Oh Woe is ME.

Many thanks for the advice from Suzanne and Fiona. As you use the no-reply button when you post I cannot reply in person. It would make life a lot easier if you Emailed me direct. Well I did manage, after a lot of arsing around, to get the counter back up. Then I noticed all the links have disappeared! I will have to put those up again laboriously one by one as the days progress. I went deep into the guts of my machine and played with all the advanced settings, clicking here and there and everywhere, but to no avail. So I suppose I just gotta wait till I find someone who has a better idea what’s going on.

I am a bit miserable at the moment. BUT, as it is suppose to be my job to make people laugh, I have a treat for you. I am pleased to announce that for my final teacher marked assignment for my course at the Open University - Writing Fiction – I got 85%. That’s a 1 pass. Cool huh! I was extremely hampered by the word count so what should have been just a very long story was chopped up into a so called Book Chapter. I dunno if I will ever get any further with it.

I was rereading some of the Tinny Blabber code last night. I haven’t looked at it for months, so spotted loads of errors, but for a high speed freewrite, I thought it was rather good. I really should do something with it…yeah…like I got LOTR to finish also.

So for your reading pleasure…here it is.

THE LOST PLOT

Narcissist and CBS (Chronic Boredom Syndrome) sufferer, Ferry Strange II, is a figment of alcohol fuelled imagination and legend in his own mind. His warped magnetic personality fractures time and space - thus, according to the laws of quantum physics, it results in him losing the plot constantly and reappearing relatively unscathed in yet another.

Chapter One:

GONE WITH THE WIND?

It is now nine o’ Clock here on BBC 1, time for the news, with Shalimar Gajsek and Stewbird Vool.

‘Good Evening, it’s Friday the 13^th of September 2013. Fears are mounting for the missing Vaginal Airlines flight 666 to Malta, which disappeared from radar screens two hours into its virgin flight earlier this evening. The highly controversial plane, christened Titsuptanic, only yesterday by financial backer, Sheik Mah’Leg, is the first wind powered aircraft of its kind. It had taken off from Looted Airport, with 763 passengers and a crew of three, after half an hour’s delay. Amongst them is the 45 year old celebrity Ferry Strange the Second. Reports are still sketchy, but a reprehensive from the airlines did not say that the pilot had radioed in, shortly before it apparently fell out the sky, reporting that many of the passengers were being violently sick and overcome from fumes reminiscent of rotten fish and boiled cabbage, and that he was decreasing his altitude so they could open some windows.’

Shalimar Gajsek sputtered the last words before throwing herself violently against the back of her chair and then, to the amazement of her fellow newsreader, tilted her head back and let loose wails of distraught, hysterical laughter, followed by a mighty crash as she disappeared from view in a flash of white knickers and shapely tanned legs - closely followed by her laptop…

Friday 13^th of September 2013. 6.00pm – Looted International Airport.

‘Please remove any sharp objects, such as nail files, pocket knives, knitting needles, Ninja fighting stars, etc., as these are not allowed to be taken on board and place them in the transparent Perspex box.’ This boring monologue was repeated to all passengers as they placed their hand luggage onto the rollers before the opening of the scanning sarcophagus.

Next in line, Ferry Strange II, with immaculate timing, unzipped a side pocket from his cheap rucksack and just as it was about to disappear, removed a foot long black vibrator, flicked it on, and nonchalantly popped it into the container. Trapped inside, its frantically pulsating head rattled noisily amongst the various confiscated objects as it searched for some hole to hide in.

‘Mummy, what’s that strange thing the funny looking man has put in there?’ squeaked a small girl in the queue directly behind Ferry.

Strange’s face remained immobile. His black silk cloak billowed around his matching coloured leather clad form as he stooped through the metal detector gate - setting it off instantly. He grinned wolfishly, exposing silver pointed incisor caps to the hapless security man as he waved his lolly-pop around him.

Roaring deeply he announced: “I have come through your Star-gate. Take me to your beer dispenser.’ He then strode in the direction of the bar in the airport’s departure waiting area - without bothering to retrieve his rucksack. It only contained toy automatic pistols and hand grenades. Ferry loudly sung the opening lines of his favourite Sex Pistol track: ‘I am the Anti-Christ! I am an Anarchist! I dunno what I want but I know how to get it…’, as the pandemonium broke out behind him. A quick look at his reflection in a Duty Free shop window confirmed that his pseudo Dracula personae choice for the trip was definitely self-pleasing.

At the bar, Ferry bemusedly studied the huge gilt-framed 2012 Olympics Hall of Fame placard, showing details of the single British medal winner, whilst he waited for his drinks. Reading was difficult. The new luminous green contact lenses were playing havoc with his eyes, making the whites rather red, but he could just make out Momad-Dee-Killah’s name, who had won a bronze in Street Fighting. When his first beer arrived, he wrapped his fingers around the glass, his metallic painted finger nails complimenting the colour of the brew. Using a trick he had learnt from the Oktoberfest, he overrode his swallowing mechanism and poured down the liquid in front of the astonished eyes of the awe struck teenager, still busy pulling his remaining order of four pints.

By the time he had sunk his third pint, and autographed 27 covers of the latest copies of Britain’s best selling weekly magazine, RBB (Rich Bitches and Bastards), emblazoned with a photo of his naked comatose body being dragged by the police out of the Australian jungle, Ferry was getting bored again. Suddenly, the constant background noise of flight departure announcements was drowned out by the hell raising din of howling wolves emitting from his mobile phone. Strange looked at the flashing screen and sucked at his fangs in pleasure. Anticipating the coming verbal tirade and ignoring the bleating of his fans, he hit the ‘receive’ button.

‘Hey,’ he drawled, flicking back his shoulder-length black hair and propping the device between the ear and shoulder, ‘how’s my favourite BBC red head doing? You got news for me or you are just missing my weight on top of you?’

His hands, now unoccupied, amused themselves by lighting up a cigarette and burning holes into a Striklee No Smokin cardboard sign.

Shalimar Gajsek laughed that famous sound of pure desire, like Linda Lovelace gargling on Channel Number 5, and then let loose - ‘You obnoxious bastard, according to the 6 o’clock news, that I have just read out, you’ve been back two days and you haven’t bothered to call me. Where the hell are you now?’

‘I’m just about to board a flight to Malta.’

Shalimar switched to her moaning girly voice, ‘we haven’t spoken since your good-bye party on Saturday when you tried to make us eat all that sauerkraut and kippers and now you are off again! I am starting to think my mother was right about you…’

‘Aah, give me a break Shali, I am still recovering from my wounds.’ Ferry instinctively rubbed at the spot where the immobilisation dart had been fired into his buttocks. He was the first person to be forcibly removed from the live reality show, I’m a Celibacy - Get Off Me, and deported from Australia.

He scowled, ‘my arse still hurts, you know, and the bastards refuse to pay me my appearance fee. Still, it was the best laugh I’ve had in ages,’ he added, draining his fourth pint and signalling for three more.

Shalimar started to giggle. ’Serves you right. Still, when you tied up that silly cow and announced you were going to demonstrate the Pogo from Togo, I nearly wet myself. And how the hell did you manage to get all that champagne helicoptered in? I thought the camp’s location was top secret!’

Ferry snickered. ‘I had a GPS phone in a condom - shoved up my ass. It was simple, if albeit painful, to send the co-ordinates. The rest is history.’

Ferry had single handily increased the show’s normal ratings by 400% on the first night. However, as the camp became an orgy of drunken debauchery, the sight of the naked former Labour government Prime Minster’s ex-wife trussed up in vines, like a Christmas turkey about to be Strangely stuffed, before a live audience of 35 million excited, albeit brain dead television viewers - he had pushed the envelope of tolerance a bit too far.

‘Gawd, you are insufferable, Ferry Strange. Why are you going to Malta?’ Shalimar sounded well peeved that Ferry was off again on another trip to satisfy his Chronic Boredom Syndrome.

Ferry replied, reading from a seriously fancy embossed letter reeking of whisky, ‘Some Bozo in Gozo, calling himself Father Shameus O’Toole, Last Grandmaster of the St John’s Order of Errant Knights In White Satin, claims to have proof of my real parentage, so I thought I’d check it out.’

‘Shame, I thought we might romp about a bit tonight…’ Shalimar paused for a sulking moment, allowing Ferry to sling down yet another Guinness, before she continued, ‘RBB wrote that your mother murdered your father by sticking his head in a deep fat fryer.’

‘Yeah, something shifted in her head after their business went bust in East London. I guess calling the shop - Ferry Strange Fish and Chips and Hot Faggots - was a bad idea. Anyway, I got to split. They have just announced that they would turf my luggage out on to the tarmac if I didn’t turn up in 60 seconds.’

‘So what has happened to the rest of that stinking mess of kippers and kraut? There must have been 100 kilos of it,’ continued Shalimar desperate for a few more moments of his attention.

Strange drank greedily from his sixth pint before answering. ‘Actually, it was a 183 kilos, to be precise. My rubbish bin was full, so just for a laugh, I’ve checked it all in as luggage. I need only to pull the tags off at the other end on the baggage reclaim ramp…’

`Charming indeed! Well, I suppose I should wish you a good trip. Hopefully you will phone me when you have some news. You didn’t tell me that you love me.’

‘Didn’t I? Okay - I love me! ‘

‘Piss off Ferry! I hope your bloody plane crashes.’ The phone went dead.

Friday 13^th of September 2013. 9.04pm: Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.

Ferry looked at his rescuers. There seemed to be scores of emancipated refugees crammed into a tiny leaky wooden boat, bobbing gently on the tepid waters. Standing up to his full height, he spread his arms out in greeting. The soaking cape clung to him like a giant bat’s wings; his silver incisors glinted under the full moon and small rivulets of blood from a superficial head wound mingled with his streaming mascara. The strange glowing green eyes, scanned the petrified passengers. Ferry paused a second. Gathering his thoughts he addressed the visibly shaking wrecks: ‘I don’t suppose you might have some cold beer on board?’