Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Eggs Suspended In Mid-lay Up The Backside Of Easter's Chicken

This may be my last blog post for a while — not because I’m dying or giving up blogging or suffering from a gamut of huge cranial pustules from whose leathery skin winged creatures will undoubtedly burst, you understand, but the onset of Easter brings with it the misery of Conference Season and I must away to a secluded hellhole, there to mingle with others of my kind in an effort to boost our mutual professionalism.

In that respect, my slide along the double helix of Christ’s last moments and the final hours of multiple Cadbury’s Creme Eggs is all set to mirror the passage of a caged elephant (possibly like Dumbo — or, since I’m trying to elicit sympathy here, Dumbo’s mother) through Blackpool’s sunny streets on a scorching July afternoon.

Beyond the iron bars: such splendours!

Yet here in my converted Ford Transit van: merely an old Star Trek duvet cover and a heap of my own poo!

(Brief digression: after my grandad died, my Blackpool-crazy grandma took me on holiday to said “South of France of The North West”. My abiding memory of the place is that you couldn’t walk more than fifty feet without stepping in a heap of donkey shit. So if I were a caged elephant, maybe I’d be better off being cruelly wheeled through somewhere like Skegness or Great Yarmouth to spare me the indignity of feeling trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea with only the squeals of a flailing trunk directed at a barren and uncaring universe to serve as a record of my plight).

This is not to say that where I’m going isn’t pleasant, or that I’m not looking forward to shared muffins and brainstorms with the cream of the nation’s gibbering homonculi, but I’d much rather be sat at home chilling by the barbecue with Girly of Whirly and Son of Whirl — even if Mother of Girly of Whirly pays a visit to brush up on her ritual persecution techniques using me as a surrogate me.*

* This is how pecking hens get to kill two birds with one stone while preserving the malevolent avian population.

So — while I may get out to visit your blogs over Easter and post the odd frippery on BumBook, I can’t think there will be much activity here for the next week or so (unless there’s a drunken punch-up or synchronised abseiling Bono lookalike attack).

All of which means, have a lovely Easter — and come back pronto for my “privileged access” Royal Wedding coverage (unless it’s rained off or Osama Bin Laden blows everybody up).


Old Kitty said...

Bunting - check
Union Jack - check
Crown Jewels - check check
Pearly King and Queen outfits - check, check, check.

Bring em on!

Take care

fairyhedgehog said...

It must be bad - look what's happened to your photo.

Whirlochre said...

Old Kitty
Good Will Bunting, I hope...

Hogsy Pogsy
Nothing a blend of witch hazel and Guinness can't sort out...

stacy said...

Have a good Easter. I'm pulling for the drunken punch-up, myself. Well, the drunken part. Not the punch up.