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Buying breakfast in an Antibes boulangerie

Posted by Alex On December - 6 - 2011

“Let’s get some breakfast from this bread shop,” said ex-England left-arm seam bowler, Alan Mullally.

“You’re ordering,” said William Shakespeare.

Mullally led the way through the open door. “Why am I ordering?” he asked. “I don’t speak French.”

“Because,” said Shakespeare meaninglessly. It was hot in the boulangerie. He pulled his sheer linen collar away from his skin in a pointless bid to release some of the warmth from his body.

“Bonn joo-er,” said Mullally to the immaculately dressed girl behind the counter.

“Bonjour,” she replied, kindly.

“Er, le breakfast?” said Mullally.

“What the fuck was that?” interjected Shakespeare.

“Breakfast is ‘breakfast’ in French, isn’t it?” asked Mullally.

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” replied Shakespeare. “But even if it was, is that how you order food? You just name the meal?”

“I’m trying,” said Mullally. “It’s not my fault that my 19-Test career didn’t prepare me for ordering food in France.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t repeatedly pitched the ball eighteen inches outside off stump you might have learned a bit more,” muttered the bard, snidely.

“Hey, that’s uncalled for,” whined Mullally. “I’ve got 58 Test wickets more than you have anyway.”

“Christ knows how.” Shakespeare folded his arms and looked at the wall.

Alan Mullally folded his arms and looked at the opposite wall.

The girl seemed nonplussed.

Eventually, Mullally spoke again. “You do it,” he said. “You order us some breakfast. You’re supposed to be a wordsmith, aren’t you?”

“In English,” shrieked Shakespeare. “I’m not exactly known for the quality of my French sonnets, dickhead.”

“Your English sonnets are hardly dynamite,” spat Mullally.

Shakespeare glared at him, but opted not to take the matter further. He turned to the girl. “Pain or chocolate,” he said, rhyming ‘pain’ with ‘rain’.

“Monsieur?” said the girl.

Shakespeare clawed at his sheer linen collar once again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, just give us some food. Anything. Can’t you see we’ve got low blood sugar?”

“Croissant?” the girl suggested, pointing at one.

“Pointing,” cried Shakespeare. “Fucking pointing. Why didn’t you think of pointing at what we wanted, you fucking dipshit?”

“You didn’t think of it either,” said Mullally.

Shakespeare looked the blond paceman directly in the eye. “You were scared you’d point a foot-and-a-half to the left of what you wanted, more like.”

Bora Bora Nui Hilton and Kim Kardashian in a bikini

Posted by Alex On November - 8 - 2011

William Shakespeare shifted uncomfortably on his sun lounger. Christ it was hot here on Bora Bora. He could feel his hose sticking to him and sweat was collecting in his codpiece. Even his summer ruff wasn’t making a difference. He’d have to retreat to the shade.

He stood up and grabbed the back of his sun lounger. As he dragged it towards the palm trees lining the beach, he noticed a striking dark-haired girl reclining on her own lounger roughly where he was heading. Shakespeare stared at her thighs for a moment and concluded that she wouldn’t mind company. However, upon drawing closer, he realised they had met before.

“Nice ruff,” said Kim Kardashian, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head, revealing immaculate makeup. “What’s it made from?”

“Er, linen,” said Shakespeare veering away slightly and depositing his lounger.

“That spot’s not going to be in the shade for long,” said Kardashian. “Come a bit closer.”

Shakespeare stood still for a moment, but then reluctantly shuffled his sun lounger a few feet closer to Kardashian.

The curvaceous, raven-haired no-mark stretched her arms behind her head and thrust her chest in the air in a parody of a stretch before returning her gaze to the bard. “Linen, you say? I love linen. It’s such a sensuous fabric.”

Shakespeare looked down at his stout leather shoes. “You can use it for tablecloths,” he muttered sheepishly.

“Or for beds,” drawled Kardashian, slowly sliding one foot towards herself, raising her knee. She stretched again, and her cleavage rose.

The bard exhaled audibly, expressing both boredom and indifference. “I might go and get a drink,” he stated, starting to get up.

“What’s the matter?” asked Kardashian, her voice climbing towards a wail. “Don’t you find me attractive?”

Shakespeare turned to face her. For the first time, he looked her in the eye. “It’s like I said last time we met, you’ve got a great rack and everything, but that’s all there is.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” said Kardashian, hopefully.

“That doesn’t really count for so much, you know,” said Shakespeare. “It doesn’t make for lasting appeal. Something vital is conspicuous by its absence.”

“I really don’t understand,” said Kardashian, moving to a less confident, less contrived position on her lounger.

Shakespeare looked out to sea for a moment. When he turned back, he said: “Imagine a really flash car, like an Aston Martin or something.”

“Okay,” said Kardashian.

“It looks great and you’re thinking about buying it, but then the salesman reveals that there’s no engine.”

“Right,” said Kardashian.

“No matter how good it looks, you aren’t going to want to buy that car, are you? It’s just a shell. It lacks all of the complex machinery that makes that curved piece of metal into a car.”

“I could drape myself across the bonnet for you,” said Kardashian, stretching her body once again, as if demonstrating what she would do.

“Christ alive, you’re a fucking moron,” said Shakespeare, despairingly.

Ordering coffee in a Paris café

Posted by Alex On September - 27 - 2011

“Just a coffee please, Neil,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

Neil Codling from Suede placed the order in perfect French then smiled at Ellis-Bextor.

“You seem to speak the language very well,” she said.

“Yes, I lived here for a year or two,” said Codling. “If there’s a better city on earth in which to recuperate from chronic fatigue syndrome, I don’t know it.”

“It’s quite breathtaking,” said Ellis-Bextor. “The history, the architecture – it’s all so romantic.”

“Many an afternoon I would while away my time in the Louvre,” said Codling, tossing his head slightly to remove his fringe from his eyes. “I would sit there, pondering the many possible pharmacological treatments for my malaise, little knowing that the art surrounding me was the true cure.”

“Great art is so uplifting,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“That’s how I feel about Groovejet,” said Codling, catching and holding his companion’s gaze.

Ellis-Bextor’s face reddened to a colour ever-so-slightly pinker than bright white. “Well that was primarily Spiller’s work, you know.”

“Not at all,” replied Codling. “It’s the vocals that bring the humanity to the music. It’s that which touches the heart. It’s that which affirms one’s faith in mankind.”

“Spiller asked me to try and make my voice as emotive as possible,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“Is she banging on about fucking Groovejet again,” said William Shakespeare, strolling towards their table, voluminous breeches rustling with each step. “Sorry if she’s boring the tits off you, mate. She goes on and on about that fucking record. I tell her I’ll stick my boot up her arse if I hear the name Spiller one more fucking time, but she doesn’t listen.”

“On the contrary,” said Neil Codling. “It’s a topic that greatly interests me.”

“Well you don’t get it day-in, day-out, do you? It would be a topic that would piss you right off then, I can tell you.”

“Where have you been?” asked Ellis-Bextor, with overcompensatory enthusiasm.

“Well there’s a story,” said Shakespeare, brightly. “I have been at Cimitiere de Montparnasse. And do you know what I found there?”

“I believe Charles Baudelaire is buried there,” said Neil Codling.

“Too fucking right,” exclaimed Shakespeare. “I almost pissed myself. Who’s the fucking king of prose-poetry now, eh?”

“He was a great poet,” said Codling.

“He’s a dead fucker,” said Shakespeare, with a huge, shit-eating grin.

The Trevi Fountain coin toss

Posted by Alex On September - 13 - 2011
Turdless Trevi Fountain, Rome

“This’ll be worth 15 minutes, tops,” said William Shakespeare.

“Well I hear it’s one of the most, er, spectacular fountains in the world,” replied Sophie Ellis Bextor, choosing her words carefully.

“No fountain is worth more than 15 minutes,” continued Shakespeare, rounding a corner and seeing a throng of people. “If the fountain is worth looking at for longer than it takes to do a shit, I’ll be impressed.”

“Are you going to try and defecate in the fountain?” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor, grabbing Shakespeare by the shoulder.

Shakespeare shrugged her off. “Of course I’m not going to do a shit in the fountain,” he said. “Are you mental? I literally just went.”

“But you would do it if you hadn’t just gone?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t have just gone if I wanted to shit in Trevi Fountain, would I? I can hold it in, you know.”

“I can’t believe I’m even discussing this,” Ellis-Bextor said, more to herself than to Shakespeare.

“I like privacy, you see,” continued the bard. “I don’t want to be squatting down in public. I’d feel rushed. I hate feeling rushed when I’m having a shit.”

Ellis-Bextor swanned off, as only she could. She tried to work her way through the crowd towards the edge of the fountain.

Shakespeare followed her. “I mean I’m not against dropping some shit in the fountain. Maybe I should have planned ahead. I could have dropped a log in a bag or something, but you can’t be certain about the consistency, can you? You don’t want to be standing there squeezing a thick paste out. It wouldn’t be worth the effort. What would I gain from doing that?”

“Give me a coin,” demanded Ellis-Bextor.

“Why?” said Shakespeare, reaching inside his jerkin.

“Actually, give me three,” she said.

Shakespeare handed over three euros and Ellis-Bextor flicked them into the fountain.

“What are you doing, you mad bitch!” screamed Shakespeare.

“It’s a tradition,” answered the alien-faced vocalist.

“You’re literally throwing money away, you fucking nutcase.” Shakespeare’s nostrils flared and he seemed to be on the brink of violence. He brought his right hand alongside the left side of his face and his eyes bulged. For a sickening moment it seemed as if he might backhand his coin-throwing travelling companion, but then the hand dropped again.

“Three coins,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor in a bizarrely confrontational tone of voice. “Three coins will lead to either a marriage or a divorce, they say.”

“Fuck this and fuck you,” said Shakespeare. The hand that had threatened now shot back inside the jerkin. When it emerged, it was grasping a fourth one euro coin.

Shakespeare gripped the coin firmly between thumb and forefinger and brandished it in Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s face. “Marriage or divorce, eh? It’s ultimatums, is it? Is that what this is? Well what does four coins mean then?” and with that, he threw the coin into the fountain.

Ellis-Bextor looked shocked. “I don’t know what four coins means,” she said, trembling slightly.

“I’ll show you what four coins means,” said Shakespeare, gripping her by the upper arm and steering her away from the fountain. “I’ll show you what four fucking coins means – and unlike that fucking fountain, it’ll be worth at least 15 minutes.”

Ellis-Bextor seemed to go slightly limp as she was shepherded away, so the bard released his grip and threw his arm around her shoulders instead. He held her tightly, but not so tightly that he could have stopped her hand from snaking down the front of his breeches.

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