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Archive for October, 2011

The best pub in Fort William

Posted by Alex On October - 25 - 2011

“My legs ache, but I’m really glad we did that,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“If Ben Nevis thought it could get the better of William Shakespeare, it knows better now,” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor laughed and shoved him gently. “Sophie Ellis-Bextor conquered it as well, you know.”

“You didn’t teach it a lesson like I did though, did you?”

“No,” said Ellis-Bextor, suddenly serious. I don’t know why you did that really.

“I want that fucking mountain to remember me,” said Shakespeare.

“I think it will,” said Ellis-Bextor darkly.

The pair strode down the street until they came across the pub they were looking for.

“There it is,” said Ellis-Bextor. “The best pub in Fort William, they say. What better place to spend the evening after a hard day’s walking.”

They pushed through the door and were hit by warm air. Shakespeare had worked up a thirst. “Right, what are you having?” he asked.

“Ooh, let me see,” said Ellis-Bextor, but then she suddenly realised that Shakespeare was no longer next to her.

She turned round and he was still hovering in the doorway. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I dunno. I’m not sure about this place. I’m kind of having second thoughts.”

“What are you on about? It’s exactly what we were hoping for. Warm, quiet – we can have a few drinks and something to eat.”

Shakespeare shuffled his feet and wiped his palms down the sides of his breeches. “Yeah, but, you know. Shall we just have a look at somewhere else first?”

“Come on,” said Ellis-Bextor, but upon turning towards the bar, she realised the problem. There were three velociraptors standing there, peering at them and mouth-breathing.

She turned back towards Shakespeare. “Oh, I see. It’s this again.”

“What?” said Shakespeare, innocently.

“I don’t know what’s with you sometimes. Let’s just get a drink. It’ll be fine.”

One of the raptors emitted a high-pitched shriek. Shakespeare visibly jumped.

“Fuck this,” he said and turned to walk out.

Ellis-Bextor stormed after him. “Do you actually have any balls?” she roared.

“Yes,” sobbed Shakespeare, stumbling through the doorway. “They’re small and saggy and worthless.”

He cried all the way back to the hotel and Ellis-Bextor walked with one hand on his back, forlornly trying to comfort him. She felt extraordinary guilt at having homed in one of his biggest insecurities in the heat of the moment.

Only when they got back to the hotel did Shakespeare appear to perk up. “Give me a blowie,” he demanded.

Eating at Waterside Restaurant in Barbados

Posted by Alex On October - 18 - 2011

Sophie Ellis-Bextor sipped her wine and admired her surroundings. If the food was as good as the ambience, this meal was going to be even better than that lost vocal she’d done for Murder on the Dancefloor.

At that moment, a shabby figure in large sunglasses shambled into view. The man bounced off a table and made towards her. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“Fucking Bextor,” said Witter.

“It’s Ellis-Bextor, actually. How are you, Richard?”

“I’m fucking not bad at all, Bextor. Not bad at all. Had a bit of a run-in with some fucking shitbag this afternoon, but other than that all’s fucking banging.”

“What happened?” asked Ellis-Bextor. “Was it one of those awful beach bums?”

“Aye, yeah,” said Witter. He sniffed forcefully and looked around. “It was this fucking book-weirdo. Started getting all up in my face and shit.”

“What, for just no reason?” spluttered Ellis-Bextor, outraged.

“Yeah, just no fucking reason. Look what he did to me eye.” Witter removed his sunglasses, revealing a giant, tender looking bruise.

“Golly,” said Ellis-Bextor. “That’s terrible.”

“Oh that ain’t bad,” said Witter. “Not compared to the other place that he got me. He came off worse though and no mistake. He won’t be fucking with me again. You should see the state of him.”

“I hope you weren’t too brutal with him, Richard. Where else did he get you?”

Witter looked shifty. “Well, it was, er… He kind of… Did you see how I was walking before?”

“Yes,” said Ellis-Bextor. “You were most unstable.”

“Yeah, he kind of got me…” Witter trailed off, but his hands involuntarily moved to protect his genitals.

“Richard! He didn’t!” Ellis-Bextor’s hands shot to her mouth.

It was at this moment that William Shakespeare reappeared having been to the toilet. He was approaching from behind Witter and from his vantage point, all he could see was a gasping Ellis-Bextor, eyes trained on the Shed 7 frontman’s groin.

“This better not be what I think it is,” said Shakespeare.

Witter whirled round. “You!” he cried, cowering slightly, before the conspicuously unscathed playwright.

“First Chris Rea and now this cunt,” said the bard, addressing Ellis-Bextor.

“It’s not what you think,” cried the whey-faced popstrel.

“Perhaps I should have beaten you with greater ferocity,” said Shakespeare to Witter.

“There was sufficient ferocity,” pleaded Witter.

“I’ll give you sufficient ferocity,” replied Shakespeare.

“No!” screamed Ellis-Bextor.

“Yes,” drawled Shakespeare, unfastening the belt that was pinching in his doublet.

Reading on the beach at the Sandy Lane resort in Barbados

Posted by Alex On October - 11 - 2011

William Shakespeare looked up from his book in order to take in the spectacular sea view before him. He inhaled deeply and focused on just how relaxed he was feeling. His body and mind felt refreshed and alive. He tried to capture the sensation such that he might draw on it again at a later date somehow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure moving towards him across the golden sands, striding along as if he owned the fucking place. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“All right, mate,” said Rick Witter.

Shakespeare looked up at him from his sun lounger, but didn’t say a word.

“Do you like that, mate – reading?”

“I do, actually,” responded Shakespeare pompously.

“Does it relax you?” asked Witter and then without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I’ve never done that. I’ve never read a book. Don’t see the point.”

Shakespeare regarded the wiry frontman with contempt and again opted not to speak.

“What you reading anyway,” said Witter. “Some fucking storybook, is it? Is it Little Red Riding Hood or summat?”

Shakespeare closed the book and pointed the cover towards Witter. “It’s The World According To Clarkson, by Clarkson.”

“Clarkson?” said Witter. “That car guy with the shit hair?”

“The very same.”

“What you reading that for?”

“I hardly think I’ll be able to detail Clarkson’s many fine qualities as a writer to someone who seems so proud of never having read a book.”

“Try,” instructed Witter aggressively.

“Try this,” replied Shakespeare, raising his middle finger and thrusting it in the singer’s face.

Volleyball on Ipanema Beach in Rio de Janeiro

Posted by Alex On October - 4 - 2011

“Well of course you’re losing,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “Why do you insist on wearing those clownish clothes even when you’re doing sport?”

“There’s nothing clownish about them,” spat William Shakespeare, turning to pick up the volleyball once again.

“You’ve got no freedom of movement,” countered Ellis-Bextor. “Look at everyone else. Look what they’re wearing.”

Shakespeare glanced around him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You just want to strip me of all my sexuality, that’s what you want.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare pointed at a group of 20-something men kicking a ball about nearby. They were all wearing tight swimming costumes, sunglasses and nothing else. “You want me to wear safe, sexless clothing like that,” said Shakespeare. “I’m standing here in a stunning padded doublet and you hate the fact that women are eyeing me up.”

“Trust me, no-one’s eyeing you up,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“No-one?” asked the bard, rhetorically. “No-one? What about that group of girls over there?”

“They’re boys.”

“Or that smartly dressed young lady over there?”

“That’s Martin Rossiter from Gene.”

Shakespeare squinted at the figure who was partly silhouetted as a result of the late afternoon sun. “Oh yeah, you’re right. It is Martin Rossiter from Gene, the twat. I see you don’t have any problem with him wearing sexy attire?”

“He’s wearing a blazer,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor incredulously.

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “Put a nice broad pair of paned hose underneath in place of those ridiculous narrow trousers and he wouldn’t look half bad.”

“Hello,” said Martin Rossiter genially.

“Fuck off, you little prick,” screamed Shakespeare.

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