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Archive for July, 2011

“Osoyoos Lake is really quite breathtaking,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. She slipped her hand into William Shakespeare’s as they looked out over the water. “Why don’t we hire a boat for a bit?”

Shakespeare straightened his breeches for action. “Why not?” he said. “Let’s try over there.”

The pair walked hand-in-hand towards a waterside building surrounded by pedalos. The entrance was facing the water and as they rounded the building, they caught sight of a pair of velociraptors lounging by the doorway.

Shakespeare came to an abrupt halt. “You know what,” he said. “I’m not sure about this. I have very pale skin. I might get burnt out on the water.”

“What are you talking about?” said Ellis-Bextor. “It’s late afternoon. The sun’s fairly low. You’ll be fine.”

“No,” said Shakespeare with some certainty. “The light reflects off the water and there’s no shade out there. I’d definitely get burnt.”

“That’s rubbish,” said Ellis-Bextor. “What’s come over you? Why the sudden change of heart?”

Shakespeare eyed the velociraptors, one of whom was rubbing the sickle-shaped claw on its left foot against a step. “Nothing’s come over me. I’m just rightly concerned about my skin – that’s all,” he said.

The second raptor took a half-step towards them. Shakespeare grabbed Ellis-Bextor’s elbow, whirled her round and proceeded to walk away.

“Get off me,” said Ellis-Bextor. “I don’t know what’s with you sometimes.”

They walked in silence for a few paces before Ellis-Bextor spoke again. “Was it them? Was it those guys by the door?”

Shakespeare said nothing.

“Was that what you were scared of?” said Ellis-Bextor.

More silence.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up,” said Shakespeare.

“They weren’t going to do anything, you know,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Shakespeare.

“Not too shabby,” said Toadfish Rebecchi.

“I’m sure it impresses the likes of you,” replied William Shakespeare.

“Now come on,” pleaded Toadfish. “Don’t be like that. Let’s just try and have a nice holiday.”

“You’re a fat fuck,” said Shakespeare blankly and irrelevantly.

“What? Where did that come from?” Toadfish was genuinely taken aback.

“It came from looking you up and down and seeing you for what you are: a fat fucking fuck.” Shakespeare turned away from Toadfish and strode off.

“Come back, you poncy little shit,” said Toadfish. “Come back and apologise.”

Shakespeare turned towards Toadfish, folded his arms and closed his eyes. The stance, when combined with his jerkin and sheer linen collar made him look decidedly pompous. “I shall do no such thing. It was an honest and accurate assessment.”

“Whatever my weight, you can’t call me ‘a fuck’. That’s not accurate.”

Shakespeare retained his posture. It was like he was looking down his nose at Toadfish through his eyelids.

The Aussie lawyer lost his temper. “Look at you,” he said. “With your gay-arsed clothes and your pube-like facial hair, who do you think you are.”

Shakespeare remained impassive, so Toadfish continued. “Most men who slap back, like you have, acknowledge the fact. Any chance of a decent haircut? It’s like you’ve robbed a lesbian trainspotter’s wig and applied it to the wrong part of your head.”

Still nothing from Shakespeare.

“Fine,” said Toadfish. “Stay mute. See if I give a shit. It’s better than listening to you screaming at the staff, like you usually do.”

Perhaps feeling he had triumphed, Shakespeare allowed a smirk to creep across his face.

Toadfish turned to walk away and started muttering to himself as he did so: “Dickhead. She’d be better off with Chris Rea.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” screamed Shakespeare at the top of his voice.

Renting a car at Geneva airport

Posted by Alex On July - 12 - 2011

“Here are the keys, monsieur,” said the man. “It is parked in space B4.”

“Thanks very much,” said William Shakespeare, who then turned and addressed his travelling companion, ex-England left-arm seam bowler, Alan Mullally: “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What car is it?” asked Mullally as they descended the steps to the car hire company car park.

“It’s a Peugeot 206,” said William Shakespeare. “I hope it’s got air conditioning.”

The pair emerged into a small underground car park and made their way along the row of cars, looking for space B4. As they approached the car, they suddenly realised that it was surrounded by a pack of velociraptors.

“Oh no,” said Shakespeare. “This doesn’t look good.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mullally. “It’ll be fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. The velociraptors looked very menacing and it seemed they had been tampering with the car. The windows were wound down and there were distinctive claw marks on the doors.

“Excuse me,” said Shakespeare uncertainly. A velociraptor was blocking his path to the car. The late Cretaceous beast sulkily stepped aside, just far enough that Shakespeare and Mullally could squeeze past with some difficulty.

“Just get in the car,” ordered Shakespeare as Mullally went to put his bag in the boot. The English playwright was finding the situation very uncomfortable and just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

Mullally examined the car’s interior. “This is shoddy,” he said. “Look at the state of the mats in the footwells. These raptors have filthied the place up something rotten.

“Shh,” urged Shakespeare with some agitation. “We can deal with that when we return the car. Let’s just get out of here for now.”

“We really should raise the issue now,” said Mullally. “How else can we prove that the car was in this state when we picked it up.”

“It doesn’t matter,” seethed Shakespeare through his teeth, turning the ignition.

“Well I disagree,” countered Mullally, opening the glove compartment. “I mean look at this.” He pointed at something fleshy. “Is that a gizzard?”

“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Shakespeare. “Let’s just go.”

The velociraptors were still milling around threateningly outside the car, occasionally peering in at the two holidaymakers. As Shakespeare tried to pull out of the space, they blocked his path.

“Oh God,” said Shakespeare. “They’re not moving.”

“They’ll move,” said Mullally, unconcerned.

The raptors stepped aside just far enough that the car could get by. In first gear, Shakespeare edged through the narrow gap, but as he started to turn the wheel, the car stalled.

“Shit,” said Shakespeare. “Shit.”

“Don’t get so riled up,” said Mullally. “Just ignore them. They aren’t going to do anything.”

Riding holiday in Montana has pros and cons

Posted by Alex On July - 5 - 2011

“This scenery is quite breathtaking,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

William Shakespeare groaned.

“What’s the matter?” asked the guide, directing his horse towards Shakespeare’s. “Are you getting saddle sore?”

“No, no,” replied the bard. “It’s not that. I’m just struggling a bit.”

“Is it the horse?” asked the guide with some concern.

“No, it’s not the horse. Well, it’s not this particular horse. It’s just generally being on a horse.”

“Maybe try standing in the stirrups, eh?” suggested the guide.

“What?” said Shakespeare, outraged. “Why? Are you saying it’s my arse?”

The guide was taken aback. “No, I just thought it might help. I don’t really know what’s wrong. It was just a suggestion.”

“Well it’s not my arse, okay? You can get that idea out of your mind right now, you little bastard.” Shakespeare’s temper subsided a little before he spoke again. “It’s not my arse. It’s more of an ache. A dull ache.”

“Oh, okay,” said the guide, who had little to offer beyond that.

Shakespeare tensed his jaw. “It’s just the bobbing. The motion, you know?”

“Mmm,” said the guide, who didn’t know.

“The constant movement just sort of… sharpens the pain. I’m finding it very difficult.”

At that moment, there was a wail from behind them. Rapidly turning their horses, Shakespeare and the guide were confronted with a crazed looking Ellis-Bextor. Tears stained her cheeks and she appeared in great distress.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” she screamed. “You made me do it. I don’t like it. I don’t know why we have to do that.”

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A man who has no interest in writing about Toadfish Rebecchi, largely because his surname is annoying to spell.