their standing they claimed they have a planet named after them, the so called Planet Jedward.
‘That must be next to Uranus’ piped up Sugar.
Ah, the old ones are the old ones.
We were all EXHAUSTED after rehearsal. However, a miraculous recovery ensued when Billy produced bagpipes and we made Piers Morgan dance for our entertainment.
At 2am L.Sugar gave us his first day’s notes. Gosh, he’s thorough! You don’t get to his level, building Amstrad from Twiglets, without gumption.
God, that George Michael does witter. All day, just twittering and wittering. Am glad we’ve given him the silent part of Old Man.
One week in. Seeing as the weather’s so nice, Nick Clegg suggested we all go gathering material for Birnam Wood. Cue skinny-dipping & maypole dancing. What Bacchinalean revels amid the bluebells. Tim Minchin with his posse of glamorous friends and Arthur Smith supping ginger ale, Piers Morgan as a waiter.
Went on all night. Siralun last seen skipping through the bluebell woods singing, ‘I’m a little teapot.’ Rehearsals postponed.
Posh and Becks started brawling in the bluebells. Eddie Izzard threw light ales all over them to calm them down and Posh licked it greedily. Starving, poor lass. Becks reminded her how many calories in the ales, then reorganised all the tins. She knocked them over. A thundering was heard in the undergrowth. Going to investigate I found Wayne Rooney sucking his thumb and asking if he could play.
Gawd’s sakes, I said, you can be a murderer as well. Bloody Murderers outnumber the rest of the cast!
Lord Sugar has put his foot down. No more japes, no more mooning at the locals, no more frolicking in the stream. Back to rehearsals. Russell Brand got a bit feisty with his hose in the rehearsal this afternoon. Managed to completely undress Kylie Minogue with a water jet.
Special guest Ruby Wax watched the Witches do a scene. She didn’t laugh once. Their heads are in the cauldron.
Lovely Mrs Stephen Fry is hosting a saucy party to celebrate the Royal Wedding Nuptials. All the ladies have to dress as Buckleberry Quim. Siralun.Inc is insisting the cast make bunting to wear tomorrow. Jedward don’t know which colours to use. Idiots.
What a lovely wedding! Curmudgeon of the day was Dave Cameron. As punishment we let Jedward (idiots) sing The National Anthem to him over and over and over and over. When his ears had stopped bleeding, Lord A.S. turned to me andsaid, with a wicked glint in his eye. ‘They won’t need those trees in Westminster Abbey now. Let’s ‘ave em away for Birnam Wood.’
Sugar Daddy & I skulked by the entrance to Westminster Abbey for Operation Middleton Wood to Dunsinane. We waited for dead of night, then I smashed a window (it was only 500 years old – who cares!) and we ‘ad the trees away. Of course we set off the alarms, so we soon had a massive police following. They don’t know the back streets of Steeple Bumstead like I do, so I shook them off and we arrived home, cool as the proverbial cucumbers. In fact we did have some cucumbers because I stopped off at Tesco on the way back to get some munchies.
Simon Cowell popped into rehearsal and watched the Murderers’ Scene. There wasn’t enough ‘action’ for him so he gave Kylie a dance solo. Cheryl Cole started sulking, having presumed she was Simon’s favourite.
To relieve the tension Siralun brought in Stephen Fry in glitzy trunks to do his Lord of The Dance. So Kylie started sulking. This was swiftly forgotten when comedy royalty, in the shape of John Cleese descended on a deus ex machina. He came to teach Jedward (eejuts) silly walks, but having watched them move, declared there was nothing he could teach them. Opinion is divided as to whether this was a compliment or an insult.
Cast are all a-flutter and a-twitter about this superinjunction business. They should all relax and keep calm, you only feel a little prick. Oh that’s injections, isn’t it? Well, talking of little pricks
Jeremy Clarkson drove his superinjunction at me once. The turbo charge wasn’t very impressive.
Lord Sugar-daddy is very grumpy. He turned to me and said, ‘When I started this production in 1967 I didn’t have this bunch of amateurs bungling my every move. I need an Apprentice to run errands. What are those potato faces Jedward (eejuts) doing? Tell them to get their arses in gear otherwise I’ll flatten their hair.’
Tales from Steeple Bumstead – Part 3. The casting of Lord ‘Siralun’ Sugar’s ‘Macbeth, with yours truly his long suffering producer.
Lord Sugar wants to begin casting for ‘Macbeth’ immediately. Piers Morgan and Rio Ferdinand bustled up self-importantly. ‘I’m mixing things up’, growled Sugar. ‘I’m gonna have a bird playing the lead.’ I had to translate for the assembled mass that he meant a female, rather than a peacock or chaffinch. Piers started sulking and mumbling about Sugar’s jowls. I silenced him by saying: ‘Jowls are what a lady from Birmingham wears around her neck. And you, Piers, will play Young Siward.’ Rio started smirking. ‘You can be Siward to keep an eye on him.’ They counted their lines and are both sulking.
Sugar wants someone tough and ballsy to take the title role and has settled on Cherie Blair. ‘Best have a bloke to be his wife, like in panto,’ I suggested brightly. All the men started running away, except for David Cameron who was putting his blusher on. He’ll be a natural, I’m sure. I suggested Margaret Thatcher for old king Duncan and adorable Nick Clegg with his boyish cheeks for Fleance. Banquo can be Kenneth Williams – most of the time he’s a ghost anyway. Jedward (idiots) will play Malcolm and Donalbain. Some are shuddering in horror.
‘Best have some sex, Mary’ said Sugar. ‘You’re right’, I replied. ‘Let’s have Russell Brand & Katy Perry as the Macduffs!’ He agreed, pulling his trousers back up – I’m not sure why he’d taken them down in the first place.
Looking up from my Penguin copy of the play I exclaimed ‘Ooh, there’s lots of Scottish people in Macbeth!’ To ease the load on Sean Connery, who’s playing three of them, we’ve got in Malcolm Tucker.
‘There’s never enough laughs in these Shakespeare things’, said Siralun. ‘I want some comedians to play the witches. Who’ve we got?’ he asked me.
I looked over the mass of bodies below. ‘Tim Minchin, Eddie Izzard & Bill Bailey.’ He grimaced. ‘It’ll have to do.’
There was a crash outside. ‘Who the feck put that sword there?’ Billy Connolly barged in, cork hat on head from a recent sojourn in Oz. ‘How ya doin pals? A’hm gonna play Hecate. Keep ye young upstarts in line!’ he bellowed at Tim, Eddie and Bill. It was a good thing too. Eddie and Tim were arguing about eye make-up and Bill and Tim (oof, he’s a trouble maker) about who had the longest hair. To calm Tim down, I put him on Arthur Smith’s Radio 4 Extra show and told them to ask him ‘What is your eyeliner brand of choice?’ – see, they put it on twitter.
That kept him quiet for a bit. And talking of talk, my God that George Michael does witter on. It’s lucky we’ve give him the silent part of Old Man. Of course, everyone knows it’s the Murderers who are the stars of the piece. As you can see from the cast list below. I’ve included it, in case any of you are lost:
Macbeth – Cherie Blair
Lady Macbeth – David Cameron
Duncan – Margaret Thatcher
Malcolm – Jedward
Donalbain – The other Jedward
Banquo + Ghost – Kenneth Williams
Macduff – Russell Brand
Lady Macduff – Katy Perry
Fleance – Nick Clegg
Lennox – Sean Connery
Ross – Sean Connery
Angus Flame-Grilled Burger – Sean Connery
Porter – Malcolm Tucker
Hecate – Billy Connolly
Witches – Bill Bailey, Eddie Izzard, Tim Minchin
Old Man – George Michael
Siward – Rio Ferdinand
Young Siward – Piers Morgan
The Murderers – David Beckham, Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole, Kylie Minogue
In my next piece, I’ll share with you the excitements from rehearsal.
The continuing story of an April night of fun and mayhem. You may wish to cross-reference with the below mentioned characters’ Twitter accounts.
After everyone had digested Gregg Wallace’s deep and meaty sausages, Russell Brand whizzed me onto the impromptu dancefloor aka skate park. As I observed before, he is very bendy. Before we knew it, we had formed the perfect conga.
In the murk at the back we thought we saw Sid James, but it was in fact all man (part centaur) Arthur Smith, who said our conga was amateur. By the time we’d completed his instructions for improvement, involving a lot of nudity, cheese and cheesy nudity, he was off rambling in his head…I mean, Kent.
Larry Lamb charged out of the nightclub, exceedingly angry at how the night was panning out and shot everyone. Oh hang on, am confusing him with evil Archie.
Shaken by the near miss with the dark Lord of ‘Enders, Wallace (formerly known as pudding face) retreated to his veg stall, where he’d created a gorgeous cake of root vegetables. He built himself a 10 foot wall of cauliflowers and hid behind it whimpering. I comforted him in my usual inimitable fashion. He passed out.
Out of the root vegetable cake burst Piers Morgan with a cheeky little hamster grin. He was artfully cloaked in leeks to hide his nakedness. Atop his cake, he declared, ‘I am the cock of the walk, but soon I’ll be a feather duster.’ Perhaps he’d consumed a magic mushroom. A gravel growl came from on high; ‘I am the real cock of the walk’. It was Lord ‘Siralun’ Sugar! Piers was so outraged his leeks fell off.
Everybody started bowing and scraping. Most of them have never seen a lord before and expected him to be wearing doublet and hose. Piers was still sulking in a corner, so I decided to take an interest in his lonely little life. I asked him what his show was called. ‘Piers Morgan Tonight,’ came the answer. ‘So tomorrow night it could be Russell Brand? Or Jonathan Ross? Or do you call it that so you don’t forget your name?’ He started crying so I comforted him in my usual inimitable fashion. He passed out.
Fed up with his lily-liveredness, I returned to the conga. I passed Pudding Wallace in a huddle, I thought with the witches from Macbeth, but it actually turned out to be the Masterchef restaurant critics in leather fancy dress.
I started chatting to the currently unemployed Freddie Flintoff. With his rippling muscles, I thought he’d be perfect for the flick I’m making next year ‘Lady Windemere’s Fanny.’ Russell’s already got his bit in the can, so to speak.
The conga had petered out so I borrowed Britney Spears’ lungs to announce that it was clean-up time, otherwise Lord Sugar wouldn’t be best pleased. Everyone gave him 417%. Creepy crawly bumlicks! Russell was hoping for a pat on the head but Sugar ignored him. Yes, you guessed it, I had to comfort him in my usual inimitable fashion. He passed out.
Sugar cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. Gosh, the power the man has.
‘I’m fed up with all my multi-million businesses. I’ve decided to put on a show. Something with a bit of weight to it. What do you suggest…?’ He looked at me.
‘Er,’ I stuttered, then caught sight of Wallace and his cronies.
‘Macbeth’ I said. ‘Lots of blood and guts and betrayal and power. Just like The Apprentice!’ There was a silence. Everyone was nervously awaiting his response.
He gave a cackle. ‘You’re on. And you’re gonna produce it with me.’
And that, my dears, is how I ended up working for Siralun. More soon!
Greetings from Steeple Bumstead. This is where anyone who’s anyone hangs out. And I mean ANYONE. Not just two-bit ‘slebs’ like Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp but real stars like Martine Twinkly-Nipples from Big Brother 417.
I was born and raised in Steeple Bumstead. In the strict religious sect, the Sisters of Hellfire. I managed to escape that and went and had a major career as a chat-show host in the States for a while. I would still be there, but Oprah begged me to quit because I was stealing all her viewers. I can never resist a plea from the heart so I returned to my alma mater (that’s not an actual place dum-dums, it means ‘old mate’ in Scottish. I’m showing how learned what I is).
By day I run my self-help group for women looking for meaningful, long-term relationships ‘Get Laid’. But at night I’m all yours. Yes, yours, you rugged, unshaven chap with come to bed eyes who’s planning to rip my clot….
Sorry, I digressed there.
Anyway, I bring you ‘Tales from Steeple Bumstead.’ So, if you’re sitting comfortably… not on a spike Douglas! (They’ve seen it all before at A & E), I will begin.
The other night Russell Brand and I went on a pub crawl. I won. My crawling is much better than his. As the night wore on, we bumped into Stephen Fry-Up! Lovely sausage sandwich he makes.
Then Russell, Stephen and I played Sardines and who should we discover but Sting!
Sting was jealous we didn’t include him in our sausage sandwich. He went to get Trudie to biff us, the big baby. She went ballistic and demanded we kiss Sting’s feet. That’s not the kind of foreplay I’m interested in. Russell didn’t take the indignation lying down and bit Sting’s foot instead.
Somewhat predictably a massive fight broke out. My money was on Russell. He may be thin, but he’s bendy. Although Sting can do those waily high notes that shatter your eardrums, which would be a novel fighting technique.
Trudie couldn’t let it lie. Literally. She flung herself on top of Russell and Sting shouting, ‘Leave him alone, he’s sensitive.’
Sting was FURIOUS with her, saying she’d EMASCULATED him. Stephen Fry waded in to split Sting and Trudie up. Trudie scoffed, saying what did HE know about marriage. So then Fry went off in a huff in search of a Turkish Delight. Jees. I decided to follow to find him being comforted in a salubrious bar (one of my favourite locals!) by Jonathan Ross. Man, that Jonathan Ross is one smooth talker! He had all the bar, including Vanessa Feltz, shaking their tail feathers on the dance floor. Gregg Wallace was a formidable mover and exceedingly masterful. I wouldn’t want to be a disobedient cauliflower on his veg stall.
As the sun came up, Russell suggested a skinny dip in the sea. Had to point out we’re in Steeple Bumstead, not California. He then revealed a glorious banquet on the shores of the Steeple Bumstead shopping centre, complete with cheesy straws and sherbet. Wallace not overly impressed by Russell’s spread (foodwise I mean). He revealed his sausages, which were certainly deep and meaty. Sting went wild for those deep, meaty sausages. Stephen Fry remarked gentlefolk should have more restraint. That’s where I’ve been going wrong!
Tales from Steeple Bumstead Part 2 to follow when I’ve digested my deep and meaty sausage.
Here at Get Laid we always tirelessly strive to help you improve your love lives. Ladies, you have to make yourself alluring. Speaking French is always an asset….’Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir…?’ as the great Lady Marmalade once said. Believe me, you can trust those posh knobs to tell it like it is, especially if they’ve got jam all over them, the dirty beggars!.
French is the language of love. Par example-r -French kissing – snogging with a load of onions and garlics around your gob, French letters – when you have sèx with an accent on the ‘e’. And best of all, French polishing, when you have sex on hard shiny tables with these garlics placed in every orifice.
Being sexy is about more than just pulling your tights down behind the bus stop – although some girls don’t even bother with that, yes Doris, I am referring to you. Most blokes said when encountering Doris for the first time – ‘If I’d known you were a virgin I’d have taken more time’, to which she would reply, ‘If I’d known you had more time, I’d have taken my tights off’….
Anyway, I digress. To make yourself irresistable ladies, you have to make the right noises. I’m not talking the oohs and ahhs here. I am talking wild animal noises. Literally. You have to tailor yourself to your specific strengths. If you can roar authentically like a lion, then roar girlfriend. If your speciality is giraffe whoops, then that’ll make somebody very happy. As for myself, my noble beast of choice, the specialite de la maison, if you will, is the majestic pigeon.
Men like to get in touch with their inner beast. And I like to get in touch with my inner pigeon. I used to hang around Trafalgar Square hoping for action, but all I ever got was bits of bread and the odd peanut. Once I pursued Boris Johnson shouting ‘Coo’, but he was ashamed of the rampant passion I aroused in his manly bosom – he put me on an Asbo.
I think the lesson to be learned here is, Don’t peak too soon. When you spot that gorgeous hunk in the pet aisle at Sainsbury’s, confine yourself to a hushed ‘croo-oo’. You’ll get his attention. When you’ve got him down the nightclub you can go a bit further: Flap your wings, flaunt your tail feathers. And when you’re finally at home with the lights down low, stripped to a cardboard beak and a few plumes, then go, sister, go crack that shell and fertilize those eggs……………