A rather odd response to the Chancellors Autumn Statement

The Elephant in the room . . . .  (Sea)

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 jhaverhd h aoud mini asdj  statement fsdhjfhj hh finances and   sjflj tax sjl  as well as a right old load of zcxvbxvcbv about balances bookes on his head. Anyway that joalster armie flea splat Mr Osborne babbled on for at lefxcbnvb an hour I reckon and although I (cxcvbsddi) sort of listened and blustied about in the waine a bit. I think it was not right.

Which brings me to my nest point ffhrrrjhjhfk and stuff is all very well, but I mean it fhjsjfghhf feste seems to get harder to understand kfjskfjlsisurif hisiltol glue stool pop d djskasd each year. At least in the olds days he put a couple of pence on a bottle of wine, everyone complained and blunstile approllist adsfsrfdsgf and we would throw seagulls at him. But not now . . . . now you need to have a degree in finance to even understand what he is saying. Which is of course the plan, because if you did know what the Chancellor of the Exchequer was on about then you would also know all is not what it seems.  And he has pinched your money again

I mean just how can anyone complain when they don’t understand a word of it, well not the bits where he nicks your money back anyway. . . . .  So all I can say in response to our old mate Mr George Osborne is . . . . Scrimble flip boo kistal jim spol greb askfjlk and I hope it hurts too.

Drugs in Sport is one thing but drugs in politics is terrible. . . . . I demand tests on the lot ( NO not tests on the drugs but test on politicians).

OOOOOoooo look a seagull.

Damn this is harder than it loops . . . PHEW    

More Writers Block, More Gibberish, Another day on King Street. . . . . and a Polar Bear

I have spent the day in a grey office not the sun so Persistent Writers block has become Chronic Writers block. It may be the other way round depending on which you think sounds worse. But I feel I am left with little option but to revisit the good folk of King Street; a street where little happens of interest allowing me to write more gibberish.

Very little of interest happens on King Street so it did not go entirely unnoticed when Mary or Auntie Mary as she was known to all on the street was seen pushing a large fibreglass Polar Bear balanced precariously on an old pram. Do you want a hand Auntie Mary said Mrs Jones her next door Neighbour, the pair of them struggling to get the life size Polar Bear up the stairs and into Mary’s bedroom.

As they sat it down looking out of the window Mrs Jones’s curiosity finally got the better of her. . . What exactly do want a life-sized Polar Bear for? she asked.

Well its that Mr Hamilton over the road he keeps peering at me at night through his windows  so I got this, I know he hates Polar Bears. And I have had it modified in the watch repairers in the high street. . . .

Modified ? Replied Mrs Jones looking with interest at the huge beast.

Yes it has lights in its eyes Look. . . Mary turned a switch on the side of the bear and its eyes glowed a sinister red. . . .

Its Winking said Mrs Jones it must have a dodgy connection in the wiring.

AH . . . WELL it growls as well said Mary turning another switch

But as she did so, rather than growl it made the sound of a large cuckoo clock. . .Are you sure that is right asked Mary rather alarmed by the sight of a winking Polar Bear going cuckoo . . . . cuckoo . . . . cuckoo . . . cuckoo . . . cuckoo . . . cuckoo

It was the nearest thing to a growl the watch repairers had in the shop was Mary’s response.

And it appears to be smiling said Mrs Jones   

 I know it a bloody nuisance that, but I could not find one that snarled said Mary

That night as darkness fell and Mr Hamilton wandered up to bed and he went to close his curtains he noticed a face. Well I should point out it is important to know Mr Hamilton has terrible eyesight and hearing so it was hard for him to work out who it was. It was certainly Auntie Mary’s bedroom window he thought and whoever it was, was smiling at him. Waving back he was responded to by winking and a muffled sound of Cooooo . . . . . Coooooo  . . . . well it was a bit of a shock as Mr Hamilton thought Mary had always disliked him.  So it was that the following morning as Mr Hamilton headed off to work and spotting Mary he felt confident enough to give here a cheeky wink and a quick pinch on the bum.  Well Mary was so annoyed that she went up to her bedroom and attempted to kick the Polar Bear down the stairs.

Later as she was approached by the doctor at the hospital he asked her what had happened to which she said. I kicked that bloody Polar Bear of mine and we both fell down the stairs. I broke my leg and all it did was wink at me bloody thing, luckily Mrs Jones heard it shouting cuckoo. . . . cuckoo . . .  cuckoo and she phoned for the ambulance. And then they refused to enter the house because the polar bear was smiling at them. I’m going to demand a refund once I get back home. . . That Bloody polar bear has done nothing but cause trouble.

The doctor smiled and quickly moved to the next patient who had swallowed a goldfish called Derrick. 

And I still cant think of anything to write about yet. . . . .  

Total Gibberish Caused by Persistent Writers Block

George had moved to King Street because of his obsession with all things connected with space and aliens, in fact it was this obsession that led to him painting his wife Mavis green. She did not object too much although she did say later that she would have preferred to have been warned in advance rather than wake up in the morning covered in green paint.  George himself said that he had never entirely understood Mavis and by painting her green she made a very good Martian, and he was working on a Martian Phrase book. Although Mavis was convinced she was speaking English and told George that everyone else understood her perfectly well.

It was rather ironic then that several weeks later George received a text message from Mavis to tell him she had been abducted by humans who were planning to do terrible experiments on her.  In reality she had run off with Mr Clark the librarian to Spain because the stress of being a Martian had become to much and as she told Mr Clark, George was completely mad.

Several houses along King Street at No24 lived Harold Beckman famous as the first British man in space, who spent several weeks on the International Space Station until the accident where he uttered those famed words HOuston we have a problem. . . . Again?  Since then Harold always kept a small can of oil about his person and insisted that his door hinges were oiled once a week.  As he told the postman on many occasions as he oiled the hinges of his front door . . . Nobody wants a squeaky door on the air lock. . .  He often referred to the front porch as the air lock. It was his four days trapped in the airlock of the International Space Station that had brought this way of thinking about, and his early retirement was finally thought for the best after he started to wrap his head in Kitchen foil and was found oiling the wrong end of the cat.

After Mavis was abducted (ran off) George spent many hours discussing this with Harold who said the Aliens were everywhere sabotaging all the critical doors around the world so that one day when they invaded folk would find they were immobilized by jammed doors making mankind useless and unable to defend themselves.

Their friendship however came to an abrupt halt when a young assistant at Boots the Chemist handed over some photographs he had developed for Mr Harold Beckman of them (George and Harold) both dressed as Penguins in a state of arousal. It was a great scoop for the local press but not so good for Harold, George or the assistant at Boots the Chemist who was sacked for breach of confidentiality.  Harold kept his front door locked after that and George ran off to Spain to escape from sniggering neighbours, where he found Mavis working in a tapas bar. She told George that her mind had been wiped by men in white coats so she had forgotten about him. They got back together after a bit and are now often seen scampering along the Spanish beaches wearing Penguin suits and giggling.

I hate Writers Block. . . When will it finally go. . . .AAAAuuuuuggghhhhh.