Seconds Out At Bernie’s

Anyone else remember a film called weekend At Bernies? Here’s the synopsis:

Richard and Larry are a couple of slackers who are trying to scam their way up the corporate ladder of an insurance company. They stumble on evidence that someone has been defrauding the company, and take their evidence to their boss Bernie Lomax.

Bernie is apparently so impressed he invites them to his weekend house on the coast. What the bell ends don’t know is that Bernie is the thief, and he has arranged to have them killed to protect himself.

When the boys arrive at Bernie’s they find him dead, and soon uncover the fact that they were the killer’s intended victims.

Unwilling to give up a weekend of industrial strength partying with the in crowd the pair omit to mention Bernie is dead to any of his friends. This leads to a series of ridiculous ruses to conceal the fact that the rapidly deteriorating corpse is in fact dead.

OK, so it is not the funniest film ever, even if it is “dead funny”. The plot is implausible to the point of stupidity. Perhaps it is best categorised as farce. Nothing like that could ever happen in real life, right?

Wrong.

Boxer Christopher Rivera was shot last week (25 Jan, 2014). His family wanted to remember Chris as a champ because even though he had only fought professionally fifteen times, losing four, they knew he coulda been a contender. When family and friends attended his wake on Friday to remember the deceased young man made good on his last wish and propped Rivera’s body up in a mock boxing ring. His embalmed body looked like a mannequin (or bernie in the above movie, after the two schmucks had used fake tan to conceal his deathly pallor.
Throughout the wake, Rivera stood in the ring for one last time wearing his traditional boxing gear. His mother, wife, and son posed with him for one last tribute. Mourners took pictures as keepsakes to remember the fallen boxer. As yet the authorities haven’t charged anyone with Rivera’s death.

This post was filed by our Only In America correspondent.

In desperate need of a laugh

Oh gawd, what a weekend. After a terrible week when crisis was piled on crisis, things went from shit to shittier over the weekend. Riots in Tottenham, debt crisis in the Euro zone and America, escalating violence in the middle east, inflation, high unemployment, lousy weather and The X Factor is about to return.

I reckon everybody must be as desperate for a laugh as I am.

Well here’s a link to a page of Tommy Cooper’s one liners.

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Pootling Along

I hate weekends. Or to be exact I hate having to go out in the car at weekends. The roads are full of people pootling along.

Now readers of this blog will know that as far as I, my sister fatsally and our non blogging bother Gra. are concerned there are only three unforgivable sins, murder, rape and pootling along.

This morning I offered to take my wife to the supermarket and because the Asda car park is like Paris at rush hour and the red wine at Tescos is mostly coloured water mixed with anti-feeze and sulphur I decided to go to Booth’s, the posh peoples’ supermarket at Clitheroe.

Big mistake. First we got stuck behind a hippie in a Morris Minor. This guy had long, straggly grey / brown hair, a wispy beard and sandals (Obviously I could not see that he was wearing sandals but he was, as sure as you have a hole in your bottom,) … and he was pootling along. OK, its hard to do anything else except pootle along in a Morris Minor with a split windscreen (i.e. a really old Morris Minor) but to add insult to injury he had a Friends Of The Earth flag flying from his radio aerial.

Now an 850 cc engined Morris Minor, with the flat top low compression engine may only have less than half the engine capacity of my Honda but it is ten times as dirty.

And this idiot was patronising me.

Grrr, Grrr went my two litre V-TEC engine to let me know it was getting pissed off. I stuck my foot down and with a contemptuous snort zooomed past, only to land behind someone in a Toyota Prius with one of those “Please drive carefully – child on board bumper stickers.

Now those really make me mad – and my car. Grrrrrrr, Grrrrrrrr! went the engine while I fumed, “Me drive carefully? What has it to do with me? It’s your effing kid, you drive carefully or better still catch the bus. I’ve got places to go, people to see.”

Give me the weekday traffic of angry businessmen, impatient salesmen, homicidal drivers of white vans and bus drivers who don’t know what an indicator is. At least they are intent on getting somewhere.

Eventually we got to Booths, got the wine and took the scenic route home which is about twice as far but a road frequented by mad bikers and so much to scary for pootlers.

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“Dick” Madeley, his book and other weekend stuff.

Every time I turned on the radio over the weekend I heard Richard Madeley, the fuckwit half of Richard and Judy promoting his book. If I hear Richard whining again about how his father once hit him when he was a child I’ll hit him myself.
The thing is you see, if I had been Richard’s Dad I would have hit him every day. Richard my boy, you have that effect on people. You’re a knob. Deal with it.

Staying with Richard and Judy, on tevevision over the weekend a Canadian stand-up said; “Every time I see Richard Madeley I can’t help but admire what he does. There is no way I could ever work with my Mother… Cruel but funny.

Funniest moment of the year though was on the Peter Kay extravaganza the title of which I am not even going to try to remember. A dog act was auditioning for the spoof talent show but the dog would not jump through the hoop. Other acts came and went but every couple of minutes we went back to the dog as it gazed uncomprehendingly as it’s trainer’s attempts to coax it through the hoop.

Finally the man looked closely at the animal and said to the judges; “Sorry, I’ve brought the wrong fucking dog.”

I don’t know why but it makes me laugh hysterically every time I think of it.

Siege Perilous hits Morcambe

Well we survived our weekend in Morecambe, flying lizards (see previous post from fatsally), high-as-a-kite surfers, my wife saying the “f” word in front of our Dear Old Mum and all.

The highlight of the weekend for me apart from our gorgeous blonde waitress (oooh she was gorgeous) was our visit for morning coffee on Sunday to Morecambe’s art deco architectural treasure The Midland Hotel. Refurbished at enormous cost to vie with the statue of Eric Morecambe as the town’s principal tourist attraction, the hotel’s blurb promises a taste of a more elegant age. The trip was part nostalgia, Mum spent her honeymoon in that hotel, part Siege Perilous – Mum’s Arthurian quest to find a decent cup of tea at 1950s prices.

What we found was a rather stark, unfinished looking lobby crowded with seemingly bewildered elderly people who might have been looking for a door that led to the 1950s.

When we eventually found a counter where coffee was available it was in a purple and red themed room that looked as if it has been designed by Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen while he was on a bad acid trip. Sitting on the banquettes was an adventured in itself, the seats were so narrow they mush have been designed for size zero bottoms. Or perhaps they were all half-arsed in the 1950s. Prices were far from 1950s though and it cost £18 for six cups of coffee one of which never arrived.

And after all that there was not an Alan Bennett character in sight.

All in all the weekend lived up to expectations. Apart from the gorgeous blonde waitress who served my meal in the restaurant on Saturday night. Did I mention she was gorgeous?