Tag Archive: Jeremy Forrest

Accident-prone … Me?

Ugh! I’ve been ill these past couple of weeks. Starting on that day out in London, my sore throat developed into a full blown cold as reported last week and continued for much of this one. I am, thankfully, over it. Yesterday morning was the best day for ages. I felt bright, cheerful and raring to go at the monthly meeting of the Walsall Adult Writers. Then I walked into this …

Yes, that’s my loft ladder, left open while I was putting stuff up there and when I came upstairs with more things, I didn’t notice it as I was too busy reading while walking … and then smacked my head against the trap.


Yes, there was blood and maybe getting into the bath twenty minutes later wasn’t a good idea but it had stopped by then.

Thing is, as I’d decided I was going to blog about it, I needed a photo, which is the one you’ve just seen. However, my camera was downstairs so after lowering the hatch once more, later in the evening, I went to get it. I was returning upstairs (You know where this is going, don’t you), switched on my camera, didn’t look where I was walking and hit the bloody thing for the second time in one day.

Okay, on this occasion there was no injury and my staircase didn’t resemble a scene out of Saw, but I was disorientated. I retreated back downstairs to grab a drink from the kitchen.

Now, a lesson also to learn is that when it is dark and you have to go through your living room to reach the said kitchen, it’s a good idea to turn on the light, especially when the kitchen is in darkness, too. And if you’ve forgotten that you left the kitchen door like this …

Not my day, really. I suppose I am a little accident-prone. Still, I can relax now. All I have to do is write this roast. Oh yes, I also have to repair that loose floorboard. Now where’s the hammer and those nails?

The Sun always shines …

I was in the queue at the local shop a while back. In front of me, a man was complaining as the Sun newspaper he’d bought an hour before, had most of the middle of it, missing. He should think himself lucky. Some poor bugger’s going to find himself reading pages 19 to 54, twice.

Steptoe and Son – Ride!

Remember these?

Today, where your local rag-man drives around in a van, you may be excused for thinking the likes of Steptoe and Son, were a thing of the past. But not so.

On quite a few occasions, and mostly in the neighbouring town of Bloxwich, I’ve seen a horse and cart driven around to collect scrap. However, it isn’t grown men as I found out recently, they are being operated by kids. I was in a massive queue. The tailback was immense but slowly, cars were overtaking the offending vehicle holding everybody up. Imagine my annoyance when I did too and saw this.

Yes, astonishing. To drive a car, you need to spend hundreds on lessons, pass a test and then get fleeced by greedy insurers who want all your savings just so you will be allowed to drive. On the other hand, by the evidence of this photo, any pizza-faced moron can grab hold of a horse, stick a couple of reins on it, whip it half to death and leave the roads full of shit as they can’t be bothered to pick it up.

How is this allowed to go on? There are strict guidelines for driving a motorised vehicle which is entirely in your control yet people are allowed to ride on the roads pulled by a creature that can be totally out of their control.

Something is not right there.

Still doesn’t add up.

Last week, I spoke of 30-year-old maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest who was a silly sod and ran off with his 15-year-old pupil. In his defence, he does say that he took it literally when somebody asked him to work out how many times 30 goes into 15.

Has Cinderella been in my garden?

Well, judging by the evidence – no.

The other day, I got up, yawned, walked downstairs and avoided walking into a door. I stared out of the kitchen window and imagine my surprise as I saw this …

Okay, that’s weird. It’s not like my garden is a right of way so how in the name of sanity did that training show get there? The thing is, it gets weirder. I was due out the house and didn’t have time to investigate. By the time I’d got home, it had gone.

WTF? It’s my back garden. So some bloke has lost a bloody shoe and tries to think. Oh, now where did I leave it? I know, it was in Nick’s back yard.

Also, next day I looked out and there was a pack of half-eaten sandwiches.

Am I missing something; has somebody stuck up a sign saying Picnic Site and not told me?

By hook or by crook.

Ha Haaaa! Hook-handed Abu Hamza has been extradited and you lot over there in the States have to foot the bill for his upkeep now.

It’s ridiculous how long it’s taken for this low-life scum to be kicked out. Come on, authorities, sort the bureaucracy and make it simpler.

Still, he’s gone after eight years. Three in prison and five to get him through the metal detectors at Heathrow Airport.

And back in calamity corner …

I told at the beginning of my attempts at head-butting the loft hatch. I was worried at first as there was quite a bit of blood but it soon stopped. I did make a mess of a nice white towel though and after I’d used it, forgot and left it at the foot of the stairs. Now imagine this. I’m chopping some meat to prepare a meal and the bell goes. I walk to the door, see the blood-soaked towel and think, Oh, I must wash that. I pick it up, open the door and all my visitors see is me with a large knife in one hand and a blooded towel in the other.

Brilliant. Don’t think I’ve ever got rid of Jehovah Witnesses so quick.



Pitching an idea.

Last Saturday, myself and fellow troublemaker, Rich, took the 0830 train to London in order to have a 30-second pitch to an agent, plus useful feedback then question and answer sessions. This was at Foyles Bookshop and the agents were from Curtis Brown – just about as big as you can get in the UK.

Okay, I didn’t get my novel taken on but I did see a book I have a piece in, smack bang in the window of Foyles.

Me, and you can just about make out Alarmist Magazine above the sign by my hand which says, magazines. It’s the dark cover with The Holy Book, on the cover. I will add, Alarmist isn’t a religious publication, just in case you think I’ve turned towards the light. Nooooo! Happy being a church-fearing atheist, me.

Still, it made my day and how many others pitching could boast being in the window of Foyles. The only way I’d have thought it possible for me was if I took part in a ram-raid which went wrong.

An idiot abroad. Well, in London, anyway.

After we left Foyles, neither of us really knew where we were going but we still had four hours to kill before the panel event later in the day. We were also hungry so we set off to find food, promptly getting lost before coming across this …

Ha! Knew where were, then. So, navigating the streets of London from memory of a Monopoly Board, we took a chance, turned into Leicester Square with me narrowly avoiding jail after an unwise attempt at chatting up a woman young enough to be my daughter.

Okay, there does come a time in life when you realise you’re too old and not going to shag Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For me, this was it. And it was pointed out that having a cute lass on the door, does not constitute a good reason to go inside and eat there.

So we opted for Pizza Hut instead and contrary to my normal eating-out disasters, this particular Hut, hadn’t, as is normally the case with me, run out of Pizza. Believe me – it happens.

So I survived London, and even managed to find my way back to Euston Station, despite it not being on a Monopoly board.

Do the maths, Sir.

These days, I accept the only virgin I’m ever going to get inside, is the express train home from London. Not so, maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest. He failed to learn the ultimate lesson. After being on the run for a week with his 15-year-old lover, 30-year old Forrest is rightly, in custody. Idiot. One career up the spout. Just hope that’s the only thing that is. It’s ironic really. One week, he’s taking the register, next week, he’s on one.

The multi-tasking daughter of the King.

Lisa Marie Presley has been a busy girl.

She was in the papers on Wednesday with the article about her farming exploits. Then, yesterday, she’s in them again but now, apparently, she’s helping out at the local chip shop. I won’t make the Kirsty MacColl song reference. Even I wouldn’t be cruel to stoop that way on down. However, what now? Is she going to be working on the reception of a Heartbreak Hotel next, or will she be a postal worker, returning letters to sender?

Well, there’s a surprise.

Crackhead, Blake Fielder-Civil has finally admitted he was responsible for Amy Winehouse getting into drugs.

No way! Next you’ll be telling me Quentin Crisp was a homosexual.

Plagiarise that … really?

Waiting in a dental reception, I picked up a copy of scummy paper, The Sun. Yes, it was a bit like pulling teeth but I was amused by the leading article, namely the exclusive on pop artist, Tulisa’s, autobiography.

Honest? If she was honest, she’d say which ghost writer really penned the book. Also, how anybody at the age of 24 can have done stuff to warrant a biography, is beyond me. Still, people will buy and read it. I wonder if Tulisa has, yet?

However, the most amusing thing in the Sun’s article was the warning about copyright and that their lawyers are watching, in case anybody wants to plagiarise.

Come on, who’d want to admit to that … apart from Tulisa?

Crash the party.

Apparently, 4,000 people gatecrashed a party in Haren – Holland after some silly girl posted it on Facebook.

Amazing. 4000 people without a social life.

And for his next trick.

Last week, I told about nobhead minister, Andrew Mitchell. He’s the pillock who thinks he runs the government and all under him are plebs. Poor old Andrew, he says he’s being judged unfairly. As well as calling the police, plebs, he has just demanded a £60k Jaguar as a perk of his job while the plebs have to use the bus. He also, apparently, had a mug specially printed with his former job of Secretary of State, written on. Nothing pretentious there, then? How about next week, going the whole hog and having a tattoo? Maybe the word Tosser, written on his forehead would be a good idea.

I have to shout support for the police officers who picketed his constituency office the other day. Brilliant.

Yes, the police. They’re some of the guys who keep the country running, not cretins like Andrew Mitchell.

Night Writing.

I’m writing much of this, full of heavy cold in the hope my nose has stopped running by the time I go to an all-night writing session, Saturday evening. I’m not off to London like last week but am taking part in Birmingham Book Festival’s, Night at the Locksmith’s House. I only hope the locksmith knows there are load of writers descending on him. Still, if my cold gets too bad, I can always rest up here.

Actually, the house is a museum. It is hoped, spending the night there, pen and pad in hand, I can come up with some inspiration for future stories.

Taking the pee.

Back to my trip to London and it was there, I had the usual problem of queueing up for a toilet cubicle. I always feel silly. There’s loads of empty urinals but I have to wait for an enclosed cubicle to empty, just so I can pee. You see, I always seem to wear jeans with about a dozen buttons to undo. Have a zip? Not me. It takes about five minutes struggle to get the buttons undone, then another ten to do them up again. It’s far easier just to pull your trousers down to the ankles. Therefore, I have to use a cubicle. You see, if I dropped my trousers in a public convenience, people would be thinking I was touting for sex. Then I really would be sent to jail on the Monopoly board.



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