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!!!


Saturday, 12 July 2014

Death

...back in our hotel room, Glen tended to Tony's cuts and bruises. Tony was naked and outstretched on his bed, and as Glen dabbed at his cuts with cotton wool, Tony smiled, and told Glen that he was a wonderful nurse, and that if he ever decided to give up petty crime, he would easily get a job in a hospital.



Glen then undressed, and after Tony had lowered Glen's boxer shorts, he invited Glen to climb on top of him, insisting that he wanted to try out the sixty-nine position. Glen acknowledged Tony's request, and after straddling Tony's fat stomach, Glen lowered his head between Tony's fat legs, and started to suck on Tony's cock. Tony squealed with delight, and taking Glen's cock into his own mouth, he proceeded to reciprocate the cock-sucking gesture.



Glen ejaculated first, although if Tony had been expecting to receive a mouthful of warm spunk, he discovered that the only fluid which shot from Glen's cock was blood. Tony screamed out, and desperately trying to get Glen to stop, he found more and more blood shooting from Glen's now limp cock. Glen was lifeless on Tony's body, and as the flow of blood continued, I could see that Tony had started to cry.



Tears trickled down Tony's face, and as I tried to understand just what was happening around me, Jill appeared beside me, telling me in her soft voice that it was best if we left the two lovers to get on with whatever it was they were doing.
Tony Joy and Glen, two hard bastards from Catford, are in bed together. But Tony - a fat, foul-mouthed man with a heart of stone - is a real man, and a man who certainly has no homosexual inclinations.

Something has gone terribly wrong in southeast London - but what?

Find out in "The Londoners Trilogy - Four Years In London" - out now on Kindle.


Sunday, 29 June 2014

Only 5 Pence!





Back in the seventies, five pence would have bought you a delicious bar of Galaxy full cream, milk chocolate and a Twix would have set you back three pence.



Yes, this was a time when life was just GREAT, this was a time before the internet and a time before mobile telephones. British TV was probably at its peak - series like The Sweeney, The Two Ronnies and Morecambe & Wise poured from our box-shaped sets - and the music which came from the radio was REAL music, and nothing like the crap we have to tolerate today.



Peter Sutcliffe (aka The Yorkshire Ripper) had started his campaign of hate against prostitutes, the labour party was in the throes of fucking up Great Britain and British Leyland was churning out their shit cars.



1976 was a summer to remember, as glorious days of sun seemed to go on forever. British Rail was in need of life support and power cuts were all the rage. Rubbish piled up in the streets and package holidays to Spain were an alternative to a weekend in Margate.



Blasting a ball through a multi-coloured wall was what Atari offered us in the way of video games and drunken yobbos were happily vandelising telephone kiosks. Football hooligans had a hell of a time and Christmases seemed to last an eternity...



...until midnight, the thirty-first of December, 1979.



Callaghan was out and Thatcher was in. Arthur Scargill was rearing his ugly head and the Falklands war was about to hit the headlines. Maggie wanted victories on all fronts, she drove down unemployment and gave simple folk the chance to buy their council houses. Saturday nights out seemed much better and holidays in the sun were a must. Pot Noodles and boil-in-the-bag curries were an alternative to fish and chips and British TV seemed to be getting better. New video games popped up like wild flowers and Marks & Spencer was queen of the High Street. There was a feel-good factor sweeping through our land, and if a bar of Galaxy full cream, milk chocolate was more expensive, who cared!



Were they the good old days? I dunno, but a blast of nostalgia never did anyone any harm, and neither did a bar of Pink Panther chocolate or a go at space invaders.



Long live the future, for the past is dead. Long live Poundland, for Woolworths is dead. Long live Snickers, for Marathon is dead.

Monday, 16 June 2014

Utter Crap!

 
Some will blame it on the heat, some will say the pitch was bloody awful and others will say that we did our best. But as another glorious defeat is delivered by the England football team, why don't we just admit that, as a nation, we are not capable of playing football at the highest standard.

As usual, the pre-match hype had England as victors in their difficult, first-round match, against those pizza-loving, pasta-stuffing Italians, who clearly need to be brought down a peg or two. Thousands of England fans had made the trip from Blighty to Brazil, and millions of supporters throughout our green and pleasant land were either in the pub, or at home, rubbing their hands in anticipation of the good hiding we were going to give to Italy's finest.

And so, ninety minutes later, Roy Hodgson's young lions bowed their heads in shame, after another inept and useless performance of the highest standard.

Next Thursday, when England face Uruguay in their second match, I won't even watch the game. Why bother? Instead, I'll read a book, surf the net, dig up a few weeds from the garden, tidy the shed or clean the barbecue.

   
Geriatric manager, Roy Hodgson, is ready for retirement, and has no hope whatsoever of bringing the World Cup back to England. During the match, when the camera zoomed in on Hodgson's face, he looked like a man who wished that he was back at home, far away from the shambles which he was orchestrating. Then, at times, he appeared to be talking to himself or gazing wide-eyed into the air, looking for inspiration and wondering why his team was in the process of fucking-up another World Cup campaign.

Everyone knows that aggression and an attacking mentality will reap its rewards. The only way to win a game of Monopoly is by attacking the other players from the outset, by buying all of the property, and selling it on at ludicrous prices, thus crippling, financially, your opponents. The only way to win a boxing match is to thrash the other guy to near-death. The only way to win a war is by bombing the enemy and then rolling over them with tanks. So, naturally, the only way to win a football match is...

Thank God that England is still up there with the best, when it comes to being a great nation, and that our display in Brazil will do nothing to take the edge off some of our finest non-football related victories. We've won wars, we've ruled empires and we gave the world delightful country pubs, fish and chips and Phil Taylor - the world's GREATEST darts player!