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Archive for the ‘England’ Category

Watching the javelin at the 2012 London Olympics

Posted by Alex On August - 7 - 2012

“When’s Jan Zelezny going to throw?” asked William Shakespeare.

“He’s not,” replied Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare’s face fell. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Well, he’s retired,” said Ellis-Bextor. “He’s not in the competition.”

“But why?” said Shakespeare, trying to turn in his seat, but struggling due to his ridiculously oversized breeches.

“Well he’s old,” said Ellis-Bextor. “He got old and retired.”

“I don’t understand,” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor was growing irritated. “What’s not to understand?” she snapped. “Sportsmen retire.”

“Why would Jan Zelezny not be throwing the javelin in the Olympic Games?”

“Because he’s retired,” whined Ellis-Bextor. “He hasn’t competed in years.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor didn’t respond.

“Do you think they’d let me have a go?” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor again didn’t respond.

“I miss Jan Zelezny,” said Shakespeare sadly.

Arriving back in the UK after an exotic holiday

Posted by Alex On April - 25 - 2012

Sophie Ellis-Bextor: Dear Lord, where have you been?

William Shakespeare: Nowhere.

Ellis-Bextor: What do you mean, nowhere? Where have you been?

Shakespeare: Ah, you know.

Ellis-Bextor: What? No, I don’t know. You’ve been gone months. Where the hell have you been all this time? Do you not think I’ve been worried?

Shakespeare: Look, just leave me alone, okay. Stop going on at me.

Ellis-Bextor: Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ve been at my wit’s end.

Shakespeare: Have you?

Ellis-Bextor: Of course I have.

Shakespeare: At your wit’s end?

Ellis-Bextor: Yes.

Shakespeare: How have you coped? Have you had to seek solace?

Ellis-Bextor: Well I haven’t coped.

Shakespeare: You haven’t sought solace then? You haven’t sought solace at this time of distress?

Ellis-Bextor: What are you going on about?

Shakespeare: Solace. I’m talking about solace. Have you sought solace?

Ellis-Bextor: Sought solace?

Shakespeare: Jesus Christ, do I have to fucking spell it out to you? Have you sought solace in the form of the oversized testicles of gravelly-voiced Middesbrough guitarist, Chris Rea?

Ellis-Bextor: Oh not this again. Does nothing ever change? Months and months and this is all I get?

Shakespeare: You might get more.

Ellis-Bextor: I won’t get more.

Heston Blumenthal fails to entertain at the Fat Duck

Posted by Alex On November - 15 - 2011

“Don’t you dare ask for chips or so-help-me-God, I will slap you,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“People usually need more than his help if they slap me,” joked William Shakespeare.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor looked unnerved.

“I’m joking,” confirmed Shakespeare. “If I were ever going to beat you, I’d have done it after Music Gets The Best Of Me, wouldn’t I? Hmm?”

Ellis-Bextor seemed slightly reassured by this.

“Such a shit song,” said the bard, mostly to himself.

The pair stood outside the Fat Duck, plucking up the courage to walk inside.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” asked Sophie Ellis-Bextor to distract from the awkward situation.,”

Shakespeare leered at her creepily, but sensed he should answer sensibly. “Peacock,” he stated with conviction.

“Peacock? Really? What’s it like?”

“It’s all right,” said the bard, perfunctorily.

The pair stood there and stared at their feet.

“Come on, let’s go in,” said Shakespeare. “That jelly of quail won’t keep.”

“No chips,” said Ellis-Bextor, taking his arm.

“I don’t even like chips,” said Shakespeare. “That’s a bullshit joke.”

As they walked through the door, a man approached them.

“Don’t talk rot,” said Ellis-Bextor. “Everyone likes chips. I’ve seen you eat chips plenty of times.”

The maitre d’ stood patiently.

“Yeah, I eat chips,” said Shakespeare. “Of course I eat chips. I’m not saying I don’t eat them. I’m saying I’m not that bothered about them.”

“You said you didn’t like them,” countered Ellis-Bextor.

“Jesus, don’t take everything so literally. When I say I don’t like chips, I don’t mean I don’t like chips. I mean-”

“So what do you mean?” asked Ellis-Bextor disdainfully.

“I mean – for fuck’s sake – I mean… Okay, you were saying that I’d ask for chips like it was my favourite thing in the world. I’m saying I would never do that.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t you do that?”

“Because I’m not that bothered about chips. There’s about a million things I prefer.”

Ellis-Bextor released Shakespeare’s arm and looked skyward. She breathed heavily through her noise and opened her eyes widely in an effort to prevent the first tear from forming.

Shakespeare addressed the maitre d’. “Just tell me about the menu before we sit down,” he said. “Just name one dish. Name one thing that I can eat. Something special. Something that will convince me this is all worthwhile. Something unusual that I could never get anywhere else on earth.”

“Good evening, sir,” said the maitre d’. “Tonight’s most intriguing culinary experiment is baked steam.”

“Baked steam?” asked Shakespeare.

“Baked steam,” confirmed the maitre d’.

William Shakespeare and Sophie Ellis-Bextor stared at each other for a long moment, silently communicating something in the way that only those with unbearable levels of intimacy can manage.

Finally, Shakespeare turned back to the maitre d’. “Okay,” he said brightly. “We’ll give that a bash.”

Visiting Golitha Falls on the River Fowey in Cornwall

Posted by Alex On September - 6 - 2011

Sophie Ellis-Bextor admired the gushing waters before her. “Oh, that is quite-”

“Breathtaking?” interrupted William Shakespeare.

“Are you having a go at me?” asked Ellis-Bextor. “I know you think I overuse that word.”

“No, no,” said Shakespeare, feigning innocence. “It’s not overused at all.”

“It’s not like you don’t bore me sometimes,” snapped the singing toff. “If I have to hear you bleating about another one of those sonnets.”

“What’s wrong with my sonnets?” asked Shakespeare.

“Just about everything. When I was working with Spiller, we had this joke about iambic pentameter, about the kinds of people who thought that was rhythm.”

“Oh fuck you,” said Shakespeare. “It’s always Spiller this, Spiller that with you. It’s like Groovejet is all you’ve ever done.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Groovejet,” said Ellis-Bextor. “And there’s nothing wrong with Spiller.”

With a swoosh of his ridiculous velvet jerkin, Shakespeare whirled round and strode off along the river bank. Ellis-Bextor opted not to follow him.

After 20 minutes or so, the pasty-faced vocalist had calmed down a touch and decided to go after the bard with the intention of making peace. As she rounded a bend in the river, she was greeted by an astonishing sight.

Shakespeare was standing on two stones in the middle of the river. His lower garments were lying discarded on the riverband and he was squatting so that his testicles were being buffetted by the cool waters cascading over a higher rock behind him.

Ellis-Bextor was aghast. “What… What are you doing?” she said, barely able to form the words.

“Isn’t it obvious?” screamed Shakespeare in a deranged tone, his voice cracking with the effort of suppressing his powerful emotions. “I’m trying to give you what you want. I’m trying to improve myself. I’m trying to win your approval.”

“How?” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor in stunned incomprehension.

Shakespeare stood up and raced over to her, completely naked from the waist down.

“Quickly,” he said. “Give me your hand before they warm up. Feel how taut they are.”

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