Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Once more, once less. Another day dawns on the fantasy world of Tom Stephenson, and drenches it in disconcertingly unseasonal sunshine.
Of all the landmarks over a 900 and something blog-post career, Sarah's sign-up announcement of only yesterday (yes, it's that word again) will stand out as a mile-stone on the blogger's path - a path which is about to sharply diverge for her, if it all works out as it should.
Those of us who care little for cushion-covers and cup-cakes, live in towns and do not run a vegetable garden from our window boxes, must once again ask ourselves why on earth we type away on here during the time when we really should be doing something else.
I am now reduced to hoping that my attempts at being amusing may be noticed by the editor of Saga magazine, but consistent and relentless use of bad language has put paid to that, and publicly abusing Richard Ingrams by calling him a boring old fart has also scuppered any slim chance of contributing to The Oldie as well. When did I say that? Just now, of course. Aren't you paying attention?
Also, the sort of things that happen to me on holiday are enough to put your average pensioner off travelling outside of the Home Counties for what's left of their miserable lives, so would not boost the revenue from the holiday promotional advertising of Saga at all.
I walked - not unusually - into the pub last saturday to find that a bunch of the younger bar-staff and regulars had pulled out an advertising flyer for car-insurance provided by Saga and left it close to the spot where I normally place myself at the bar, marked for my attention. Very funny. Little did they know that I used to insure my car through Saga - about 11 years ago. I changed to a less ageist broker because the premium price actually rose as one got older, and the grey pounds became greater commensurate with hair colour.
The worst aspect of Sarah's impending literary success is that she will probably be forbidden to post any of her evocative and captivating pieces here on Blogland, for fear of breaching the contractual obligations imposed by her publisher. They would probably allow her to tell everyone what she ate for breakfast on Twitter, but only if she keeps the account totally free from poetry and just sticks to the facts - even if they are lies.
It has, in the past, occurred to me that the bronze antiquity shown above may have been the inspiration for 'On The Waterfront' - some of those Hollywood film producers were more literate than we give them credit for.
There is nothing sadder than a washed-up fighter who has had all the tomorrows knocked out of him before achieving the success that he knew he was capable of.
"I could have been a contender".
(Note - this post (like many others) is a light-hearted joke! Don't take me seriously. My glass is, always has been and always will be half full!)