I’m very fond of the way my comments section often spirals off into areas that have little to do with the original post. Quite often I have absolutely no idea what’s going on, as the conversation takes off on all sorts of freakish tangents, and that’s fine too. Today, however, I want to try something different. The last two evenings I’ve been out and had an exceptionally good time, but I really can’t be bothered to write about it, and that’s where you come in. I want you to tell me what I did, where I went, what happened while I was there and what I thought of it all. If you want to do a little research you can probably figure out where I was by using the clues below, but if you haven’t got the time or the inclination, then why not just make something up? I’d like to see what you come up with. The person who comes up with the story closest to reality and the writer who invents the most fantastical tale will both win a prize. Or something. Most likely the latter.
Clue 1: She divines water by dancing a jig – for the boys of the Press she will wrestle a pig.
Clue 2: All the snot has caked against my pants.
Just leave your answer in the comments section. Thankyou.
Oh, and if I get a good response, I might reward you with the story of the most embarassing thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s a doozy.
Clue 1: She divines water by dancing a jig – for the boys of the Press she will wrestle a pig.
Clue 2: All the snot has caked against my pants.
Blummin’ heck, Fraser.
Courtesy of Fugle@b3ta
What? Are we on a tangent already?
Oops! Apologies. It should of course be – Frugle@b3ta
Camper Van Beethoven and Love?
Hmm, I have to sleep on this one.
Doh! Ask Jeeves is usually so accurate an’ all.
Guess that means no prize for me. :(
Let’s see. Siria and Skinner are closest so far, but still no cigar… and I want more details.
1: I know you didn’t take any skinheads bowling, cuz you would have invited me, so you went to see Camper van Beethoven at the QEH.
2: You went to see Arthur Lee and Love at the RFH. You’ve got a bit of a cold right now, and ran out of toilet paper, so had to use your voluminous pants. Life imitating art.
well, first I thought camper van beethoven could be a girl you picked up. but google says it’s a band, guys only. what a name, no wonder no one knows them…
so, I guess…
fraser slipped in his designer-underwear and pants and went to a gig. singing along in a crowd he saw a girl. she was like the girl in the song and fraser had the urgent need to wrestle a pig with her.
talking to her (shouting in her ear to be precise) he had to sneeze. all the snot landed on his pants and the lady legged it.
this was the embarassing story of little fraser and the divine lady.
so our hero will be on the lookout for a lady again.
good luck, man. and buy a handkerchief.
Went to the Royal College of Biscuit Designers AGM, and to your surprise and delight, were awarded a Lunchtime Achievement Award for Services to the Biscuit Industry?
Fraser was sitting at home carefully tending the woollen jumper that had been given to him as a present when his car was stolen shortly before his trip to Chile. It has lots of bobbles in it from over-washing and through misuse of washing powder, so he decided that tonight would be a good night to remove them.
As he was removing one of the bobbles, it slipped out of his fingers and rolled onto the floor, where it began to slowly unravel.
On seeing this, Fraser picked it up and shook most of the fibres off. To his immense surprise, he soon discovered that the fibres had been wrapped around a tiny little note, no bigger than the size of a few grains of rice, written in tiny little handwriting that reminded him of Gwyneth Paltrow.
Fraser put the note under the microscope that he had handily on the table next to him in case of emergencies. Of course, it actually wasn’t Ms Paltrow that had written the note, because that would be ridiculous.
In disgust, Fraser didn’t continue reading and threw the tiny little note into the fireplace.
After this, he had no intention of continuing with his de-bobbling activities, so he put on his coat and left the house, determined to reach the pub in less than 4 minutes.
Luckily for him, the wind was behind him and the pub lay at the bottom of a very icy slope – so Fraser managed to skid and slide his way in through the door in 3 minutes and 14 seconds. “A new record” he thought to himself, and smiled.
He barged his way through the scrum at the bar and was about to order a pint of milk when to his horror, there caught under his finger nail was a tiny little note.
He plucked the note out and peered at it. It was too small to be read, so Fraser ordered his pint of milk from the decidedly elastic barmaid and downed it in one.
When the cheers subsided, he sat the empty pint glass on top of the teeny note and used the thickness of the glass as a mangnifying lens. Finally he could read the note.
This time the note wasn’t written in Gwyneth’s scrawly and ill-educated hand that belied a desire for pork scratchings and days spent in queues. No, this time the handwriting looked like it had been written by a tiny mouse, obviously educated somewhere in the North East, and who must have spent a lot of time rowing with gerbils. He read on, undeterred by what could easily have been red herrings in the graphology. “It is exactly what I would have done to confuse such a person as myself.” thought Fraser.
Peering through the glass lens, Fraser read:
“Greetings Fraser, apologies for the small size of this note but I have had difficulty with my handwriting of late. I know you will understand when I tell you what you must know.
I am a trapped soul, tormented by a woman who loves not and cares not for my well-being. This note, unlike the last one which you threw in the fire and which wasn’t written by me, is a plea for your help. I think you are probably the only one who can help me at this time, as a result of the connections you possess within the sphere and because I lost my address book and can only remember you at this time.
And so, to my predicament to which I am so desirous of your mercy. I am trapped in the brassiere of Sue Perkins – one half of comedy act Mel and Sue and lately of ‘Celebrity Big Brother’ fame. She has cast me into this dungeon of no escape as a result of a rather rash proposition I made her. Indeed, I am embarrassed to say that she is probably correct in doing so, although I may have been drunk at the time.
Please help me out of here, I will pay you handsomely and never trouble you again.
Yours in eternal gratitude,
Anon.”
Frazer looked up from the note. The time was now half past nine in the evening and should he decide to help this mysterious creature, he would undoubtedly miss the latter half of Footballer’s Wives. Waves of nausea ran over him as he realised that it wasn’t repeated before the next episode a week later, and he nearly gagged with vitriol when he realised that this was probably the week when they unveiled that the baby was an hermaphrodite.
Still, never one to turn a plea for help down, Fraser realised that he must help the poor soul. He vomited over the pub bar for appearances sake, made his excuses, and left the warmth of the bar for the cold dark blackness of the winter evening.
Half an hour and a tube ride, 2 buses and a Chicken Kebab later, Fraser found himself on Sue Perkins’ doorstep. How he knew this was her house, and how he had happened upon this house above all others in the great City of London when he hadn’t the foggiest idea where she lived, he and no one else would never know. He chalked it up to good providence and rapped on the door knocker.
Presently, the door creaked open, although no one was actually behind the door to open it! As he proceeded indoors, he stopped and looked at the back of the door. There, seated above the hinge was a complex arrangement of string and tipp-ex bottles, fashioned in such a way as to facilitate a remote electronic door opening device. “Ingenious” thought Fraser, as he took off his hat and cloak, and dropped them messily upon the floor.
He walked bare-footed down the corridor, cursing himself that he hadn’t brought any shoes with him until he finally reached the kitchen. As he rounded the corner he heard a pleasant humming, to the tune of “Little Donkey” and his nasal senses picked up on the delicous smell of fish fingers, being lightly grilled and roughly inserted into two wedges of highly tomato sauced brown bread.
He entered the kitchen and there was Sue, radiantly perched on a park bench in the middle of the kitchen, greedily forcing the fish finger sandwich into her face. She looked absolutely beautiful at that moment, and Fraser hoped he would capture this moment in his heart and mind forever, and so that could knock a quick one off later.
Sue stopped munching and looked up nervously.
“Hi” said Fraser, “erm this is going to sound wierd but…”
“You’re here about HIM aren’t you?” interrupted Sue, crumbs falling gracefully out of her mouth and falling onto her lap like mana from heaven.
“Yes, I guess” said Fraser.
“Oh well,” she spluttered, “I suppose I have been a bit cruel to him. You’re free to take him with you”
And with that, she staggered to her feet, placed the fish sandwich on the top of the washing machine and plunged a greasy hand down the front of her elegant dress. She fumbled around for a few seconds before suddenly screaming loudly and ripping her arm back out to look at it.
“The little fucker.” she moaned, “He’s only bitten me! Look! I’m bleeding! You’ll have to do it, I’m afraid he’s still rather sensitive about the way I’ve punished him.”
Fraser understood. Warily, he trundled forward and gingerly reached down through Sue’s cleavage and felt for the little captive. After a few seconds, he felt a small brushing motion on his palm, and he pulled his arm back out.
There, sitting in the middle of his palm, slightly dishevelled and blinking at the bright lights in the kitchen, was a miniature David Dickinson, of Bargain Hunt fame!
“Hello you beauty!” he grinned, and nodded his head towards Sue’s bosom. “Blimey, you don’t get many of those to the pound do ya? Bargain!”
Fraser looked up at Sue to see her angrily staring at the tiny TV presenter. He knew what he had to do. Slowly but forcefully, he closed his palm, oblivious to the cries and screams of pain. He looked up again to see Sue’s face beaming in rapture. Eventually the crying stopped and Frazer reopened his palm to see the crumpled and broken body of Mr. Dickinson, finally silenced and quite quite dead.
“You’re a marvellous man.” Beamed Sue, “here, have some of my fish finger sandwich.”
And so Fraser sat down with Sue for the rest of the night, eating as many fish finger sandwiches and drinking as much condensed cream before they thought their bellies would burst, whilst watching her entire collection of Bergerac reruns. Fraser had never been so happy, and certainly couldn’t remember ever having had such a brilliant night. Next morning, he went home tired but exhilarated, happy that life was great.
Uncanny.
Admit it Fraser, you wrote that long piece yourself.
I wish I had.
I think that somebody had way too much time on their hands to write something like that. But in saying that, I have to say that the imagination that went into that piece was quite incredible.
I have absolutely no idea about your clues, probably because I live on the other side of the world in Auckland New Zealand and really don’t know what’s “going on” in London.
I think that you could create an entire blog dedicated to your comments…..
BRAVO Wild! I can not stop laughing! Quite entertaining. I would only replace the fish finger sandwich with an apricot jam sandwich on whole wheat toast!
I’ve always found fruit conserves to belong to the realm of breakfast or even perhaps elevenses. The purely frivolous take them with afternoon tea, but not too much attention should be paid to them.
But conserve/bread combos in the evening (especially after a pint or two)?
Now you’re really in the realm of the crazy muttering people.
Fish finger sandwiches (when correctly prepared) are an easy and enjoyable way to slip into a relaxing evening after a potentially hard day writing hilarious comedy scripts and acting in bread product sponsorships.
we are waiting for the TRUE story, fraser!
the perfect fish finger sandwich:
take four decent quality fillet fishfinger (either haddock or cod, although hoki is now available under a certain brand but they are just a bit toooo fishy)
in a pan put equal quantities of olive oil and butter and fry gently until crisp.
whilst the fish fingers are cooking take two pieces of extra thick very soft white bread, lightly butter one piece and apply either ketchup or mayonaise to the other , unwrap a slice of plastic burger cheese and place on the buttered side.
then take your now crisp fish fingers and place on the cheese.
put the other slice on the fingers press gently and cut accross them so that each fish finger is halved.
mmm
Hmmm. Whatever that was you linked to, they didn’t like you doing so.
Fish finger sandwiches may be adequately prepared in the microwave, and have the advantage of creating absolutely no washing up.
Be prepared, however, for penguins.
tangent: my comments have started getting weird and argumentative. It’s frightening. Can I stay here please?
Yes, of course. Stay as long as you like.
Poor Scaryduck certainly looks to have stirred
some dissent over at Scary Towers.
I am sure, Scary, you’ll find safe sanctuary here
with the kindly Fraser.
Have a sweetie and chill out.
sheesh. I’ve always liked Camper Van Beethoven.