The advert in the paper read –

MISTEAK! 

You cuold urn up to £20 an hour working form home after a Chapterhouse proofreeding and editing coarse.

Co-respondence courses and seminars.

Fifteen ears of publishing training

Exerpt personal tutors

Advice on getting wok

Mark he errors nad send this ad to us with your name and a dress and we’ll send you our free prospectus. If your two bussy a phone call will do.

0800 3328 8396

www.chapterhousepublishing.com

, EX2 45Y

I marked the errors MISTEAK, cuold, urn, form, coarse, ears exerpt, he, nad, a dress, your and bussy. I missed the spelling mistakes proofreeding and Co-respondence. I also marked as errors the correctly spelled words publishing and prospectus. I bet I’m taken on. I’ll let you know.

There are ten things I’d like to do before I die. One of them is to complete the Sunday Times Crossword. Another is to fuck Kristin Scott Thomas. Normally I fuck up the Sunday Times Crossword and don’t fuck Kristin Scott Thomas. Despite determined efforts the best I’ve managed so far in about ten years trying is about halfway through – the Sunday Times Crossword that is, not Kristin Scott Thomas – so realistically I’m not going to achieve either, which cuts the ten things I’d like to do before I die down to eight. One of them ‘Seeing someone fishing on the canal towpath and pushing him in’, is one of them. It is to see their look of absolute amazement that someone should be loopy enough as to deliberately push them into the canal that appeals to me. I did it yesterday. 

On being pushed into the canal I naturally expected the fisherman would take some sort of retributive action, and confidently forecasted that it would probably take the form of him climbing out of the canal and repaying the compliment by pushing me in, so I had prudently dressed for the occasion in old clothes that I didn’t much care about. I could not however forecast what the fisherman might do to me before pushing me into the canal, especially with regard to violence, so I chose my victim with care. Big men built like brick shithouses were right out, but even small men can pack a punch, and it would be just my luck to push the World Flyweight Boxing Champion into the canal. I had considered pushing a child fisherman in instead, maybe a weedy-looking one with spots aged about twelve, but weedy-looking children aged twelve can often have decidedly unweedy-looking brick shithouse-built fathers of about thirty-five, so I decided against it. A two mile stroll along the canal side had netted no likely victim. There were only two men fishing and one of them was too big whilst the other, although a suitable size, was black, and I didn’t want my actions to be perceived as being racially motivated, particularly after my recent altercation with one of the waiters at the local Rawalpindi Balti and Kebab House. I was just about to give it up as a bad job and return home when I spotted the ideal man. He was about five feet two inches tall and no more than seven stones wet through, which he very soon would be once I’d pushed him into the canal. Faint heart never won fair lady, nor pushed a fisherman into the canal, so without further ado I stepped up to him and gave him a hefty shove, in fact almost too hefty because he was so light that his bodyweight offered no resistance and I almost followed him in. He stood up in the canal, coughing and spluttering. Then, without a single word or so much as a glance in my direction, he climbed out of the canal, resumed his seat, and carried on fishing as though nothing had happened. I have thought of little else since and for the life of me I don’t know why he acted like he did. Perhaps he was under the impression he’d had a blackout or something and had fallen into the canal? Maybe it was just that he was an exceptionally keen fisherman and wanted to get on with his fishing with the minimum of delay? Or perhaps he knew that some people have a secret desire to push fishermen into the canal and was just going along with it? I will never know. What I do know is that because he didn’t even so much as acknowledge that he’d been pushed into the canal it was as though I hadn’t pushed him in, and the experience, instead of making me feel exhilarated and giving me a sense of achievement has left me completely deflated. I may very well have to do it again sometime.
While I was writing this it occurred to me that I have never, ever, seen a woman fisherman. Are there any? 

I finished writing my James Bond book ‘Stockport Is Too Much’ today. Writing a book is like conceiving, carrying, then giving birth to a baby, but about ten times worse, despite what women might tell you. The bad news is that my book can never be published. There is an organisation called the Ian Fleming Foundation who hold the copyright to the James Bond franchise from whom you have to obtain permission if you want to publish a James Bond book. There is no way they would ever give ‘Stockport Is Too Much’ the go ahead. Personally I think the James Bond films are a travesty of the James Bond books, which themselves are a load of old rope. Consequentially my James Bond book takes the piss out of both the films and the books quite unmercifully (but not however out of James Bond himself). The good news is that you can now read ‘Stockport Is Too Much’ on the internet, in full, and entirely free of charge. Just click on http://www.topcomedy.co.uk/bond. bondcover.htm and you will immediately be transported to James Bond’s latest adventure, the like of which you’ve never come across before, in which our hero thwarts the ambitions of the evil Dr Goldnojaws and his sidekick BloJob, while at the same time dallying with the affections of Bond Girls the lovely Pisa Vass, Divine Bottom, Gloria Snockers and Ava Fuck.

Happy reading.

The most wonderful news today! Along with my monthly credit card statement from Marbles came the offer of ‘Two nights away with the one you love for only £99.’ The offer consists of a two night stay in any Hilton Hotel in Great Britain and Ireland, the price to include bed, breakfast, dinner on the first night, plus a complimentary bottle of house wine ‘When you whip out your Marbles card!’ Grateful that my Marbles card was all I will be required to whip out in order to qualify for my complimentary bottle of house wine I rang them immediately, quoting the booking reference number as requested. “I’d like to take you up on your most generous offer of two nights away with the one I love for £99,” I said.
“Very good, sir,” said the Marbles man, all obsequiousness and efficiency.
“Will Miss Scott Thomas be there when I arrive?” I asked him.
“Pardon sir?”
“Kristin Scott Thomas. She’s the woman I love. I’ve loved her ever since I saw her naked in ‘The English Patient’, what a body, all that pubic hair, like a forest, well I’m Jungle Jim so just lead me to it.” There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. I broke it. “Hello? Hello are you still there?”
The obsequiousness remained but the efficiency had taken a holiday, possibly a two night stay with the one it loved. “There…er, seems to be some sort of misunderstanding, sir.”
“Misunderstanding? You are offering two nights in a Hilton Hotel with the one I love for £99 are you not?”
“Er….yes. Yes sir. But we mean your wife.”
“My wife?”
“0r girlfriend.”
“Your leaflet didn’t say my wife or my girlfriend, it said the one I love,” I pointed out to him in no uncertain terms.
“Yes…well…we assumed that a man’s wife or girlfriend would be the one he loved,” he bleated.
“That’s a pretty all-encompassing assumption to make if you don’t mind my saying so,” I said, not giving a tinker’s cuss whether he minded my saying it or not, ” Given all the divorces and extra-marital affairs and wife beatings one hears about nowadays.”
He stuck to his guns. “Well that’s what we meant, sir.”
“Well then that is what you should have said,” I told him. “But you didn’t. You said two nights with the one you love for £99. And if you don’t see to it that I get two nights with the one I love, i.e. Miss Kristin Scott Thomas, she of the glorious beaver, for £99, I will sue Marbles for every penny it has got!” Then I put the phone down.
I don’t love Kristin Scott Thomas of course, I love The Trouble, although I quite fancy Kristin Scott Thomas, and if anything should ever happen to The Trouble…….
I suppose that will be the end of the matter. But it might not be. Even at this very moment the people at Marbles might be trying to contact Kristin in an effort to help them to get out of the tricky situation they’ve landed themselves in with a dirty old man from the High Peak, just so the dirty old man from the High Peak won’t sue them for every penny they make in exorbitant interest rates. But probably not. But at least next time it might make them think before offering deals they cannot possibly hope to fulfil. 

DISLIKES

Personalised car number plates. Except for 1 TIT. In fact all personalised number plates should be 1 TIT except those that are 1 TWAT. How pretentious can you get?

Ant and Dec

All Celebrities who are on television doing something they aren’t celebrated for. e.g. Ross Kemp Swims With Dolphins. Ross Kemp Swimming With Sharks, now that’s  something I would be all for, Ross Kemp Being Eaten By Sharks, even better.

Cher

Women called Catherine who call themselves Cat. Dog would be more appropriate for the majority of them.

Gary (Mogadon) Lineker

Graham Norton

Julian Clary

All other camp, in your face, homosexuals

All politicians

TV sports presenters who ask someone who’s just won something how much they enjoyed it. Well actually I didn’t enjoy it at all Brendan, I thought it was fucking crap.

Des O’Connor

Ben Elton

Chelsea Tractors. No one should be allowed to buy an off road vehicle unless they’ve got cow shit on their shoes.

U2, especially that twat Bongo or whatever he calls himself. If he’s so keen on helping starving Africans why doesn’t he give them all his money?

Johnny Vaughan. Funny? You’d have more fun walking round the park with a nail in your shoe

Big Brother

Any television programme that has ‘Celebrity’ or ‘Dancing’ in the title.

People who say free instead of three, especially Ian Wright.

And and Dec again, just in case I missed them the first time.

Listing all my dislikes

LIKES

Kristin Scott Thomas

I called in at our local Age Concern charity shop this morning. Spring is not all that far away and I thought I would see what they had in the way of lightweight trousers. Many people are above buying from charity shops and an equal number don’t go in them because they consider that just because something is a cast-off it can’t be any good, but in my opinion charity shops are not to be sniffed at – except of course those that are so musty that to inhale through the nose whilst in one of them is to invite death by mouldiness of the lung – as perfectly good clothes at knockdown prices can be purchased from them. You also get people bilking at buying clothes from charity shops on the grounds that they have been worn by someone who has since died, but the only way this would ever put me buying them would be if the man who had died in them still had them on, and even then I still might be tempted if they were in a better condition than he was and hadn’t yet taken on the smell of death. 

Whenever considering the purchase of new trousers I always ask myself which I would rather have, a brand new pair of trousers or a pair of second-hand trousers in good condition with lots of wear left in them plus a couple of bottles of decent wine. The second-hand trousers and wine win every time.
When I entered the shop I noticed there was a new assistant behind the counter. When I say ‘new’ I mean new to the job as opposed to not old, it apparently being a rule in charity shops that none of the staff should be younger than ninety years old and look like they are more in need of charity than any of the customers. In this instance the new assistant passed with flying colours, or maybe, given her advanced years, gliding colours. As I do with all new members of staff at Age Concern on first making their acquaintance I walked up to the counter and told her that I was concerned about my age. This always gets one of two responses:- (a) They look at me for about five seconds as if I’m stark-raving mad, then quickly start to tidy the nearest rack of clothes, or (b) They say “We only sell second-hand clothes and books.” However on this occasion the new assistant rang the changes. She looked at me for about five seconds then said: “Well we all have to go some time, but I’m sure you’ve got time to buy something before you go.” She should do well.
In charity shops women’s clothes outnumber men’s by a ratio of seven to one. This isn’t, as some might think, because women are seven times more generous in the gift of their cast-offs but because they have seven times more clothes to cast off, as any man who has compared the contents of his wife’s wardrobe with his own meagre wardrobe will know. Consequently the men’s section is only one seventh as large as the women’s section and can usually be found hidden away in the farthest corner of the sales floor from the door. This is the case with my local Age Concern. I made my way over to it, via ladies jumpers, crop tops, shorts and evening gowns and the umpteen other sorts of adornment that women have.
Most pairs of trousers have a label inside them, denoting their size. In charity shops this is supplemented by the shop’s own label, which again states the size. Further information as to the dimensions of the trousers can be gleaned from a label on the hanger on which the trousers are suspended. Rarely, if ever, do the three sizes agree, and if you can get two out of the three of them to agree you are ahead of the game. Having once taken seven pairs of trousers off the racks and into the fitting cubicle only to find that not one of them was remotely the right size I gave up looking at the labels long ago and now select by a combination of eye judgement and holding them up against myself to see if they reach the floor. There were about a hundred pairs of trousers on offer, a hundred and six if you include the five pairs of combat trousers and a pair of jodhpurs, but as it is unlikely that I will ever be waging war on anyone, especially on a horse, I passed up on them. I soon found something suitable, a nice pair of Chinos in pensioner grey, and took them to the counter to be bagged and paid for. The new assistant regarded them with approval. “Very nice,” she said. “They should last you a lifetime.” Then she cracked a horrible smile. I shall have to watch that one. 

‘Prince Harry of the Cavalry may soon be heading off to war’ said the headline in the newspaper. If I was one of his fellow soldiers I’d be making sure to keep pretty close to him because it’s a pound to a piece of shit he won’t be going where there are bullets flying.

Occasionally I feel the need to feel superior. It’s not a trait I’m proud of, but then we can’t all be perfect. Whenever I feel this need I simply look at a photograph of any politician and this gets me feeling superior in no time at all. Sometimes however I feel the urge to feel a lot superior in which case, if a photograph of John Prescott isn’t handy, I tune in to The Weakest Link on TV and compare myself to the average contestant, a person who would seem to have the intellect of my next door neighbour’s cat – and we’re talking here of a cat that hasn’t got the sense to know that if it keeps on shitting in my back garden I’m going to carry on booting it up the backside.

Anyway yesterday I felt the need to feel a lot superior – I had a photo of John Prescott handy but I just couldn’t bear looking at the self-satisfied prick again – so I started watching the Weakest Link. Two minutes later I was already feeling quite superior. For instance I knew, to the question ‘In alcoholic drinks what B is the term for a factory building intended for the manufacture of beer?’ that the answer was ‘Brewery’. And not ‘Beery’ as the contestant apparently thought it was. I also knew that ‘Lance’ was the boy’s name that was also the name of a mediaeval jousting weapon, and not ‘Rod’ as a blonde woman suggested it might be. And to the question ‘In Christianity what C is the general term for members of the Church of Rome?’ I knew that the answer was not ‘Congregation’, as offered by the hapless contestant, but ‘Catholic’. The Weakest Link? Judging by the people on it a more suitable name would be The Missing Link.

The contestant who failed to progress through a single round of questions that wouldn’t trouble a retarded two-year-old announced that although he’d gone out in the first round he’d had a lovely day and it had been fun. Fun? Demonstrating to the world that you’re as thick as two short planks?

I supposed it’s the being seen on the telly. The fifteen minutes of fame stuff. Except that in his case it was about three minutes of fame. Still he could always come back another five times.

    After a late breakfast I strolled down to the public library, conveniently only a couple of minutes away, to read the morning newspapers. I can afford to buy my own newspaper but I stopped doing this about a year ago on principle.

    About eighteen months previously I received a free music CD, Tom Jones and Friends, along with my morning newspaper. It came as quite a surprise to me because I wasn’t aware that Tom Jones had any friends, the Welshman being the owner of a voice designed to make enemies rather than cultivate friendships, but there you go. I looked at the cover. The first song was Tom Jones singing It’s Not Unusual. The second song was Engelbert Humperdinck singing Please Release Me. Next up was Tom Jones singing The Green Green Grass Of Home. Next was Wilson Pickett with In The Midnight Hour. Next was Tom Jones singing……well you get the idea. There were twelve tracks on the CD, six by Tom Jones and six by six other artists. Now I might be naïve but I would expect an album called Tom Jones And Friends to consist of songs sung by Tom Jones accompanied by his friends, but apparently not. Tom Jones And Friends indeed! Who do they think they’re kidding? As my mother used to say, they must think I dropped off a flitting. I wouldn’t mind betting that Tom Jones has never met half of the people on the CD and in all probability has never even heard of the singer of the final track, Hoagy Carmichael singing Stardust. Actually I would have quite liked to listen to Wilson Picket singing In The Midnight Hour but not at the expense of having to listen to Tom Jones so I threw it in the bin.

   Two weeks later I received another free CD along with my newspaper. Engelbert Humperdinck and Friends. The first track was Engelbert Humperdinck singing Please Release Me, the second track was Tom Jones singing It’s Not Unusual, the Third Track was Engelbert Humperdinck singing The Last Waltz, the next track…..yes, you’ve guessed it, there were six songs by Engelbert Humperdinck and six by six other artists. I threw it in the bin. My privilege. Anyway, like the Tom Jones and Friends CD, it hadn’t cost me anything so it was no skin off my nose.

    Two weeks later my newspaper went up by 3 p. Due to rising production costs.

    A few weeks went by and I received another free CD, Twenty Golden Disco Hits or something. In the bin. Over the next couple of months I received another five CDs. All unwanted. All unplayed. All binned. Two weeks later my newspaper went up another 2 p due to rising production costs. The penny dropped. Could these rising production costs have anything to do with the costs of producing CDs of Tom Jones and Friends and all the other unasked for and unwanted CDs that had been forced on me over the last few months? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Far from it not being any skin off my nose it was a wonder I had any skin left on my nose by now. I cancelled my newspaper.

    I had thrown every one of the CDs I received in the bin, as I suspect most people do. If you like Tom Jones you already have CDs of him singing his songs (You also have my sympathy), likewise Engelbert Humperdinck, likewise all the other artists on the ‘free’ CDs all the newspapers give away nowadays, so they are of no benefit to anyone whatsoever. Except of course the artists on the CDs, in the form of royalties, and the newspapers, in extra revenue every time they put up the price of their newspaper.

    I could always write a letter complaining about this rip off to the newspapers of course. I’m sure they’d print it.

When I ordered the duck I wasn’t aware that Atkins Down The Road couldn’t abide other people eating duck when he wasn’t. Not that it would have stopped me ordering it as I like to wind him up occasionally, just as he likes to wind me up.
    There were eight of us at the meal to celebrate Ted Burrows’ birthday; The Trouble and I, the aforementioned Atkins Down The Road and his wife Meg, The Parsley-Hays and Ted Burrows and his wife Caroline. The waiter had handed out menus five minutes earlier and since then Atkins had asked everyone except me what they were having. Each of their answers had elicited a relieved smile from Atkins. Now he asked me.
    “Duck,” I said
    “Fuck!” said Atkins.
    “Sacre bleu” said Caroline Burrows, who is learning French and tries it out at every opportunity.
    “I’ll have to have it now,” Atkins sulked.
    “Have what?” said Ted Burrows.
    “Duck,” said Atkins. “I was going to have braised beef and savoury suet dumplings but now I’m going to have to have duck.”
    “He just can’t bear to see anyone eating duck when he’s not having it,” Mrs Atkins explained to the rest of the party. “He can do without duck. He can cast duck completely from his mind. It would be as though ducks had never made it onto Noah’s Ark; but only if someone else isn’t having it.”
    “I was really looking forward to having braised beef and savoury suet dumplings as well,” moaned Atkins, giving me a malevolent look.
    The Trouble appealed to me. “Can’t you have something else?”
    “Well I could,” I said, “but I’m in a duck mood.”
    “They have bouef bourguignon,” coaxed The Trouble, “You like that.”
    “No, I’ll stick with the duck if it’s all the same to you.”
    “The guinea fowl in whisky sauce is excellent,” offered Robert Parsley-Hay. “Jill    and I had it the other week. Very like duck in fact.”
    “In that case I might as well have duck.”
    “It wasn’t all that much like duck,” said Jill Parsley-Hay.”
    “No good for me then, I said, “I want something that definitely tastes of duck. Preferably duck.”
    “I thought you were supposed to be my friend!” accused Atkins. Atkins is a member of the local amateur operatic society and can get a bit dramatic sometimes.
    “Friend, not wet nurse,” I said, sticking to my guns and my duck.
    “I really had the taste for braised beef and savoury suet dumplings,” complained Atkins. “But now it’s got to be duck.”
    “So why are you complaining then?” I said, “You like duck.”
    Atkins fumed. “I’m complaining because I fancied bloody braised beef and sodding savoury suet dumpling.”
    “Calme toi, Monsieur Atkins, calme toi,” said Caroline, demonstrating her command of the French language but not necessarily when to use it.
    “Bollocks,” said Atkins, demonstrating his command of the English language and exactly when to use it.
    I decided to rack up a few brownie points to be cashed in at a later date.  “Oh all right then. Anything for a quiet life. I’ll have the bouef bourguignon.”
    Atkins was overjoyed. “Really?”
    “I wouldn’t have ordered duck in the first place if I’d known,” I lied.
    “Thank Terry,” said Mrs Atkins.”
    “Thank you Terry,” said Atkins.
    The food arrived in due course. Atkins was the first to be served, with his steak and suet dumplings, and quite mouth-watering it looked too, in fact I wished I’d ordered it myself. The waiter served the rest of us. Last to be served was Ted Burrows. The waiter placed a plate before him. Sat on it, invitingly, was half an extremely succulent-looking duck smothered in a rich orange sauce.
    “I ordered the pork in cider,” said Ted.
    “Sorry sir,” said the waiter, making to remove the plate.
    “No, it’s all right,” said Ted, I quite fancy the duck now I’ve seen it, it looks quite mouth-watering.”
    “Fucking hell fire!” shouted Atkins, and got to his feet and stormed out.
    We shared his steak and suet pudding between us. Well I had most of it. It was as good as it looked.

    About a year ago I started to take my daughter’s dog Cassie out for a daily walk. Prior to this I don’t think the bitch got out of the house very often – the dog, not my daughter, my daughter needs only the slightest excuse to get out of the house as long as the excuse isn’t walking the dog. Every time I saw Cassie she had her nose pressed to the window, probably wondering why there weren’t any settees or TV sets or curtains out there, things she is familiar with.     

    It is quite impossible for Cassie to pass another dog without having a sniff at its arse. She has a sniff at every single one. If dogs’ arses were drugs Cassie would be the world champion sniffer dog. She is an average-sized dog, a crossbreed, half collie, half something which surprised her mother. So some dogs are much bigger than her, some much smaller, but this doesn’t make any difference to Cassie, they all get their arses sniffed regardless of their size. If it’s a Great Dane whose arse is to be sniffed Cassie simply gets up on her hind legs with her front legs on the Great Dane’s buttocks to do it, if it’s a chihuahua or dachshund which happens to be the designated sniffee she drops to her knees in order to carry out the dirty deed.(Actually I’ve never seen her smell the arse of a chihuahua, I just put that in to prove to myself that I can spell chihuahua without having to consult a dictionary)

    The dogs having their arses smelled by Cassie also smell Cassie’s arse at the same time of course. This would appear to be the protocol in doggy world. When they do this they go round and round in circles, at least a couple of times, up to a dozen for a really ripe arsehole. Why they do this, why they don’t just stand there and have a good sniff, I’m not sure, but I suspect it’s because each of the dogs are just a little bit fearful that the other dog, instead of sniffing at its arse, gives it a good bite instead, and being on the move makes this much harder to accomplish.

    When I’m out walking Cassie I don’t, like so many other dog walkers, carry a plastic bag with me to pick up its turds. The day I have to do that is the day that Cassie goes back to spending her time with her nose pressed to the window all day. I know I’m being environmentally incorrect but I just can’t bring myself to walk around carrying a bag of dog shit. I mean can you imagine if one time I’m walking along with a bag of dog shit in my hand and I bumped into Kristin Scott Thomas? Apart from the embarrassment it would probably ruin my chances with her for ever. Anyway I live very close to open countryside so Cassie is a farmer’s field shitter not a pavement or public park shitter, so I feel quite justified.

     Hi. I’m Terry Ravenscroft, I’m aged 67 and…..whoooah, come back, I’m not ready to have the lid nailed down on my coffin just yet. Anyway I’m a very young 67. (About five years ago I went to see Pulp at the Manchester Evening News Arena. I was older than everyone else by at least 35 years. The eighteen-year-old next to me asked me if I’d ever been to the venue before. I replied ‘Yes I saw George Formby here once’. She’d never heard of him.)
    This blog is going to be about my life and the way I see things. Before I retired I was a comedy scriptwriter for Les Dawson and Smith and Jones amongst others so there’s a sporting chance that some of the things I write will be funny. One of the reasons I’m writing this blog, although by no means the only reason, is because I have a website www.topcomedy.co.uk which I hope you will log on to occasionally. I have yet to meet anybody who doesn’t like Dear Air 2000….
    My hobbies are walking, playing crown green bowls, watching football, birdwatching, cooking, and, according to The Trouble, moaning. Oh, and I have a thing about Kristen Scott Thomas.
    A couple of people I will be mentioning from time to time are The Trouble and Atkins Down The Road. The Trouble is my wife. I don’t call her The Trouble because it’s cockney rhyming slang for ‘wife, trouble and strife’, but because she has the habit of starting sentences, especially to me, with the words ‘The trouble with you is….’ Then goes on to complete the rest of the sentence with words like ‘you never listen when I’m talking to you’ or ‘you never see the other person’s point of view’ or some such other frivolous complaint.  Atkins Down The Road is my best friend and lives, not surprisingly, down the road.
    I started a weblog a couple of years ago but stopped doing it to write a novel about golf called ‘A Good Walk Spoiled.’ If you want to read the weblog it can be found on my website, if you want to read the novel it can be found on my other website, Razzamatazz, at www.razza.fsnet.co.uk along with lots of other things.
    Cheers.

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