News Club

by brightonsauce

Current Affairs/Consumer Blog [draft minus three fails to capture national mood, return later..and examine, vey depessed]

[fix bump para 1]


At ninety-eight years old mother keeps abreast of contemporary affairs.  I call her once a month, and ensure she remains alive, lucid in her shed.  She keeps a herd of cows, and is more of a hobby farmer really, herself and the three cows located in that shed on the edge of the moors.  I’d show you myself, but as regular readers know I am busy in my lifestyle.

Of course, she used to live in the cottage aside the cows but we needed a mortgage here in the South East, and her down-sizing seemed a reasonable compromise, allowed her the freedom to remain in situ so to speak but without the high overheads of Sky TV or regular post.  It appeared ridiculous for the postman to deliver post to a shed.  So, in my thrust I contacted authorities, said she was dead and this joint decision allowed her to keep the telephone, the longwave radio, her supply of milk and hoof biscuits.

Meanwhile here at the beach, Pointless reached the dramatic 5.58pm climax, and my wife wriggled, writhed before our widescreen with Richard Osman so dominant and so powerful , his wit and wisdom permeated the screen [like] –  a musk.

‘So big,’ said my wife.

‘Am I not big?’ I said.

‘Bigish,’ she replied, ‘but Dick is so massive, look at him, mmm, mmm,’ she said, the Ritz cheese crackers tumbled from her lips.  She resembled that green fellow who lives in dustbins.

‘Richard wouldn’t fancy you anyway.  Big men need big women, everybody knows that,’  I said.

But yes, at this point[less] the telephone rang.

‘It’s your mofffer,’ she said and reached for her gin & tonic.

‘Oh my god, haven’t I done enough?’ I said. ‘This is an unscheduled interruption.’

‘Mooow. Moow, moow [cow theme continues] sorry my dear,  can’t hear a thing through the flurries of snow,’ said mother.

‘What, I’m very well, thank you,’ I said, as if she had even asked.

‘When are you coming to visit us?’ she said.

‘I told you I will be there for the big day – with the telegram,’ I said.  This was the separate issue, the telegram from Buckingham Palace forgery, my great work in progress. ‘Drink your milk,’ I said, nudged my wife in her ribs because I am a funny fellow.

‘The weather,’ said mother, ‘I’m dreadfully afraid, the weather has been all over the wireless headlines.’

‘Is that all you care about, mother? Obsession with our weather is dreadfully gauche, y’know.  Myself, I study the weather in Cannes, the South of France, Space Station weather, Venus in our sky.  Can’t you talk about anything else?’

‘Why is that man urinating on women in Russia?’ she said.  Obviously she attempts to engage me in high politik, one my pursuits, along with philosophy of science.  ‘The radio said he was weeing on girls all over the world,’ she said.

‘The president is not weeing on women.  Women are weeing on the president,’ I said.

‘Oh, well that’s all right.  I suppose he deserves it, the odious man, and he’s black, y’know.’

‘No, no, he is not black, you bloody bloody fucking racist mother.  He is white.  Anyway, the South East at Six weather girl is on the telly, I have to go, bye bye, bye bye, love you.’

Still reeling from the engagement – I wonder if other members of my community suffer similar complaints re: elderly relatives, and might provide solutions to the problem?

Thank you

Mat Whitey