My Nominees for the US and UK Elections and Other Waffle

It's the early hours of the morning, and I have had a large gin...

Late-night alcohol is always a good recipe for writing gibberish. And I have not written gibberish for a while on my blog as I have been busy writing gibberish for my MA in Comedy Writing. Which I recently passed with a distinction. Yay! 

Yes, it transpires that even academics can be fooled into thinking gibberish is genius. Excellent. 

So anyway, I have written two sitcoms, a short film, a sketch show and a comedy-drama pilot for a series. Now, I have to see if I can get a producer or broadcaster interested in one or more of them. That's the tricky part. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in having written them and knowing that at least they made the examiners laugh. 

Now, onto other matters. God, the world is chaos. I can't think of any time in my life when the UK and the world have been in such dire need of a complete reset. War in Europe, war in the Middle East, the evergrowing impact of climate change, economic recession, rising fuel prices and woke wars. 1300% rise in antisemitism in the UK since October 7th.

What a miserable world it is at the moment.

I can't even release the tension by looking at The Daily Mail's  "Wall of Shame" because I haven't even heard of 95% of the people on it. I am actually thinking of taking out a subscription to SAGA instead. I guess I might as well read about cheap funeral plans and medical insurance for the over 50s.

It's a wonder I could find anything funny to write about for my MA. Especially since comedy and comedians are frequently being attacked by the woke ideologists. I was so disappointed by Richard Curtis apologising for writing jokes about fat people the other day, which was primarily a reference to his script for the film Bridget Jones Diary.

Which is based on the book by Helen Fielding. A woman. 

I really thought Richard Curtis had more gumption. Turns out he hasn't. I don't know what he has even got to fear, considering he's made his fortune, and if he never writes anything again, he won't be short of a bob or two.  

Kudos to J K Rowling: A woman of steel and principles. It's a shame women don't have more positions of power. Maybe the world wouldn't be full of dictators and power-hungry nut jobs.

Rant over. (Temporarily, anyway.)

Anyway, it was relatively easy to find funny stuff to write about for my MA. There is still a lot that is funny in the world. I used a lot of my personal experiences as a jumping board for ideas and then let my imagination do the rest. And I don't worry about who I might offend in my personal writing and whether I am PC or not. I am too old to worry about that, and what's more, I believe the average person is capable of distinguishing when a joke is actually a joke and not an offensive diatribe. We need to laugh at ourselves and others - if we don't, we'll all go mad or end up like one of those who seem to find offence in everything. No doubt they could even find offence in their own reflections if they tried.

On a completely unrelated matter, when I see pictures of Vladimir Putin, I can't help thinking of Davros from Dr Who. I reckon Putin does use body doubles of his younger self, and below is what he actually looks like now.

The blue ball is apparently an eye. I think it's actually where Putin's frontal lobotomy went wrong, and they had to insert a giant marble to fill up the vacuum.

To be fair to Putin, he does seem to possess more of his marbles than Biden. Of course, that isn't hard. Let's face it: anyone who makes Biden look like a genius can't be functioning to the best of his ability. Or be functioning at all. I am gobsmacked that either of them is still alive, considering Putin seems to have had every illness possible, according to The Daily Fail. And Biden...well, he does a superb impression of the living dead. How can he possibly run for office again? You might as well elect Big Bird.

My proposed candidates for the next US Election 

Big Bird - "I've Got A Beak, And I'm Prepared To Use It," Party. (Pretty sure he'll negotiate the exodus of grain supplies from Ukraine.)

Joey from Friends - The "How Ya Doin'?"  Party - (Why not? He might be thick, but he's got a tuxedo and the ladies like him. He can also say his lines properly.)

Taylor Swift - The "Musical Chairs" Party - (I just want to hear the break-up music when she gets kicked out of office.)

My Proposed Candidates for the next UK Election

Dr Who - "The Sonic Screwdriver Party"  (Well, nothing else has worked correcting the wrongs, so we might as well try the screwdriver.)

Jimmy Carr - "The Jokers" Party (Oh, come on - we all want to hear some jokes about Putin's mum.)

Hugh Grant - "The Dance Moves" Party. (Hugh's got real rhythm and grove. So, even if he screwed up more than the current bunch of wasters, at least we'd all get fit.)

 

Right, time to check out the latest news headlines...

ARGH...................................................................................

Less is More (well that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it)

I've been practising my haikus, which you may recall, I'm not particularly good at. However, I wanted to address the woke issue in a concise, meaningful way as it is such a serious matter for discussion and particularly relevant to me as a comic writer.

Which, if you know me,  translates as:

1) I'm too lazy to write a long analytical post.

And

2) I'd rather watch a movie and eat tortilla chips.

However, I feel obliged to say my part. So here goes, and I am pleased to say that in the writing of the following haiku, I broke my own speed record!

45 seconds. Awesome. I might get 2 movies in tonight.

Ok, here goes with the haiku.

Man, I'm so fed up

with this bat-shit wokey stuff

head in the oven 

Now, where are my tortilla chips?

 

Sixteen Years On

So this post is just going to be a stream of possibly (wildly erratic) thoughts. So hang on to your breeches; we could go anywhere with them.

Cripes, I only managed three posts last year. And I call myself a writer? Pathetic! Though, to be fair to me, almost everyone who was blogging with me in 2007/8 no longer blogs or blogs even less than I do now. A few later blogs are still going, so kudos to those writers because it is difficult finding time and inspiration when life gets in the way. I have actually now been writing this blog for sixteen years. Oh. Dear. God. Just think of all that crap out there on the Internet for my kids to read after I peg it. (Ho, ho, ho.)

So you may be wondering if I'm still writing. Indeed I am, although I'm not working at full speed yet as life has been very complicated for many years, and I'm only just beginning to get back into the flow. I'm actually in the final legs of an MA in Comedy Writing. (It's the first of its kind.)  I've written a short film, 2 sitcom pilots with series outlines, and a sketch show. My final and last project will be an hour-long comedy-drama which will probably be part of a film script.  The idea of the MA was to provide me with some structure after my rather long absence. The MA can't teach you how to be funny - it examines strategies and structures, and, overall, is about how to produce professional work that TV and film producers might want to read rather than"how to be funny". When I've finished, I hope to have a portfolio of work that someone, somewhere, might like. One of my objectives is to write a film script for Gerard Butler. I mean, why not? (Ho hum.) Obviously, I want to be one of those writers actively involved in the project. I'm quite happy to participate in the casting procedure (and if Mr Butler needs a dresser, I'd be quite happy to perform that arduous task too.)

God. 300 is an awesome film. Like Gladiator. Fantastic. 

Cripes. Maybe I'm actually a man if I like those types of gory films? 

Hmm...talking about gender identity is not a good idea. Even this old big mouth knows talking about it is a no-goer if you don't want to be cancelled or strung up by your bits and pummelled with verbal abuse and mouldy prunes.

Anyway, it's good to know that whilst my ovaries might be like pickled onions at my age, my imagination is not. Well, not when it comes to Gerard Butler. In fact, I propose a new title in the Whitehouse/London/Angel has Fallen series. How about Housewife Has Fallen. Obviously, it would be about a housewife who has fallen from the top floor of her executive detached home, forced to work all hours of the night and day in numerous jobs and flog her jewellery to support her children before discovering that her ex (known as X) is plotting world domination (his strategy of doing absolutely nothing means the world is likely to explode through catastrophic climate change). Enter Gerard Butler as Mike Banning, a hot fifty-something secret service agent, who must solicit the attention of The Housewife to take on X and a host of corrupt politicians and oil barons, in some gun-toting action-packed sequences. 

If there is any doubt, I can confirm it will be an x-rated movie.

Onto other matters. My God, all this Harry and Meghan gossip in the news is driving me insane. Is there anyone on this planet who isn't close to blowing their brains out to try and avoid the next sordid revelation?  Also, I am disgusted that Harry's publishers have allowed him to talk about his "kills" in Afghanistan. Anyone with half a brain should realize that that claim could have serious security repercussions. Someone at the top of Random should have vetoed it, whether or not Harry might have had editorial control. I think the inclusion of that statement just shows how vulnerable and misguided Harry is - he really does need to be brought back into the family fold to be protected from himself. Unfortunately, that seems unlikely to happen while he's still married. 

What else has been going on this past year? Oh...Ukraine. Not a subject to be flippant about. However, here's an interesting fact. Putin is the same height as Tom Cruise. 

I, therefore, take back, on bended knee, every joke and subtle dig I have ever made at Tom's expense over the last 16 years (and there's been quite a few) because, quite clearly, compared to Putin, Tom is completely sane. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that Tom, being the daredevil he is, is probably the only man brave enough to take out Putin given half the chance. I cannot believe some of the stunts he does - you've got to hand it to him. What a star. I reckon he should shoot himself over Russia using the US missile defence system, parachute into the Kremlin and take on Putin in hand-to-hand combat. It would be almost a fair fight, sizewise at least. Tom, of course, is 60, so he has a slight advantage over Putin, who is 70, but I figure it will be evened out by the time Tom's taken out several hundred heavily armed Russian bodyguards and disarmed the nuclear weapons system as he'll probably be a little tired and sweaty. 

Wait a minute - what about if Tom parachuted in wearing a Putin mask - like the replica masks in the Mission Impossible films? Oh God that would be awesome. Two Putins, each one trying to convince an array of armed psychotic killers he is the real Putin and shoot the other instead. Blimey - that would be a nail-biter. World peace might all boil down to whether or not Tom can master a Russian accent.

Ok, what else has been going on in the world? Well, here in the UK, we have had three prime ministers in a year. Johnson, Truss and Sunak. (Sounds like some second-rate one-hit-wonder folk band from the late 1960s.) I feel a little bit sorry for Liz Truss. Being a tad too eager to make her mark, she screwed her term up, although I think it is also probably fair to say Sunak's ascendency looks like it was planned for some time, and a state-educated woman without much verbal dexterity was probably not going to last long anyway in a house dominated by over-privileged white males. Truss, unfortunately, was no Thatcher, and we all know that Thatcher outclassed and worked harder than all her male party rivals.   

Sunak has been having it easy so far as with Harry and Meghan dominating the headlines for weeks, he's been let off lightly as the UK continues to sink into a monumental decline. The state of the UK and, indeed, the world is depressing. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to write any comedy at all after looking at the news headlines. But then I come across articles like THIS, and I am revitalised. If you can't be bothered to read it, let me tell you it's about an 88-year-old Frenchman who stuck a WW11 shell (bomb) up his arse for sexual pleasure. The shell measured 8 inches long by 2 inches wide.

Painful.

I don't know what to be more amazed at - the fact at 88, he still has urges, or that he had the physical strength and agility to manoeuvre it up his backside (Perhaps he just plunged himself on it after perhaps securing the shell to a vice) or that he had the courage to call for the assistance given his unusual predicament. 

Mind you, if you get thrills from shoving an explosive up your arse, then perhaps visiting casualty with your y-fronts around your ankles and declaring, "Excuse Monsieur, do you 'ave a bombe disposal unit 'ere. I 'ave inadvertently sat on a bombe" is probably not going to cause too much embarrassment. 

Anyway, clearly, this 88-year-old Frenchman was not on the frontline defending the border from the Nazis when they invaded, as, without a doubt, that sort of mad courage would provoke fear amongst even the most resolute of invaders. You certainly wouldn't want to get involved in any hand-to-hand combat. Imagine being clubbed by a shell retrieved from someone's anus.

You know, I kinda fancy seeing Tom Cruise parachuting into the Kremlin with an explosive up his backside. 

Now that would make one terrific film.  

Are You Having A Laugh?

An ex-secret service agent with a personality problem and a desire for imperial glory.

An aged president who looks like he's got a giant fork prong stuck up his arse to keep him upright.

A floppy-haired bumbling classics graduate with a predisposition for crass decisions.

A tinpot dictator who showcases his weapons like a movie trailer.

A comedian who has found himself elevated to global status. 

If the world wasn't on the brink of war this surely would be the cast list of a first-class situation comedy.   

What Happened to My Wine Gums?

Since my post earlier last night, I've been sorting my books and CDs, which until recently have been still packed in my basement in my new home.

The basement (or glorified cellar if you wish) was one of the attractions of my new home - providing a place where I could hoard all my crap. I don't use the word "crap" lightly, as it would indeed be crap to most people. However, I rather like hanging onto my personal crap. Most of which is a multitude of books. Of course, my books were about the only things the Ex didn't request in the divorce settlement, so I still have them. Then again, maybe that's not surprising given his reading material mainly consisted of car manuals and supermarket receipts. 

God, I am so restrained. After 5 years of divorce hell, I don't know how I've managed to remain so diplomatic. Is there a Nobel peace prize for restraint in the face of a divorce? If so, I should definitely get it.  

Anyway, what I really wanted to say was - I'd been sorting out some books when I decided I had done enough work to give myself a treat. So I got out a packet of wine gums which are one of my favourite treats. This particular packet had grabbed my attention because it said "30 % less sugar" on the packaging. So I opened the packet and peered inside, hoping to spot a black or red sweet.

I was mortified.

I have deduced that the manufacturers have produced 30% less sugar sweets simply by reducing the number of sweets by 30%. 

I know it's a tough world out there at the moment, but that is pretty bloody miserly. So I say - send all those 30% less sugar packets to Russia and let the Duma experience real hardship. I reckon with no Big Macs and no decent wine gums to chew on Putin will be gone before the year is out. 

Timely Reflections

Contrary to my post last year saying I was back in the writing business, my time writing on my blog has been limited. Mainly that's because after moving home, I started a new job with a national charity which subsequently sucked up all my time and energy. It left very little time for me to pursue my MA where I was not totally exhausted. So several weeks ago, I made the decision to leave so I could do myself justice in my MA. I was offered a part-time job in the cultural sector, which I accepted. 

The next day Russia invaded Ukraine. 

Several weeks later and 4 days into my new job, I've concluded I made the right decision even though a part-time job means I will have to live frugally at least until my MA finishes. I listen to the news and watch the terrible events unfolding in Ukraine, and my mind races through all the possible scenarios of how this war may play out. There is no end that does not involve the suffering of many people.

So today, I am grateful to be alive. To live in a country that upholds freedom and democracy. That I've survived a brutal divorce, a health scare, numerous stressful and exhausting jobs and escaped covid. I'm grateful I have a roof over my head, the opportunity to further my education, 3 wonderful sons and, hopefully, will live long enough to look back on these last few tumultuous years with philosophical eyes.

Tomorrow I begin the race to catch up on my MA. My first project, a short film script, needs tweaking, but it has been suggested it is good enough to make the grade. Fingers crossed. My second, a pilot for a sitcom needs committing to paper. The sequel to The Changing Room needs finishing, as does my psychological thriller. 

Time is of the essence. These last few weeks have shown that we never know what is around the corner. I'm just grateful that, in my case, it's not a tank or missile.  

Birdsong to Wokesong

Many years ago, I read Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. It's a terrific, emotive book that now sits on school syllabuses alongside other past literary masterpieces. If you've not read it then you've missed out.

Anyhow, a few years later, whilst at The Cheltenham Literary Festival (a very prominent cultural affair in the UK), I happened to see Sebastian Faulks close up. I was climbing the stairs to take my seat early for his forthcoming talk, and to my surprise, I saw him seated in a room off the stairwell. He glanced up, and we looked at each other for a moment, and then I carried on walking up the stairs. I suspect he was wondering if I recognised him and whether I was going to solicit his attention for an autograph. Awkward. In fact, I was actually thinking, "He looks strangely attractive for a guy with red curly hair."  (I'd been binge drinking the night before.)

Now, if I had been thinking more strategically, I could have offered my "services" for a leg up in the literary world or (if I had been feeling particularly demonic) I could have offered to proofread his forthcoming novel for free and send his career into literary freefall. 

Anyway, it was a disappointment to read HERE in The Daily Mail that Sebastian said at this year's Lit Fest he had stopped describing women in his writing and that he felt liberated by it. Apparently, a female academic at a previous festival in 2018 had challenged his "right" to write about women. Subsequently, Sebastian reviewed his position.

So basically, Sebastian caved into some woke woman who wanted to silence one of the greatest living writers of our times because she's offended.  So no more descriptions of women by Sebastian. Humph. How miserable and boring! Personally, I found some of his descriptions jolly amusing. 

It must be bloody miserable to be a white middle-class man at the moment. So miserable that one of our greatest authors can't even raise his pen above the parapet to describe a woman in a work of fiction without some woke extremist getting her bloomers in a twist. 

It seems to me that lately, the issue of gender identity is growing like an uncontrollable cancer. It appears it is rapidly becoming a breeding ground of intolerance that is adversely affecting the arts and the areas of academia that seek to debate and nurture critical thinking.

Where does this repression end?  

It ends with a very few dictating our thoughts and actions. A minority dictating to a majority who fear repercussions. People afraid to laugh. People afraid to speak. People afraid to even whisper.

Hmm. Sounds rather like fascism to me. 

Surely it's imperative in a free, democratic, society that the voices of artists, writers, musicians, free-thinking academics and philosophers are allowed to speak openly. To debate. It is also vital, in my opinion, that successful ones like Sebastian stand up and be counted. Sebastian might well feel liberated - but somehow I suspect that is the liberation that comes with knowing he's not going to be verbally stoned and have his books burnt rather than the liberation of not writing descriptions of women.

Enough said. Now I'm off to write my upcoming novel. It's going to be a novel about a white middle-class woman who falls in love with a white middle-class male author who unfortunately turns out to have no balls. (Not sure if a lack of balls counts as a disability and whether I'm on dangerous ground.) Anyhow, I'm struggling to describe the absence of balls as obviously I don't have any. Of course, I could use my imagination, but let's just say when it comes to balls, I prefer tennis balls anyway - they're not as hairy and you can't choke on them.

And so I return...

The lights have been out on this blog for over a year, but now, at last, I return. I do so to remember what creative writing is like and unlock the key to my imagination. Where else better to do that than here, where my journey began 14 years ago.

So, with a glass of gin in hand, let me begin.

So first, there are two subjects to cover. Although I shall probably only cover them briefly here, it is almost impossible not to mention them. They are Covid 19 and my divorce. No doubt I will return to them again in due course.

Fortunately, my immediate and extended family and I have been unaffected by Covid except in small, recoverable doses. But, regrettably, a number of my friends and acquaintances have lost relatives, and my former brother-in-law was hospitalised in intensive care. So, if you have lost relatives or perhaps are now suffering long covid, I offer you my sincerest condolences.

Secondly, on August 27th this year, I finally received my Decree Absolute. Almost 5 years since my separation. And now - sit back - my legal fees were a staggering £55,000. That's around $74,000. Those costs came out of my divorce settlement, which I had to fight for until almost the bitter end. It is a ridiculous amount of money to spend over a relatively tiny pot of cash, but when one party fails to cooperate, if you want a vaguely fair resolution, then you have to fight for it. 

I have learnt quite a lot about family law, especially how it fails to protect the weaker party, and I am not impressed. I will be elaborating on this at a future date. It's possible I may get some of my costs back as I have an ongoing case being investigated by the Legal Ombudsmen for negligence against my first legal team. Their mishandling of my papers meant I had to secure other legal representation, which proved vastly more expensive. However, ultimately, those extraordinary costs were incurred because my former husband did not want to give me a fair settlement and consistently delayed proceedings by not producing his paperwork so that my solicitor had to undertake more work in pursuit of them.

I would say he adopted the same attitude to the divorce proceedings as he did throughout our marriage on any matter of importance, and that is a total unwillingness to discuss any topic of significance. Ultimately, he has stripped me of the ability to give our sons the support I could have done. As the mother of his children, he should have known that I would always put our sons' wellbeing before my own, but the fact he didn't even want to give me a fair settlement speaks volumes of just how little he cared for me but for our sons too. In the end, he couldn't rise above his own disinterest and bitterness to do the right thing.

I have not talked about my divorce at length in the past for fear of upsetting my children, but they are all adults now, and they have not only been a witness to my trials they too have first-hand experience of the hardship and financial struggles we have endured these last 5 years. My youngest son especially has suffered far too much, which simultaneously makes me extraordinarily sad and enrages me. He was a staggeringly good tennis player with national titles, but through lack of finances, I was unable to salvage his tennis career. His academics were seriously affected, and last year he was diagnosed with a rare illness called erythromelalgia.

Through a financial contribution from my brother-in-law, I was able to salvage his elder brother's tennis career. Subsequently, because of his tennis achievement in the US college league, where he became a top 10 NAIA player, reached the nationals and achieved All American status, he is now studying for an MBA in the US on a full scholarship. I often wonder how my younger son must feel knowing he was the better player. I can say that too without offending his brother, who would often say that his younger brother was more talented. Luckily, all I can say is that my youngest son was born with my sense of humour and he is very resilient. I am pretty sure the majority of children would not have taken so many kicks in the teeth as well. I am more proud of him and my other sons now than I have ever been.

So, at this point in time, I have moved way up North in the UK and have bought a cheap nondescript terrace where I can live with minimal costs. I am currently not working in a conventional 9-5 sense as my health is shot to pieces, and it is now time to look after myself. 

So, where do I go from here? Is there any laughter left in the former Mrs T?

Well yes!

Luckily my sense of humour has never totally deserted me, but it has been very hard at times to find it when the odds have been against me. However, to fully unlock the key to my comedy writing, I have signed up for a brand new MA course. It's the only one of its kind in the UK. It is being run by a well-known comedy producer with all the right connections to get me up and running again. So, I need to start writing. I need to break through the barrier of silence, and this is why I have returned now to The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman.  

So I have a vast amount to talk about. I have missed commentating on so much these last five years: Brexit, Trump, Johnson, Covid 19, the rise of wokeism (ugh)...even tiny Tom Cruise and Kim Kardashian's arse! 

But of course, my experiences mean I also have a lot to say about other matters, especially feminism, the legal system, ageism, women's careers, sexism and so on.

So I have plenty to say. Yes indeed. And in my own particular style. 

So join me here on The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman as finally I move forward and unleash, once more, my verbal assaults upon the world!

Ebook of Fantasia is Free on Kindle

My short story Fantasia is free to download as an ebook on Kindle for five days. Please feel free to share with friends and anyone who might be interested. It's already gone to no 1 in the free children's environment with just a few downloads. It would be lovely to see it there a little longer. Any reviews would be most welcome!

Bad Poetry 2: A Tale of Terrible Misfortune

 There was a buffoon called Johnson

Who thought he was Charles Bronson

But he fucked-up Brexit

So attempted to exit

Dressed as a woman in Labour

 

Unfortunately for Boris

No one was fooled by “Doris”

So he pulled out a gun

Broke into a run

But was caught in the commons by Keir Starmer

 

“But… but…. but, Boris stuttered

“Brexit is oven-ready. And buttered!”

“Don’t give me that clap-trap,

You’re just a tabloid hack

And as thick as a brain-dead lama”

 

As Boris started to weep and plead

Keir pulled out a writ and began to read

“I don’t need no fancy prose

Let’s pelt him with tomatoes

And leave him for the Tories to dismember!”

 

But out of the throng rushed Dom

Fresh from his castle with aplomb

“I’ll save the day,” he said

His face a beetroot red

“We will never give up or surrender!”

 

“Not you again, Dominic

You’re a number one prick!”

Said Keir as he summoned the judge

“We’re done with this fudge.

And you and your visionless glasses.”

 

Then out of the chambers came Her Majesty

To sort out the political travesty

“It is time for the tower

On your knees and cower

You’re a pair of unwholesome arses!”

 

Down went her thumb

As a guard beat the drum

And Boris and Dom were hauled away

“Let’s do this in style,” said the Queen with a smile

“Take the offenders and whip them in my blenders!”

 

So this is the end of this sorry tale

Where justice did rightly prevail

There is some last advice

 Which I hope will suffice

To ensure this will never repeat

 

Never, ever, piss off our Queen

She’s old, stubborn and very mean.

And when she is moody

She will mix a smoothie

Made from kale and her secret cream.