Whipping up a frenzy III

Here I demonstrate another way of consuming these pyramids of pleasure, this time in the style of Albertoe Steptoe.

I simply can't think why I am so choc-obsessed at the moment.

Whipping up a frenzy II

Here's an expert swiftly demolishing a fluff-filled delight.

I would repeat the commentary she gave on the correct etiquette for putting away the confection-perfection but cannot for fear it would be considered a right innuendous pile of sauce.

Again - no grudge-related post, this!

Whipping up a frenzy I

I was told that they were no longer available.

Which I find is strangely often the case when I express an interest in something or someone.

But here they are, larger than life, on a shelf at WeightRose.

I should point out that I haven't posted this to make some oblique grudgeful point about chocolate.

Trendsetter

Mere months after the purchase of my own spectaculars, I see others just can't wait to get on the "Ooh-me-eyes-can't-see-a-thing-that-man-Derrig-has-a-tasty-line-in-peeper-ware" bandwagon.

And who can blame them?

No, go with me on this

Fuzzy Princess Mashpo

There I was celebrating Tallulah's birthday (somewhere between 30 and 60, she tells me - not entirely sure), when I started coming over all vague myself.

I was in the darkness of the void!

Imagine if you will your brain a planet of the outer space. A outer space unexplored place by man or mankind. Floating free in the universe, and me - Captain Thruster Derrig - scooting round the space of universe on my deep-dark probe-engine.

There I am, picking up unmistakeable signs of life on my lifesignometer that are emanating in rays coming up from the outer space planet as I circumspatialise it. I have no alternative as an explorer but to go down and check out this signal.

No, bear with me.

I land in world of anthropomorphised foodstuffs. Vanilla pods troop about disconsolately. Cherries hang about in gangs muttering. Celery slinks by.

I explore around a bit.

Then - hellzapoppin' - I am confronted by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and she is urgently desirous of hot bodily functioning on my behalf.

But - and it's a big but this but - she is formed entirely of mashpo. She is, in fact the Princess Mashpo of he Mashpo People of the outer space place planet.

Although gorgeous beyond compare - sorry Twins Of Evil - I can do nothing but turn away nauseated as she seeks to inveigle me into her doings. (Being as she is made of that devilish nun-originated concoction.)

"No!" I cry and rush away, leaving her distraught.

I climb aboard my machine and thrust off, curiously invigorated. The sky goes different colours and I am magnetic. Like a big magnet.

I am magnetised all over and end up rushing toward the sun of this misbegotten solar system, my feet melting into my shoes like deep-fried brie in socks.

"Aaaaaargh!" I scream.

"Arrrrrrghhh!" I scream again before suddenly coming to in an entirely unexplained way in a ghastly slimy pool of my own in the garden with the most searing sunburn on my already too-pinky skin.

And that's why I swore off doing drugs with Tallulah.

Happy birthday, Tallulah!

Scotland report

Well, as you might have expected, things did go a bit a-gley.

It seems you simply can't stick a bunch of well-meaning lads together in a country for a quiet weekend of contemplation, walks, deep-fried delights and beer and expect harmony to be maintained.

The lang and the short of it: I was enjoying the local beverages in order to quench myself of a mighty drouth mouth, as I am known to do. Beer, beer, beer. Lovely stuff. Especially with the old fruit in it.

Anyway, at about 10am, just three hours after we got our wolf lips on, I was feeling highly refreshed and ready to board our luxury hire vehicle and drive us to Loch Lomondness for a bit of a wander.

Finding it a struggle to match car key to car door lock, despite the noisy encouragement of Gordoon and Tim McRubbish, I called on a passing official for help. The old lad in blue - for indeed he was a bobby - bowled over and began speaking at me in Merican.

He was - strangely for those parts of the very North of England that the locals choose to defy all logic by calling 'Scotland' as if it had some kind of separate culture, language, economy, or governance - A Merican.

Despite being A Merican he was fully entitled to exercise his lawful duties and take me in for questioning, claiming I had control of the vehicle at the time in a befuddled state. Which is ridiculous as you can't control a car if you can't even get into it. But there you are.

So, now I'm submitting my compo claim for the severe and vicious bruising I sustained at the hands of the officer concerned. I have taken possession of the videotaped interview (below) and you can see for yourself how I was mistreated by this scoundrel.

Tartan aboot

The Clan Derrig Tartan (actual size*)

Having noo walked aboot a tad in the braw bonnie boohoomla, trampling the Heather ney McNonny, I am now oover the mooon to be told by my travelling compradoon, Gordoon, that I am noo entitled to they Tartan for ma Clan, ye whisht?

I am McBladdered to the gills to be the recipient of such high honour and can only thank the Lord Haggis of Deepfriedpizza for recognising my services to the Scotland area's brewing and catering trades.

Tartar for noo.

*1/72 scale

Beached

Behind every good man there's a woman.

I understand this to be the slogan or 'Strapline' of the Laydeez Institute currently gathered for a little old chinwag in sunny Southport.

Long may these lovelies bring up my rear!

Fit For Nothing

This weekend starts today with a promise to myself to get fit, with lots of walks and nutritious grub on my trip to Alba (ScotsLand).

Unfortunately such delights as illustrated above do not come free.

But let that be an end to the matter.

I am not one to bear a grudge.

And choc again, sort of

Who's that snickering at the back?

Tenuous, I know, but go here to check out Mad Dicky's latest money-making enterprise.

More choc

I will have to take the Boss's word for it, but she claims this bar is actually un-stolen, and paid for with good money.

As you will see it is from the abroad, in fact from the country with the frilly-curly bits - almost frisee-like - round the edge, where the native tongue is just like English - my second language unconsciously - but with lines through the letters and so forth. It is easily enough decipherabolical to those gifted with the Babble, thus: Fir - a fir tree; Klover - a low-growing greenstuff or possibly a butter-substitute.

This reveals unto us that chocolate can be made from virtually any substances all mixed up in a bowl.

Alternatively, it could be something for the Lover of Firk.

Whatever, it is an appreciated morsel and better than some of the old tut that comes my way on the return of other sojourners over the seventy seas. And so much better than finding out that one's share of a gratis supply of chocolate HAS BEEN PILFERED SHAMELESSLY BY THOSE WHO OUGHT TO BE A DARNED SIGHT MORE CAREFUL ABOUT PLAYING UP TO THE ABSURD AND INSULTING STEREOTYPES SPREAD ABOUT BY THE BLINKERED WHO WOULD CLAIM THAT THE PARTNER-IN-CRIME PAIRING OF AN EVIL-GENIUS GERMAN AND A CRAFTY SCOUSER WAS ABOUT AS BAD AS IT COULD GET.

I think the guilty parties know what I'm saying here, and let that be an end to matter and no grudges held if suitable recompense is forthcome.

To Certain Laydeez

It appears I have stirred up a hornet's nest with yesterday's post which untowardly revealed the possibility that I had enjoyed "fireworks" on St.Valentine's night.

I regret any embarassment my report caused to those who felt they were also in the running but are now claiming they were not amongst those who enjoyed any fireworks or greasy romancin' at my hands.

I therefore wish to apologise to all those laydeez who did not get a night of unbounded joy with myself at their helm, and promise to try harder to accommodate all my admirers at the 2010 celebrations of hard loving.

If you wish to be considered for this opportunity next year, please send in your CV with a recent picture and a cheque for twenty pounds made out to "Derrig's Slippery Whirlwind Loving Up Valentine's Day Roman Candle Experience And Chocolates 2010".

St.Valentine's Day Report

...and all for the price of three boxes of chocolates.

St.Valentine's Day Tomorrow Goodwill Gesture Today

It's not often that I get a tear brought to my one good eye, but I felt I just had to share with you the amazing announcement only just announced by the Lady Jojojojojojo of the 5th floor and her 'companion' Sam 'Spiv' Oestreicher.

They have invited all and sundry to the Lady Jojojojojojojojo's fantabulous office premises to share in their good fortune of having stumbled across a family-pack of Baci chocolates.

Each and every caller will be entitled to claim one Baci (which translates roughly from the Italian as 'ILL-GOTTEN GAINS YOU LIGHT-FINGERED WAZOO') and a quick Valentine's go on the lips of the Spiv.

But hurry! They're going fast!

Tragic old news eventually

By the miracle of the wondrous Brais-o-phone I have only just learned from the gadget-obsessed practitioner of micro-journalism of the death of the world's second greatest living Irishman.

Beetling its way gradually - almost in a stately way - through the many miles of underground tunnels that connect the startlingly modern Brais-o-phone to anywhere in the world within a radius of up to 400 yards, the news came to me of the passing over of Patrick Magee.

A major star in the 1960's with his trademark twirling umbrella and bowling hat, he was involved in a serious and unconsummated affaire d'coeur with his TV partner Emma Peeling.

MacNee then went on to take to the stage as a favourite of Samuel Buckett, renowned Irish playwrite in French, starring in such masterpieces as 'Tapes Last Krapp' and 'Enter Godot'.

Taking his penchant for the absurd to another level, he embarked on what may be television's greatest bonkers programme in the whole history of it excluding 'Pin Tweaks', 'Do Not Adjust Your Self', 'Morton Plimsoll's Frying Crocus', and hundreds of others too hundreds of to put all their names to down here for want of timing available.

I write, of course, of 'The Plumber' in which McGoohan plays a man trapped in a complex system of pipes and is tormented by someone who needs a Number Two. A more detailed synopsis of the whole sorry mess can be found here.

Moving afterwards to the U of S of A to avoid demands for an explanation, he featured a lot in still pictures of him dressed as a priest or driving a wagoon, sometimes both, until he finally fell off his perch.

Well, here's to you Patrick, a free man at last!

Giftie from Beattie

Beattie has purchased for me a very stylish aide-memoire so that in future when the question arises I am in no doubt as to the second most famous line from that great film "Filthy Foxtrotters".

The Old Black Velvet

An art, yesterday

I don't know much about art.

There, I've said it. The unsayable saidable.

I simply can't keep up with all this new-fangled art-world chicanery. I find this modern stuff particularly inexplicably unexplainable.

Take 'perspective' for instance. The work of the devil if you ask me.

But I do know what I like, and I like a good portrait-picture or action-picture on the old black velveteen. Eyes that follow you round the room. Maybe an elephant or two or a little boy with a tear rolling down his cheek.

So I've managed to go one better and have found a place which will accept a commission forunto me in a painting of which I will be centrepieced.

Check out the sample they sent me here.

Now, if everyone who reads this sent me just seventy pounds I could commission one of me in an Aztec-style-saving-a-laydee pose and hang it in my games room over my D.C. dolly display case.
Just in time for my grand public opening of Derrig Towers, more of which later.

Campaign poster 12

Campaign poster 11

In this picture you can see why Braisers is our Tall Members' Officer.

But remember, posters do put a good 24 inches on one's height.

Campaign poster 10

Campaign poster 9

Reader, I Carried A Watermelon

Often removed from the 'authorised' version, pictured here is a dramaticisation of a little known espisode from Pride and Predjudice in which a watermelon is carried.

Unfortunately the reserachers at Smartarses don't delve enough into original works to come up with the real answers.

I am left with no alternative but to write to the Beeby Ceeb raising a protest.

The Big Day

I am prevented by modesty and a signed contract from revealing the precise scale of my victory.

Which means you will have to watch it when it comes onto your tellybox.

Keep checking in here regularly to find out the date of this momentous broadcast.