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Archive for November, 2011

A diving lesson on Koh Tao in Thailand

Posted by Alex On November - 29 - 2011

William Shakespeare emerged from the holiday bungalow in stockings, a shirt and…

“Is that a codpiece?” yelled Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “Tell me that’s not a codpiece.”

William Shakespeare looked down at his genital area. “Of course it’s a codpiece,” he said, confused.

“You cannot go diving wearing a codpiece,” stated Ellis-Bextor firmly.

“Why not?”

“Okay, let me put it this way: you cannot go diving with me while wearing a codpiece. In fact, the whole outfit’s wrong. Where’s your swimming costume?”

“What’s a swimming costume,” said Shakespeare, puzzled. “I swim in my underclothes. These are my underclothes.”

“Underclothes?” Ellis-Bextor looked like she had been exposed to a bad smell.

“Yes,” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor stared at the bard with a tense facial expression. Shakespeare stared back blanky, not comprehending what was going on. They were interrupted by the diving instructor.

“Oh, hello, that’s an outfit,” she said to Shakespeare.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, still looking at Ellis-Bextor and taking the instructor’s words as validation.

Ellis-Bextor’s eyes rolled backwards. They then appeared to knock her entire head in the same direction. When it bounced forwards again, it somehow expressed both resignation and despair.

“Let’s get down to the water,” said the instructor, cheerfully. “The others are already there.” Shakespeare strode after her, boldly. Ellis-Bextor trailed reluctantly.

As they were putting on their diving gear, Ellis-Bextor said quietly: “Please take the codpiece off. The rest of it will have to stay on now, but the codpiece has to go. Please. I really can’t put up with it.”

Shakespeare stopped what he was doing and looked at her earnestly. “I can. That’s fine. But I’m really surprised at you.”

He reached down to detach his codpiece and as he did so, the instructor moved along the line of diving novices and arrived at them. The movement caught her eye and she looked down in time to see the bard’s surprisingly hairy knob and bollocks being exposed to the world.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor.

“What?” shouted Shakespeare. “You told me to do this.”

“I didn’t know there was nothing under there. Why the hell is nothing under there?”

“Why the hell do you think I wear a codpiece? All my pairs of hose have an opening.”

Shakespeare threw the codpiece across the beach, embracing the liberty afforded his sexual parts. He planted his fists on his hips and admired himself.

Ellis-Bextor turned away and was a little surprised to see the diving instructor still taking a keen interest in the playwright’s nether regions.

Shakespeare noticed too. “Looking forward to going down?” he asked.

Golf at Le Blanc Spa Resort in Cancun

Posted by Alex On November - 22 - 2011

Toadfish Rebecchi unfurled a languid drive and the ball sailed down the middle of the fairway. He picked up his tee and nodded to William Shakespeare.

Shakespeare, clad in a large, swooshing doublet covered by a voluminous coat despite the searing heat, plucked a wooden club from his golf bag and placed his ball on a tee. He addressed it with an awkward, hunched-over stance. For a moment, he stood motionless and then he drew the club back slowly. Before it reached the perpendicular, he brought it back down again with a wild, hacking motion. The ball sliced off to the right, into some trees.

“Fucking fuckshit,” he exclaimed. “Fucking, fucking fuckshit. This fucking course. I fucking hate this fucking course.”

“It’s not the course,” said Toadie calmly. “It’s you. Your swing’s terrible. You simply aren’t very good at golf.”

“Fuck you,” screamed the bard. “I fucking am. It’s this fucking course with all the trees and shit.”

“Why don’t you aim away from the trees,” asked Toadie mischievously.

Shakespeare took a couple of steps towards him, raising his club with one hand, as if it were a weapon. Toadfish slowly blinked and looked away, unconcerned.

“Come on,” said Shakespeare. “Let’s get on with this.” He strode off towards the trees, club in one hand, dragging his bag behind him with the other. Toadfish parted ways, heading down the fairway towards his own ball.

As Shakespeare approached the trees, a lank-haired man in a leather jacket emerged from them. It was Danny McNamara from Embrace. He eyed Shakespeare morosely.

“What?” asked the bard, aggressively.

“Wanna buy a ball?” responded McNamara.

“No,” said Shakespeare. “I want to find mine.”

“A quid,” said McNamara. “It’s a good ball. Titleist. They make good balls, do Titleist.”

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “That’s why I use them. I use a Titleist DT Solo. I get great distance.”

“With that shitty club?” said McNamara, pointing at the wooden anachronism in the playwright’s hands.

“Yes, actually,” replied Shakespeare indignantly. “With this shitty club. What do you know of golf anyway, you little urchin?”

“I know you need a ball,” said McNamara. “Go on. A quid.”

“We’re in Mexico,” said Shakespeare. “Why are you charging a quid? You should be quoting your price in pesos, or dollars at the very least.”

“All right, smartarse, a dollar,” spat McNamara.

“That’s a completely different price,” said Shakespeare, outraged. “You’re just making this up. How many balls have you got to sell anyway?”

“One,” said McNamara. “It’s a Titleist DT Solo.”

Shakespeare launched himself towards McNamara. “That’s my fucking ball, you little shit. Give me my fucking ball before I rip both of yours off and drive them over the fucking clubhouse.”

Toadfish Rebecchi turned when he heard the kerfuffle. Even from some distance away, he recognised the tone-deaf Embrace singer. “Is that Danny McNamara?” he bellowed at Shakespeare. “Stay away from him. He’ll nick your golf balls, he will. He’s always at it, the little shit.”

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.”

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.

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