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."