How the Frynch Stole Twitmas 20 Dec 2012 12:30 PM (12 years ago)

Every Twit down in Twitville
Liked Twitter a lot,
But the Frynch,
Who lived just North of London,
Did NOT!

The Frynch hated Twitter!
The whole Twitmas season.
Now please don’t ask why,
No-one quite knows the reason.

It could be his laptop
Wasn’t plugged in quite right,
It could be perhaps
That his pants were too tight.

But I think the most likely reason of all,
May have been that his dongle was two sizes too small.

Whatever the reason,
His dongle or pants,
He stared at the screen,
Having one of his rants.

‘They’re tweeting their greetings!’
He started to shake.
‘Tomorrow is Twitmas,
This is too much to take!’

Then he growled, with his Frynch fingers nervously drumming,
‘I MUST find a way to keep Twitmas from coming!’

For tomorrow he knew all those twittering nerds,
Would wake bright and early, like little blue birds
And the words! The words! Oh, the words, words, words, words!
That’s the thing that he hated! The WORDS, WORDS, WORDS, WORDS!

For the Twits young and old would sit down on their seats,
And they’d tweet. And they’d tweet. And they’d TWEET, TWEET, TWEET, TWEET!

And the more the Frynch thought of this whole Twitmas row,
The more the Frynch thought, ‘I must stop Twitter now!
Why for more than three years, I’ve put up with this crap.
I must stop Twitter from working - Asap!’

Then he got an idea!
A devilish idea!
More devilish than anything got in Ikea!

And he grabbed some bin bags
And some old empty cases,
(He just couldn’t wait
To see all their Twit faces!)

And off, with a smirk, that naughty Frynch crept,
To the place where he knew all those silly Twits slept.
Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile like a snadget,
Around the whole town, and he took every gadget!

He took all the mobiles, he took the PCs,
He took all the internet-ready TVs.
He took the computers, he took the laptops,
He took the iPhones, the iPads and iPlops.

And when he had grabbed all the items above,
He started to take other things the Twits love,
He took all their LOLs and their LMAOs,
He stole their hash tags from their little hash toes.

He snatched their Retweets and their mentions and then
He snaffled the Trending Topics Top Ten.
He kidnapped their followers, erased their Dms.
They all went in his sack, which he threw in the Thames.

Then he sat on the bank and he nervously waited,
With his lip fully bit and his breath fully bated
Until the sun rose. But then the Frynch frowned,
‘They’re just waking up . . . but what is that strange sound?’

All the Twits down in Twitville, the princes and bums
Were talking - without a device near their thumbs!
They chatted, they laughed, they guffawed and they chortled,
They sang and they shouted, they sniffed and they snortled.

The butchers, the bakers, the students and tourists,
The housewives, the bankers, the fish pedicurists,
The teachers, the stalkers, the geeks and the druids,
They actually met and swapped bodily fluids!

And the Frynch heard this sound, this unheard-of kerfuffle,
And he frowned and he blinked and he started to snuffle.

He HADN’T stopped Twitmas from coming!

It CAME!

Somehow or other, it came just the same!

The Frynch groped for hours, ‘till his dongle was sore.
Then the Frynch thought of something he hadn’t before!
‘Maybe Twitter,’ he thought, ‘doesn’t come from a phone.
‘Maybe Twitter . . . perhaps . . . has a life of its own?’

And what happened then . . . ?
Well, in court they did say
That the Frynch’s small dongle
Grew three sizes that day!

And the minute his dongle had started to swell,
He looked at the gadgets and cried ‘Bloody Hell,
What a silly old git!’ and he fell to the floor,
What a nitwit-tit-git I have been, that’s for sure!’

And ashamed and aroused, he went back to the town,
Dongle proudly erect but his head hanging down.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘But could you, at a pinch,
Bear to forgive me, this silly old Frynch?’

And the Twits took one look at this figure forlorn,
With his chin on his chest and his confidence torn,
‘Well, it’s true’ they replied, ‘that we do need some closure.‘
So they jailed him for theft and indecent exposure.

From How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage by Mrs Stephen Fry amzn.to/OLfAfB Happy Christmas, dears! x x x

A Staircase To Stephen 14 Dec 2012 3:24 AM (12 years ago)

Performed by my husband at the Dog & Duck Karaoke Final - with sincere apologies to Led Zeppelin

There’s a lady who makes me Spam fritters of gold,
And she’s climbing the staircase to Stephen.
When she gets here I know, if the door isn’t closed,
With her brolly, she’s going to get even.

Ooh, ooh and she’s climbing that staircase to Stephen.

There’s three ducks on the wall but she wants to be sure,
‘Cause she knows sometimes birds have two meanings.
I just lie here and wait, contemplating my fate
Hoping all of my crimes are forgiven

Ooh, but she makes me wander
Ooh, if only she were blonder

There’s a feeling I get when I take off my vest
And I know that my dander’s up for it
In the dark she has seen something poke through the sheets
But she stands there and tries to ignore it

Ooh, and it makes me wonder
Ooh, if she were ten years younger

If she blew my bassoon, then we’d both be in tune
And the bedroom would echo with laughter
Then a new day would dawn when we woke on the lawn
And we’d live happily ever after

If there’s a woman in the wardrobe, don’t be alarmed now,
She’s just there looking for her brother
Yes, there are two more on the landing, a misunderstanding
We thought you’d gone to see your mother
What a dreadful blunder

My wife’s succumbing and she won’t go, as if I don’t know
Her Stephen’s calling her to join him
Dear Edna, can you shut the window ’cos did you know
Your hairdo flies in the whistling wind?

And as we wander down life’s road
Her shadow’s shorter than before
There walks a lady, very slow
With faded sight and hair like snow
Her hearing aid is running low
But if she listens very hard
That tune will come to her again
As soon as she has had her op, yeah
To have a hip and not to hop . . .

And she’ll be riding that stairlift to Stephen . . .

from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage by Mrs Stephen Fry amzn.to/OLfAfB

Modern British Baby Names - an A to Z 4 Dec 2012 3:58 AM (12 years ago)

Choosing a name for your child can be one of the most important decisions you will make as a couple. It can shape their personality, their career, even their gender. To help you and your partner with this potentially life-shaping choice, here's an alphabetical list Stephen and I drew up before naming most of our children (I‘m sure you‘ll be able to work out which ones are Stephen‘s).

M = Male, F = Female, M/F = Male or Female

A - Anaglypta (F), Anakin (M), Anon (M/F), Aslan (M)

B - Bazza (M), Beelzebub (M), Beelzebubbles (F), Beowulf (M), Bilbo (M), Boba (M)

C - Chav (M/F), Chumbawumba (F), Cialis (F)

D - Dazza (M), Dappy (M), Darth (M), Dopey (M)

E - Edna (F), Ella-Ella-Ella (F), Elvis (M)

F - Fender (M), Ferrero (M)

G - Gazza (M), George-at-asda (M), Google (M/F), Gromit (M)

H - Hadron (M), Han (M), Haribo (M), Hoodie (M/F)

I - Ibiza (F), Ike (M), Ikea (F), Innit (M), Innita (F)

J - Jabba (M), Jar-jar (M), Jedward (M), Jenga (F) Jojoba (F)

K - Kajagoogoo (M), Kebab (M), Kebabs (F), Kerplunk (M), Korma (F), Kylie (F)

L - Lambrini (F), Leia (F), Lenor (M), Lenora (F) Lidl (M), Limahl (M), Lol (M), Luke (F)

M - Masala (F), Mega (M), Megan (F)

N - N’Dubz (M), N’Dubya (F) Neo (M) , Nutella (F)

O - Omg (M)

P - Persil (M), Primark (M), Primula (F)

Q - Qui-Gon (M), Qwerty (M), Qwerta (F)

R - Reebok (M), Rocky, Rocky 2, Rocky 3, Rocky 4, Rocky 5 (all M) Rofl (M)

S - Sambucca (F), Shaft (M), Shazza (F), Skeletor (M), Skye (F), Skye Plus (F), Samantha (F), Spartacus (M), Spongebob (M), Stan (M), Stannah (F), Stella (F), Supermario (M), Susudio (?)

T - TK Maxx (M), T-Rex (M), Tickle-me-Elmo (M), Tickle-me-Rihanna (F) Tomtom (M), Towie (M/F), Tron (M)

U - Ultravox (M), Urethra (F)

V - Van Halen (M), Veneria (F), Viagra (F), Vileda (F), Vinaigrette (F)

W - Walliam (M), Walmart (M), Wazza (M)

X - X-Box (M/F), Xena (F)

Y - Yakult (M/F)

Z - Zafira (F), Zinfandel (M), Zinfandella (F), Zod (M), Zumba (F)

This is an extract from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage amzn.to/OLfAfB

How To Make An Almost Perfect Wedding Cake 1 Nov 2012 12:25 PM (12 years ago)

The true star of any wedding reception is the cake. It should stand proudly on the top table, a resplendent icing-covered monument to your hopes and dreams. And standing atop this marzipan monolith, a tiny bride and groom, or in our case a subbuteo player and a cocktail stirrer.



The traditional wedding cake, a sturdy fruit cake designed to last decades, has, in recent years, given way to a number of more edible variations including chocolate fudge cake, éclair pyramids and even bizarre meringue-based structures. The following recipe has been in my family for generations - it was handed down to me by my mother, who in turn was given it by her mother, who was given it by her mother, who copied it out of a book.

                      Wedding Cake Recipe

                                               Ingredients

800 grams of flour

Half a dozen eggs

Two cups of dried fruit

The zest of three oranges

One cup of understanding

Two spoonfuls of love

A gallon of patience

A dash of forgiveness

A hint of desperation

A handful of crushed dreams

150 grams of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better

A bag of nerves, grated

One big disappointment (bitter)

                                            Method

Mix ingredients together in a large, empty container for several years until any zest has completely disappeared. Place in an un-preheated oven, together with your head, for as long as it takes.

Serves: you right. You should have listened to your mother.

Alternatively, get a nice Victoria sponge from the Co-op.

                         from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage by Mrs Stephen Fry
                                                            http://amzn.to/OLfAfB

How to Propose to Your Loved One 1 Nov 2012 5:47 AM (12 years ago)

Asking a loved one, or anyone, to marry you can be a traumatic business - this is why we women generally leave it to the man. I can remember Stephen proposing to me as if it were yesterday - no matter which medication I try. I can still see him now, on that empty, moonlit street, getting up on one knee and uttering those immortal words ‘Edna, my darling. I love you more than anything in the world. Would you do me the enormous honour of consenting to carry me home. You’re my best mate, you are.’

Granted, it wasn’t a conventional proposal (like so many men, Stephen finds it difficult to express himself where matters of the heart are involved - or after twelve pints of Stella) but I knew exactly what he meant, the dear romantic soul. Having said that, it still came as a bit of a surprise, as up to that point the most romantic question he’d asked me was ‘have you done with those chips?’. In fact, I think Stephen even surprised himself, feigning complete ignorance the following morning - he’s such a tease. He even claimed he hadn’t bought me an engagement ring, the big silly. As it turned out, he hadn’t, but a girl can’t have everything and I knew he would get me one as soon as he could afford it. For now, our love was enough. For now . . .

Of course, there are additional pressures should you and your partner happen to be a celebrity couple like Stephen and myself (although admittedly, I’m the only actual celebrity - Stephen’s just my trophy husband. Not as in the World Cup or Wimbledon, you understand - more like one of those plastic Oscars you can purchase from fancy dress shops). Television news programmes still regularly replay the sadly prophetic words spoken by HRH Prince Charles on the occasion of his first engagement. When asked ’Do you love Diana?’ his famous, somewhat hesitant response was ‘Of course . . . whatever love is‘.

By contrast, Stephen was far more forthright at our engagement party when somebody asked him ’Do you love Edna?’. ‘Of course!’ he announced, wildly waving a bottle of champagne in the air, ’. . . whoever Edna is.’

from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage by Mrs Stephen Fry
http://amzn.to/OLfAfB

How Perfect Is Your Marriage? 1 Nov 2012 2:18 AM (12 years ago)

Do you and/or your partner imagine you have an almost perfect marriage? If so, just answer the following multiple choice questions as honestly as possible and we'll see whether you're right or living in cloud cuckoo land . . .

                                         His Questions

1. When was the last time you forgot your wife’s birthday?

a) I never forget her birthday – the date is etched eternally on my heart, together with our wedding anniversary, the day we first met and her shoe size.

b) I only once forgot her birthday but I never will again. Luckily, the surgery was a success.

c) I know when Elvis was born – does that count?

2. Your wife has bought a new dress but looks terrible in it. What do you say to her when she asks how she looks?

a) Gorgeous, darling, as always.

b) I’m not sure it shows off your amazing figure to its very best, my sweet.

c) Hahahahahahahahahahaahahahaahahahaha

3. At a party, you notice a good-looking man eyeing up your wife. What do you do?

a) Nothing. Just feel proud that he’s noticed how attractive she is.

b) Give him a dirty look and steer her towards the vol-au-vents.

c) Ask if he’s ever considered laser eye surgery.

4. Your wife wants you to go with her to the cinema this evening to see the latest Hollywood romantic comedy. What do you do?

a) You go along with her to watch it. The most important thing to you is that she’s happy, even if it is inane, shallow drivel.

b) You agree to go but pop out in the afternoon and set fire to the cinema.

c) You agree to go but pop out in the afternoon, set fire to the cinema and frame your wife for it.

                                     Her Questions

1. How on earth do you manage to put up with him?

                        from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage by Mrs Stephen Fry
                                                        http://amzn.to/OLfAfB

How to Have an Almost Perfect Hallowe'en 31 Oct 2012 4:14 AM (12 years ago)

Stephen’s favourite holiday is undoubtedly Hallowe’en. He loves the fantasy, the mythology and the fact that he doesn’t have to wear anything special. Very often, we’ll spend the entire night watching back-to-back horror movies, starting with something slightly scary such as the original Frankenstein or Alvin and the Chipmunks before building up to stronger fare like The Exorcist and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and ending with our wedding video.

My special Spam Pumpkin - the Spumkin!

As well as our horrorthon, we sometimes host our own Hallowe’en party. It’s a wonderful opportunity to see old friends wearing ludicrous costumes although some make more effort than others. Stephen usually just puts a pillowcase over his head. He can’t even be bothered to cut out eyeholes. He just spends the evening bumping into things and falling over, so he doesn’t even bother to behave any differently than usual, either.

If, unlike Stephen, you want to make a bit of effort, you can make your own costume or hire one from a fancy dress shop - here’s a list of the most popular Hallowe’en costumes, rated from one to ten in order of scariness.

1 Ghost

2 Witch

3 Vampire

4 Werewolf

5 Frankenstein

6 Frankenstein’s monster

7 The Duracell Bunny (well, it scares Stephen)

8 Flying Monkey

9 Piers Morgan

10 Flying Piers Morgan

extract from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage

http://amzn.to/OLfAfB

Wedding Anniversaries - a Definitive Guide

an extract from How To Have An Almost Perfect Marriage
http://amzn.to/OLfAfB

Traditionally, each year of your marriage is celebrated with a different theme. Most people know about gold, silver and ruby but here is a comprehensive list I’ve compiled with the assistance of Vaguelytruepedia.com.

1 Milk

2 Velcro

3 MDF

4 Lint

5 Cubic Zirconia

6 Fibre Glass

7 Tupperware

8 Meat

9 Lego

10 Nectar Points

11 Key Ring

12 Cheese

13 Socks

14 Oregano

15 Meccano

16 Garage Flowers

17 Tattoo

18 A Nice Cardigan

19 Phone Credit

20 Bodyshop Stuff

21 Gin

22 Earth, Wind and Fire

23 Cash

24 Penguin Adoption Certificate

25 Silver

26 Disney

27 Petrol

28 Polyester

29 Kryptonite

30 2-4-1 Gift Token to Alton Towers

31 Peat

32 Just a Card

33 Cinzano

34 Beige

35 Andrew Lloyd-Webber

36 Laser Eye Surgery

37 Buck-A-Roo

38 Scalextric

39 Plasticene

40 Ruby

41 Bubblewrap

42 A surprise

43 DVD Box Set

44 Daniel O’Donnell CD

45 Jigsaw Puzzle

46 Batteries

47 iPhone

48 Tattoo Removal

49 Ovaltine

50 Gold

The Fry Before Christmas 17 Dec 2011 12:31 PM (13 years ago)

‘Twas the night before Christmas and right through the town,
All the creatures were slurring and tumbling down,
And I, with my nightcap of Horlicks and booze,
Had just settled down for a nice winter’s snooze

When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
That I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,
And what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But my very own husband with eight tins of cold beer.

The children awoke thanks to Stephen’s daft games,
And he sang as he drank as he called out their names,
Oy Asbo! Oy Subo! Hugh Junior! Viennetta!
Oy Brangie! Oy Junior! I’ve ruined my sweater!

His heart and his bladder were filled with good cheer,
And several bottles of cheap local beer,
A sudden warm feeling came over him so,
He signed us his autograph there in the snow.

He giggled and burped as he reached for his keys,
A difficult task with his pants round his knees,
He took out his dongle – a bit of a worry,
And it shook as he laughed like a bowlful of curry.

Then up on the roof he espied our pet cat,
And he slurred as he shouted ‘What you lookin’ at?’
Then he yelled as he slipped and collapsed in a bin,
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a large gin!’

Bohemian Spam for Tea 6 Aug 2009 8:41 AM (15 years ago)

with thanks and apologies to Mr Mercury

Am I his real wife?
Is this just fantasy?
I’ve bought up the large size,
No escaping there’s Spam for tea.

Open your eyes,
Look at Stephen Fry and see
He’s not a poor boy,
He needs no sympathy
Because he’s easy come, easyjet,
Littlewoods, little bet
When he’s cleaning windows,
Nothing really matters to Steve
To Steve . . .

Stephen,
Just gone to shop,
Put my coin into the slot,
Took my trolley, off I trot
Stephen,
I have almost done,
(Better leave before my husband hits the roof . . )
Stephen,
Oo-oo-oo . . any way the wheels go . . .
Didn’t mean to make you wait,
If I’m not back by ten, just watch a movie . .
Carry On, Carry On . . . Doctor, Nurse or Up the Khyber

Midnight,
That time has come.
Got jelly down my thigh,
Strawberry mivvi in my eye
Lie back, think of England, this can’t go on
Gotta leek in my behind that faces south
Stephen . .
(Ooh ooh-ooh - did we close the windows?)
You used to be so shy
I sometimes wish you’d never watched porn at all . . .

(poncey electric guitar solo)

I see a little pink stiletto in the van,
Sharon Hughes, Sharon Hughes, did you do the hand tango?
Underpants and night things really quite enlightening me

Gallivanting, gallivanting,
Gallivanting, puff’n’panting,
Gallivanting, there she blows
Fellatio-oh-oh-oh

I’m just a poor wife,
Nobody loves me.
She’s just a poor wife from a poor family
Spare her some time and a nice cup of tea

He’s an ape. He’s a beast. Should’ve been a priest . . .

Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Still waiting for my tea!
Let me see!
I‘m going down the pub!
Watch TV!
Then maybe to a club!
Oh please don’t go oh-oh-oh!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Sitting here, with a beer and Mamma Mia video!
He’s down the pub and there’s devilled eggs and Spam
For tea
For tea
For tea . . !

So you think you can treat me like some kind of slave?
And I don’t mean the times when we just misbehave!
Oh Stephen!
Just want something more even!
(Just gonna drink stout. Looks like we’re all right out of beer . . .)

(twiddly instrumental break)

Ooh yeah, ooh yeah . . .

Nothing really matters,
Easy to believe
Nothing really matters
‘cept beer and birds and ladders
To Steve . . .

When he’s cleaning windows . . .
(Dong!)
　
　
　
　
　

Mrs Fry's Indispensable Guide to Twitter 20 Jul 2009 9:03 AM (15 years ago)

Hello again, dears. So many people have come up to me in the street recently, asking, Edna, what is this Twitter malarkey that you're queen of ? So, in order to answer them and any newcomers to the Wonderful World of Twitter, I've written a brief but indispensable guide. If you also know someone in need of my very own particular brand of wisdom, send them along. There's plenty of tea for everyone. x

1 What Is Twitter?

Twitter is a social networking or mini-blogging site. It is named after the great novelist T.W.Itter (not be mistaken for T.W.Athead or T.Winnedwiththegermantownofdusseldorf), author of the classic whodunnit 'The Vicar Crack'd', in which the murder is committed by all 140 characters.

2 OK. I'm on Twitter. What now? I feel a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.

Don't worry. When you first join, Twitterworld can seem a very daunting place, a bit like that forest in the Wizard of Oz or a Take That concert. In fact Twitter is a veritable Narnia filled with a cornucopia of fascinating and unlikely mythical characters such as Horny Kitty, Barack Obama and Lily Allen.

3 Who are these followers? Why don't I have many?

Don't panic. The number of followers, or stalkers as I prefer to call them, you have is only an indication of your popularity. For example, Britney Spears has over two million whereas Josef Fritzl not so many. If you have very few followers the chances are that it's only because you're a bit dull.

4 What do these strange words mean? ROFLMAO and LOL?

Twitter has its own special language. To translate it you can either seek out an ancient artefact known as the Rosetta email, or simply read on . . .

LOL - an acronym standing for Leaning On Lamp-post, meaning the writer is either George Formby or Marlene Dietrich. Probably best to find out which before engaging them in a conversation about ukeleles.

OMG - Ogling Mike Gatting, meaning the writer is either a cricket fan or gets turned on by plump, bearded men in woollen jumpers.

PMSL - Pleasuring My Self Lightly, meaning the writer finds your message particularly interesting.

LMAO - Let My Auntie Out - a very specific, urgent message.

ROFLMAO - Room's On Fire. Let My Auntie Out - an even more specific and urgent message.

5 How Do I Know Who is Real and Who is Fake?

That's easy. In actual fact, there are only five real people on Twitter. These are me, of course, my lazy good-for-nothing husband (although very little of what he writes is real), Ashton Kutcher, Horny Kitty and someone else who writes all the other tweets, believed to be broadcaster and naturalist David Attenborough. If you're still unsure, you can also look for the 'Verified Account' sign on people's profiles, although the 'o' may be missing from Mr Kutcher's.

6 What Are Twitpics?

Twitpics are the electronic equivalent of a long Sunday afternoon with your grandmother, being forced to look through voluminous, dusty photograph albums at pictures of people you've never met or have the slightest interest in, and feeling obliged to make positive comments about young faces only social services could love while slowly chewing your way through an enormous portion of long out of date ginger cake.

7 So What Are Retweets?

Retweets are a little like Columbo. Entertaining and amusing at first, but very quickly becoming irritating as you realise it's just the same thing over and over again.

8 Why Has a Huge Whale Appeared on My Screen?

This is the special Twitter warning screen. It's shown exclusively to users who have exceeded their monthly time limit on Twitter and as a result of such inactivity are in imminent danger of becoming morbidly obese.

9 So What Should I Do Now?

Run. Run away. While you still can. It's too late for me. Save yourself! Go!

Twitter - a Michael Jackson twibute 16 Jul 2009 8:07 AM (15 years ago)

Hello again, my dears.

Many people have asked me when Stephen's legendary, and some might even go so far as to say imaginary, performance at Glastonbury will be available to purchase on DVD. Sadly, due to an excess of mud and class C drugs in the sound equipment and sound equipment operator, I'm afraid to say the only record of Stephen's awe-inspiring tribute to Michael Jackson is the following transcript. However, a studio recorded single will be released at the end of the month, with all proceeds going to the Michael Jackson Give a Child a Bed Foundation. Until then, here are the lyrics from Stephen's unforgettable performance:

Twitter (a Michael Jackson twibute)

(funky intro as Stephen moonwalks onstage. Then offstage. Then finally, with the assistance of two roadies, back onstage again . .)
It's close to midnight and somehow you've crawled in late from the bars,
You check your laptop to see if you can find some topless stars,
You start to yawn, but Twitter takes the sound before you make it.
You start to tweet, and suddenly your willpower has died . .
. . . You're Stephen Fried !
'Cause this is Twitter, Twitter night,
And no-one's gonna stop you from the tweets you're gonna write.
You know it's Twitter, Twitter night,
You're fighting for your life against that Twitter critter tonight . . .

Ash Kutcher calls and his Demi enthralls in their mass charade,
There's no retweeting their god awful meeting this time,
They have a whale of a time . . .

(ba-bada-bum)

You read the porn spam, and suddenly you can't believe your luck,
They seem such nice girls, that Horny Kitty chick and Britney F****d.
You close your eyes, and hope that this is something like flirtation,
But all too soon, they hear your moaning out there in the streets,
You're out of tweets!

'Cause this is Twitter, Twitter night,
You're only on to tweet but found that Michael Jackson's died.
Yes, this is Twitter, Twitter night,
He's fighting for his life inside a bitter Twitter, baby-sitter, Gary Glitter tonight . . .

(Stephen does his best Vincent Price voice . . .)

Darkness falls across the screen,
Your battery light is flashing green,
You crawl around in search of leads
To satisfy your twitter needs.

And whosoever shall be nerds,
Use acronyms instead of words.
Must stand and face the hounds of hell,
WOOFLMAO and LOL!

The foulest stench, your laundry box,
The funk of forty thousand socks
While pizza boxes seal your doom,
And clutter up your living room . .

And though you try to go to bed
Your finger starts to jitter,
'Cause no mere mortal can resist . .
The evil of the Twitter!

Mwuhahahahahahahahahahahahaha . . . . . .

Edna Fry: The Woman Beneath the Hat - Chapter One 12 Jul 2009 8:32 AM (15 years ago)

Reader, I married him. But it hasn't always been so bad . . .

A long time ago, in a village far, far away . . . a small wicker basket sat plump and alone on a cold, damp limestone step, snuggled against the heavy oak door of a small country residence of debatable aspect. A banshee wind howled its mournful song through the desolate night hills and pellets of rain smudged the spidery script on a single, sodden scrap of paper - 'Please take good care of this poor wee mite for in truth I fear I cannot.'

Our grocer had a strange sense of humour.

Life all those years ago was altogether more simple and innocent than now. We knew nothing of such modern advancements as the i-pod, twitter and crystal meth. Aside from occasional, organised speed-dancing events, during which 140 character flirtations were exchanged with unsuitable gentlemen from the neighbouring villages whilst engaging in endless quadrilles, there was little to occupy a young lady of marriageable demeanor, save for tapestry, flower-pressing and rigorous bouts of self-gratification.

Times were hard. My mother, the novelist Mary Naughtie - author of 'The Illustrated Calmer Suitor - for adventurous but polite gentlefolk' found herself suffering from an extreme form of female writer's blockage and despite his best endeavours, our poor dear father, inventor and entrepreneur, Joshua Kiddie was unable to find a manufacturer for his revolutionary Spinning Nanny. Our parents, therefore, found providing for their twenty-six offspring excessively burdensome. In order to alleviate this burden, they would regularly host their famous Murder Mystery Weekends at the house and by the spring of my nineteenth year only me, my three sisters and brother remained.

My surviving siblings and I rapidly reached the conclusion that it would be in our best interests to either marry or find some form of gainful employment. Being, apart from myself, generally regarded throughout the county as visually repulsive we were severely limited in our choice. We were, however, a musical family - our father played the comb and paper and our great aunt was a harpsichord - and so it was that we found ourselves forming an ensemble, with Emily on vocals, Charlotte, percussion, Branwell ,the mantelpiece, myself the violin and Sharon miming and trying to look pretty.

The Naughtie-Kiddie Fiddlers proved an instant success, winning prize after prize in music festivals throughout the land. Following our Eurovision success with 'Boom-bang-a-tiddly-diddly-i-tie on a string', we were inundated with countless sponsorship deals, all of which, for some reason, were reliant on a change of band name. These potential sponsors were almost exclusively beer manufacturers. We toyed with renaming ourselves the Double Diamonds, the Budweisers and the Old Peculiers before settling, finally, on the Coors. Within days we signed to a major record label and before very long, you couldn't walk into a regency period theme pub without hearing one of our many ludicrously catchy tunes blaring out from the jukebox.

It was at this time, however, that the cracks began to appear in our happy group and jealousy reared its unsightly visage. No longer happy to be upstaged by their younger, prettier and more talented sister, the rest of the band relegated me to the back of the stage where, at the end of a particularly gruelling tour, I fell asleep, leaving my older sister Sharon to mime her violin solo in silence to a stunned audience of Latvian steelworkers. . .

As the tabloids of the day reported, I was forced to leave in an acrimonious split. I sought representation from 24 hour legal firm 'So-U-Claim' and after a tortuous six month high court battle was left with just the band's instruments, a castle in county Tipperary and ownership of the Beatles' back catalogue.

And so, with a heavy heart and a heavier piano, I bade farewell to the Coors and set off to seek fame and fortune alone . . .

Oh, hello again. So lovely to have you back. I do hope you'll bear with me. I'm afraid this is all very daunting. I haven't written a diary since I was a little girl. I looked at it recently, all those seven-year-old hopes and dreams for the future - to win a Nobel Prize, to be the first woman on the moon, to beat David Essex at Buckaroo . .

Of course, as you know, I achieved all of those things but my greatest wish, like so many little girls, was to be married. Not just to anyone, but to someone tall, handsome and erudite. Perhaps a writer, an actor, a comedian even? Someone with a kind heart and a penchant for the finer things in life. And, after all these years, here I am - married to a philandering, 5 foot 6 inch window cleaner with a monster truck season ticket and a pigeon.

Having said that, my Stephen does have a great imagination (I believe the medical profession has an altogether longer name for it). He imagines he's on Top Gear, he imagines he's written several books (which also involves him imagining he can write) and only recently he imagined he was in Germany, Switzerland, Russia and Austria - the last being particularly wearing as he insisted our children wear curtains and perform puppet shows throughout.

Anyway, back to this diary. As a young girl, I kept my diary religiously, faithfully adding an entry each day, no matter how mundane. If I quickly flick through to this week all those years ago, I can give you an example. Ah, here we are . . .

Monday: Played on my bike.

Tuesday: Sugar Puffs for breakfast.

Wednesday: Funny Uncle Derek came to visit.

Thursday: Funny Uncle Derek let us play with his chihuahua.

Friday: A policeman came to visit Funny Uncle Derek.

Saturday: We all went to visit Funny Uncle Derek. For ten minutes.

Sunday: Found out two things today. 1. A chihuahua is actually a breed of dog. 2. Why everyone calls Uncle Derek funny.

Ah . . . that takes me back. Such a happy time and I hope to share these and other moments in this diary - my highs, my lows and all my messy bits in the middle, interspersed with general views on life, some of my world famous recipes and possibly one or two little secrets about my Stephen.

I do hope you'll enjoy reading these ramblings ( thank you for your encouraging comments so far, by the way ). If you do, please tell your friends to join us. I have enough hobnobs for everyone. I shall try to post a new entry as often as I can, but I'm sure you'll understand the pressures of having such a demanding husband.

Cheerio for now,
love Edna x

Sunday 5th July 5 Jul 2009 4:18 AM (15 years ago)

Well, hello dear. You found me. I thought I'd try out a little bloggery. I hope you enjoy reading about my life with Stephen and our two adorable children (we have six but only two are adorable. Do I mean adorable? Sorry. Acceptable).
There. I'm rambling already. Perhaps I should have stuck to Twitter.

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