W - Womble

They say one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Yet, when I’m found rifling through the rubbish collections at Buckingham Palace, for some reason this is seen as an awful, illegal thing to do.  I’m always dismissed as some crazy homeless guy, merely because I once found a plastic tiara in the trash and wore it for two weeks straight.  I hate that I’ve been pigeon-holed in this manner.

The Wombles never had this kind of image problem.  They were the cuddly face of vagrancy; the Fraggles of freeganism.  Because they resembled cute teddy bear/fox hybrids, people didn’t care that they literally built their homes with dog turds and wank socks.  I needed to reinvent myself in a similar fashion in order to stop the jibes and stop people pissing on me in the street.  Perhaps they’d think twice before reliving themselves on me if I was dressed as Orinoco. 

In order to become a Womble, the first thing you must do is move to Wimbledon Common.  I took my belongings with me, moved to London, and sat about on the grass waiting for the Wombles to discover me and assume me into their collective.  I waited for three days and I didn’t see a single Womble.  There were a few hedgehogs who seemed to get a prickly when I asked them to take me to Great Uncle Bulgaria.  I couldn’t rely on the Wombles to come to me, so I would have to go to them.

Taking my shovel to the grass, I started excavating the Womble hideout.  I dug hundreds of holes across the entire park, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of them.

Remember you're a... weird... fox-like thing

That’s when I saw an exterminator van parked nearby.  I approached the guy who said he was there to remove moles (apparently, loads of holes had mysterious appeared that day, which indicated a huge mole problem).  I figured that if this guy was killing moles, he’d probably killed the entirety of Womble civilization while he was at it.  I was initially saddened by this, but then I realised that someone would have to continue the Womble lineage.  That person could be me.

I assembled a Womble outfit by wearing a fur coat and a party hat over my face, and then started to collect people’s rubbish.  Within my first day I had amassed a rusted tricycle, several reams of old newspaper, a dead horse, 2 packets of tungsten-tipped screws, a deflated lilo, a squelchy thing, and a large pile of mud. I had assembled a trash heap so large so it would be a castle in hobo real estate terms.  I invited the homeless community to join me in my not-so-humble abode, and they began adding to the refuse fortress.  By evening I had a new East Wing, a barracks, and a helipad.

Eventually, the homeless people began having an existential crisis.  They were no longer homeless people since they now had a home, which completely scrambled their brains.  They began dismantling my litter empire, and promptly committed seppuku en masse.  I had to flee the scene before people starting asking questions.  A hundred dead hobos in a pile of mud is a little difficult to explain.

Addman Clothing Ltd

Today I have a special announcement to make.  Yes, I am aware that I have a special announcement to make every week, but this is far more important than the new hand wash I bought for my bathroom last time (even if it is chocolate orange flavour). 

This week I have been trying to establish myself as a fashion brand.  I figured that most people who are somebody have their own fashion label these days, from Will.I.Am to Matthew “Fred” Perry.  Well, since any old nutter can step into Versace’s shoes and claim themselves as a fashion icon, who am I to pass up on the opportunity?  I may know next to nothing about fashion and my look has been described as “Distressing” by anyone in the business, but I can’t let tiny details like that put me off.  Here’s a diary of my progress so far:

Monday:  First off, I decided I would evaluate current trends in the fashion industry and do some much needed research.  Since it was a red hot summer’s day, I decided to look into swimsuits on the Internet.  Five hours and two bleeding pupils later, I decided that I would actually have to do some research.

One of the first things I noticed is that designers are combining clothing together for double function.  Jeggings, jorts, shoe boots, they’re all hideous amalgamations of two items of clothing, stitched together like disgusting frankenclothes.  This was a trend I could easily embrace.  It would take little effort to combine clothes together and doesn’t need a great deal of imagination.  I hit the drawing board straight away, then realised I’d broken it and went to buy another.

Tuesday:  The morning was spent doing some intense brainstorming.  Then I remembered that the term “brainstorm” is offensive to people with mental issues, so I ditched all my work and started again.  This time, I spent the afternoon doing a mind map, which was awesome because it’s exactly the same as a brainstorm but makes you sound like a neurosurgeon.

Feel the immense power of my mind mapping.

After some intense mind mapping, plus a short break to research swimsuits again, my ideas were laid out in front of me.  It was a veritable battlefield of creativity, an intricate tapestry woven from thought-filled threads.  After crossing out all the ideas involving sharks, I looked over my remaining ideas and felt rather optimistic that I could create something really special.

Wednesday:  The time had come to bring my creations to life, but I needed some models to wrap those fabrics around.  I didn’t know where to get models at such short notice, but then I noticed a bunch of beardy guys rooting around in the bins outside Tesco who didn’t seem to be doing anything.  I hired these bums immediately, relieved them of their lice-ridden parkas, and began to drape materials over their unkempt forms.

I had hoped to create clothing for women, because as a fashion designer, no one likes to see a man in the nude.  However, it is surprising how few vagrants are actually female.  My little harem of models was all male and hairier than a Pomeranian after a pint of Pirelli’s Miracle Elixir.  Still, beggars can’t be choosers so, with clothespegs firmly planted on my nose, I continued my work.  I had a meeting with a leading high street store in the morning, and I needed my models to look super fabulous for it.

Thursday:  The big day arrived.  I walked into the head office of Primark with my troupe in tow.  We had some minor disagreements with the door security, and several of my models tried to eat the plastic fruit in the waiting room, but in short succession, we were in the boardroom with several suited big wigs holding their noses in interest.  I delivered my pitch like a man possessed, frantically flailing around with samples.  Let me talk you through the pitch:

 

Who wears jort jorts?

First off, I showed off my summer range.  Using the principles I’d established earlier of combining clothes together, I’d created a gorgeous range of t-shorts with hilarious slogans emblazoned on them.  The hobos performed amicably, treating the boardroom table as a catwalk as they strutted their funky stuff.  The executives did get an eyeball of mattered scrotum through a neck hole I’d forgotten to sew up, but I promised that would be fixed before the final product.

Next up was my amazing autumn range.  I combined coats and hats to make a wonderful new line of cats.  I covered the cats with fallen leaves for that authentically rustic autumnal look.  Plus, many of the hobos came covered in a layer of leaves anyway, so it made sense to make use of them.  The execs didn’t seem too keen when one of the models scratched a sore on his neck and small twigs and insects fell into the coffee pot.  However, I still had an ace up my sleeve.

My winter collection contained a dazzling range of jeggings and jorts.  This unique blend of clothing was completely impractical for the winter months, but fashion doesn’t respect the elements.  I just knew that they’d be wowed by the objective beauty of these costumes and that they’d snap my hand off to buy up my label.  The execs thanked me and said they’d be in touch tomorrow with a decision.

Friday:  The fire service pulled the hosepipe off of my car exhaust at the last moment.  The rejection letter from Primark was still clutched to my chest as I was lifted from the car and taken to hospital.

So there you have it, a cautionary tale from the world of fashion.  I’m too far in to stop now, but let this be a warning to anyone who wants to set up their own fashion brand.

Crowd Sourced Story - Part 1: Chihuahuas And Revelations

I said I'd post the results of the crowd sourced story on Friday.  Today is Thursday.  I have failed you!

The thing is, the thing was getting much too big for one post, so I decided to split it into two parts.  Part 1 today, part 2 tomorrow.  Your sentences have been highlighted in yellow just to prove that I have included them.  Just remember, you bought this on yourselves, okay?

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It’s difficult to comprehend how the end of the world came around from such humble beginnings.  The event that kicked off the apocalypse began in the lobby of 123 Juniper Street, with the front door being opened, and a diminutive dog being launched onto the pavement at high velocity.

The man behind this casual canine abuse was Dave Davidson, or Luigi to his friends.  He acquired this curious nickname at school by being the tallest kid in the class, and his ability to grow a luscious black moustache by the age of 10.  Also, his attraction to green overalls didn’t help either.  As for the dog, that was Luigi’s brand new pet, which had a penchant for spraying his new furniture with sexual excretions.  At once, Luigi regretted buying the rampant Chihuahua when his apartment that he'd bought for tying up young women became heavily covered in dog juice, but it was great for picking up ladies.

It was through this tiny mongrel that Luigi had met his new flame.  He’d bumped into Jo while walking his overgrown rat in the local park.  There, they sat and chatted the hours away, people watching and sharing their innermost secrets.  Luigi shared his intimate knowledge of the birds and the bees that he’d learned last week from a pamphlet, and finished his overwrought chat up line with “and that’s were babies come from”.

Their whirlwind romance grew stronger and stronger over the next few days.  Jo assisted Luigi in curbing his lady-kidnapping tendencies, and in return, he stopped trying to lock her in the basement.  Through a curious blend of infatuation and Stockholm syndrome, their romance quickly grew until Luigi finally proposed after only 5 days.  Inside the apartment, Jo was already deciding on a colour scheme for the wedding as Luigi re-entered after ejecting his dog.

“What colour flowers should we have?  Pink or purple?”

“Uhhhh, pink” guessed Luigi, as his thoughts quickly turned to other matters.  Approaching her in an amorous fashion, he hugged her from behind, his head next to her ear.

“Hey wifey.  How about giving your future husband an early wedding present?”

She sighed with a grudging reluctance.  Jo detested the thought of having her mans stubbly sack scrape at her chin like glass paper as she swallowed his pride, but duty called.  She turned to him, knelt down and began undoing his zipper.

“No, not that.  I was referring to this.”

Luigi held up a copy of his favourite DVD, shaking the disc around in the case like cold rattlesnake with Parkinsons.  Looking at the title, Jo would have preferred to guzzle a gallon of mangravy rather than watch 10 minutes of that blubbery horseshit.

“My favourite part is when they are crowned kings of the world” proclaimed Luigi as his fiancée placed the DVD in the player.

“No, they don’t actually become kings.  That’s just Leo DiCaprio’s character exclaiming how he feels while standing on the bow of a ship with the love of his life.”

“We’ll see.” Muttered Luigi.  The intelligence gap between the two lovers was glaringly obvious.

Just then, their television viewing was abruptly interrupted by a flying brick.  The brick shattered their front window, scattering glass shards across the room.  Coincidentally, those shards landed on Jo’s wedding planner in such a manner, that it later gave her the inspiration for the diamante pattern she wanted for her dress.  But right now, more pressing matters were afoot.  The pair studied the brick as a Neanderthal would an iPad.  Who was responsible for this abrupt attack?

“Aha!  Stagged ya!”

The answer came in the form of Bill Bishop, Luigi’s oldest friend and party animal extraordinaire.  To their surprise, Bill climbed through the broken window, and then kicked Luigi straight in the balls.

“Stagged you again!”

“Stop it!  What are you doing?!” pleaded Jo.

“What?  I’m here for his stag do.  So I’m ‘stagging’ him”

Despite this physical assault, Bill didn’t exactly cut a menacing figure.  To say he was short was a slight understatement.  There were rollercoasters that he wasn’t technically able to ride.  As such, Jo tried to restrain him as her husband regained his composure and rose to his feet.

“It’s alright” reassured Luigi “me and Bill are going to have a few drinks tonight.  You know, last night of freedom and all that.  We’re just going to nip out for a couple of quiet drinks, and then we’ll be home before you know it.”

“Stag! Stag! Stag!” agreed Bill.  He attempted to throw a bottle of beer to his buddy, but it flew wildly off course and hit the back wall, simultaneously smashing to pieces and lowering the property’s value by £1290.

“Alright, you boys can go.  Just don’t do anything reckless.”

With only a minimal amount of whooping and hollering, the boys departed on their night out leaving Jo alone.  She took Titanic out of DVD player, replaced it with her favourite movie; Fisting Fireman 5, then settled down amongst the broken glass for an evening of light indulgence.

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Later, upon discovering a majority of the animal crackers were meager sheep, Bill hesitantly pressed a Colt .45 against his temple.

“This is depressing” exclaimed Luigi.  “What are we doing here?  No one else has turned up to my stag, and we’re sat here drinking knock off beer behind an off license and eating children’s biscuits”

Bill lowered the gun.  Shooting himself now would undoubtedly cause the excitement they desperately needed, but it would be cruel to leave his best friend alone on his stag do.  Who would kick him in the bollocks if he wasn’t there?  Putting the gun away, he turned to Luigi.  “So what do you want to do?”

“You’re my best man!  You’re supposed to organise it!”

Studying his internal A-Z of the area proved slightly difficult when under the influence, but Bill scanned the local area in his brain for points of interest.  He vaguely recalled a contemporary theatre that was supposed to be rather decent.  There was an independent cinema that screened the latest Bulgarian romancic show pieces.  There was also a botanical garden in which they study exotic flora and fauna.

“Dunno.  Strip club?”

Sighing heavily, Luigi reluctantly agreed, allowing Bill to lead on to this fleshy establishment.  They zig zagged through several backstreets that Luigi wasn’t familiar with.  Stepping over several dead cats, and an array of small, bitey mammals, they encountered a tramp who kept eyeballing them.  While he'd never win any awards for his verbal sarcasm, his eyebrow trash-talk was second to none.  The pair decided to leave this homeless gent lest they be sucked into a facial hair battle rap, and continued through the omnipresent alleyways.

A little while later, Bill suddenly came to a halt outside a boarded up back door.  The building looked abandoned.  You could almost hear the rats fornicating in the walls.  Presenting his arm, Bill gestured as though they had reached their destination, like the world’s drunkest TomTom.  Grudgingly, Luigi tried the door.  It didn’t budge an inch.  He turned to Bill and shrugged.

“Oh.  No problem mate.  Wait here, I’ll find a way in” and with that, Bill staggered off into the gloom in search of a solution.

Cold and alone, Luigi started to feel uncomfortable.  He felt like there was someone watching him.  He swivelled around to see the earlier hobo approaching him, with menace in his brow.  As he approached in a threatening manner, hands prone as though he was about to feel some breasts for the first time in fifty years, the tramp spoke.

“It was in France that I first painted Betty White in the nude, after hours of passionate lovemaking.  How would you like to be my new Betty?”

After calling for Bill, then his mother, Luigi decided his best solution was to kick the door down and escape.  A swift boot made short work of the rotten wood, splintering apart to fashion a spiky plank, which could be brandished as a weapon.  Luigi picked up the wood and swung it heartily at his foe.

“Ow!  Jesus!  It was just a question!  If you’re not interested, just say so!”  And with that, Hobo Joe fled to the solace of his flea-riddled bed sack.  Feeling a little foolish and cruel, Luigi realised he’d created an entrance to the building.  Since Bill was still nowhere to be seen, he decided to climb inside. 

It was pitch black in there.  As his ears started to become his most highly prioritised sense, he edged further and further into the darkness.  He could hear scuttling noises in every direction.  Listening intently, he thought he could also hear whispers.

Suddenly, this train of thought was interrupted by a searing pain across the top of his head.  The kind of pain you get if you’ve had your brains bashed in with a blunt object.  He collapsed on the floor and passed out in the darkness.