Kingdom Brass Youth

A recent e-mail correspondence:

Abbey Tarte (

We regret to inform you that your employment with Argon Electronics UK Ltd is being terminated. 
Your termination is the result of the following violations of company policy:
- H38 69 28.03.2012
- H38 20 28.03.2012
- H38 40 28.03.2012

You were issued written warnings on 13.08.2014. As stated in your final warning, you needed to take 
steps to correct your behavior by 15.09.2014. Your failure to do so has resulted in your termination. 
To appeal this termination, you must return written notification of your intention to appeal to
 Jay Feeley in Argon Electronics UK Ltd no later than 06:00PM on 26.09.2014.

Abbey Tarte

Dear Abbey
I must say, your e mail came as a great surprise, being fired from a job that I didn’t know I had.
 I am sorry to hear that my behaviour has brought disgrace on the good name or Argon Electronics, the Beast and Monolith of the Electronics World. It is with a heavy heart I have knowledge of the shame I have caused the company that invented the Roto-turnip, the ice cream press and Robocop. I hope the company’s reputation and stock can recover. I think Argon Electronics holds a warm and fuzzy place in many of our hearts. Especially since most of us can remember getting our first Argon Jesuit Chaser.
It is with complete acceptance and humility that I accept my termination. I do not know what H38 69 28.03.2012 is but it must be pretty bad. Maybe part of the infringement was me not coming in to work, not being on the payroll and not making the daily commute from the North West of England to Bedfordshire. Unforgivable. I was once sacked from a restaurant because I coudn’t carry three plates at once. Perhaps my plate carrying shame has caught up with me?
Anyway, I really appreciate you mailing me and letting me know from your personal e mail account. How’s Kingdom Brass Youth working out for you? I always have dreams I’m playing brass instruments really well but in actual fact the nearest I’ve got to playing brass was stroking some horse brasses in a country pub. I’m not sure what this dream means, probably something about dicks. Hope Argon gives you some recompense for you not mailing from work. It must be difficult to hold down a high powered job in Argon and all the hooker and coke fuelled hedonism of Youth Brass bands.
good luck to you.
Dr. Angel


Why Nescafe Dolce Gusto advert is inherently racist

Occasionally I like to get on my high horse about something. This time, it’s a coffee advert that’s boiling my piss. Take a look.

Perfectly innocuous you might think?

Not really.

What I object to in this advert is the subtle undercurrent of racism that permeates throughout it. Let me explain.

OK, in this advert we have three main characters. The African mask, the european bust and the disembodied mouth. The African mask, signifying African culture, speaks first as he spies the coffee machine:

“Is that what they call pop art?

The European bust speaks next

“Oh for goodness sake, there goes the neighbourhood”

Whilst on the surface of this, this utterance can be seen as hostility towards any newcomer, but the origins of this phrase are from disapproval of minorities entering all-white neighbourhoods.

Whist aimed at the coffee machine, the origins of this phrase seem jarring as they are uttered in response to the African mask’s opening gambit.

Then we see the African Mask, unable to contain itself, jumping off the sideboard to get to the coffee first. Implicit here are discourses about people of African origin being unable to contain themselves, acting on impulse and without rational thought. Alongside this we see the ultra-white European bust, as the model of restraint “let’s not rush to conclusions” it chides the African mask, implicit here are discourses of white people being restrained, rational, scientist-like in their thoughts and behaviours. The poor African mask rushes to the coffee, calling the white characters “suckers”, also calling forth discourses of rudeness, being without social convention, and falls of the counter top to it’s peril.

The European bust ruefully sighs “completely off his head” at the African mask, bringing forth discourses of madness and instability of non white communities.

Now, I judge this to be a racist advert, but I also have to acknowledge that I am a white woman and do not wish to speak for any one of African heritage. I am, however, interested in wider societal discourses and how they become socially constructed within communities and how those discourses become accepted and strengthened. I would be interested in any reactions to it from people of any background. I am concerned as to how these subtle messages reinforce unhelpful discourses and affect people’s thinking and interactions.

If you think the Nescafe Dolce Gusto advert is inherently racist, please reblog and maybe people who create such ads can consider how supporting these narratives in society is toxic.

Naturally, here at World of Sheds (are you imagining a bustling office? Good. It’s just me sitting on my couch though watching Celebrity Super-Spa) we (me) have our (my) finger on the pulse of new technological developments. We (I) brought you reviews of Horace Goes Skiing and are typing this on our BBC computer, so it was a logical progression to bring you (you) news of the latest social networking platform to hit our display windows.

Read more about by someone who might know things about computers here, but why be arsed when I can tell you here?

The launch of is shrouded in mystique. How exciting. When you click on the home page, there’s no information other than a perfunctory invite to choose a user name and a request for a password. Some blurry images of attractive people taking what I assume is ‘selfies’ like it’s as fun as going to Alton Towers on a free ticket off a cereal box and walking straight onto the front seat of the Nemesis.


Well, let’s face it, it’s going to be more vanity thrills for the insecure isn’t it? More bathroom backgrounds, more duckfaces, more tensed pecs, more bikini bottoms being suggestively pulled down with a thumb than you can shake your belly ring at.

The only reason a person takes a selfie is for self-publicity and spin. What sort of person do I want you to think I am?  it whispers, from a point, usually above their head.Here are the main categories that Selfies largely fall into.

  • Love me, love my bathroom.

Some people’s bathrooms I know better than my own. I know Rachel Jenkin’s has a reed diffuser on her window sill and Jim Dickhead has a few toilet roll holders that he needs to dispose of in the appropriate receptacle. Why do I have a knowledge of their bathroom, like a virtual one-night stand? I know their bathroom so well because I am daily subjected to a picture of them taken in their bathroom mirror. Looking sexy, natch. For men, it’s usually a tensed, pec rippling, posed-nonchalance- “oh hey, I’m just chillaxing here in my bathroom. Thought you should know”. *good times*

  • ‘Accidental’ Glamour

Oh my GOD! You must see this slightly interesting thing that just happened to me. What? Oh, yeah, I FORGOT I was in a bikini in my hallway with my kid on a Wednesday. *waits for “banging boddie hun” tweets to roll in*

  • The High Rise

Hey I look great. But I look better from above. Here’s lots of pictures of me looking essentially the same from above. Aren’t I gorgeous from this angle? Not convinced. Here’s a few more pictures of me to seal the deal. If you take me out, you will have to date me aerially. Take up your seat on the ceiling by the picture rail. Enjoy the view, dickhead!


  • Tit Beach

I’ve got a BANGING body and YOU MUST KNOW ABOUT IT. Usually disguised as a picture of a beach or the sea. So why not stand up and take a picture of the beach? Because the view is better down here! 

The National Office for Vain Selfies calculates that if all the Tit Beach selfies were sewn together with threads of self obsession, they could stretch to the crab nebula and back. Get onto that, NASA.

  • The Marcus Collins

I’ve heard from reliable sources that Marcus Collins puts 60,000 selfies on facebook per minute. I’ve also heard that he is the pioneer of the ‘Selfie montage’.  He is currently working with Apple on IOS 8 to include a special selfie-function, although the project is rumoured to be on hold until 2016 due to current hardware limitations (4xCAMERA I PHONE). You heard it here first, Shedders.


My First Grey

Today I had to start admitting that I’m not 28 any more. I’d been largely successful in denying my advancing years by zapping my face with electric currents monthly and wearing cross-body satchels, but the discovery of my first grey today meant I had to finally admit to my bodily decline.

Caryn Franklin

I am 36 by the way.

To be fair, there were other signs that I was no longer a vigorous and vital twenty something.

  • If I’ve been doing an activity in the day, I need a can of red bull to go out in the night time. Red Bull-Fuel for the over thirties.
  • When I hold parties, instead of the fag butts and vomit that was usually left behind in our twenties, now left behind is a navy fleece and a bag for life.
  • I’ve begun wearing ballet pumps as high heels make my feet too sore. Once upon a time I wore sky scraper heels for work, shopping, even sightseeing around New York. There was no fucking way I was wearing flats, and now when I’m shopping for boots anything over 3 inches and I’m scowling like a trapped badger.
  • Highly pigmented eyeshadow makes me look like a drag queen. It’s all ‘dove greys’ and ‘nudes’ now. How exciting!
  • My friends no longer want to go to nightclubs or popular bars because they can’t settle unless they get a seat.
  • I have gardening jeans and decorating jeans. I garden. Not willingly you, understand. I’m not a monster.
  • My jeans are now ‘mid rise’. Want to know what ‘rise’ is? Rise of a jean is how much you can get away with before you show your landing strip. I can no longer take the choking sensation of a pair of low rise skinnies, nor can I be arsed with the worry that one false move and poor onlookers might be privy for more than they bargained for.
  • I have bodyshaping garments in surgical nude colours.
  • I go to Zumba.
  • I enjoy TV programmes about houses, interior decorating and I ‘upcycle’
  • When I tell my husband off, I sound like my Nan. Not even my mother, my NAN.
  • I own a electric belt sander.
  • I have dreams that I’m discovering extra storage in my kitchen and I’m delighted.

Good god, it’s worse than I thought!

Today, I embrace my advancing years. I will be switching my electric blanket on tonight, leaving future parties a 9pm to ‘get settled’ and prepare for everything to become ‘nude’ colour-my make up, my undergarments, my clothes, my flat lace ups. My only comfort, is you are all growing old with me!

My Fat Neighbour

As the weather becomes more clement and the bees buzz busily around the flowers in  my garden, my fat neighbour and her alcoholic husband take to the garden nightly and allow their children to stay up far too late so they can shout obscenities at them.

As you can imagine, this means if I want to enjoy a balmy evening sipping special brew and contemplating the formation of attachment patterns between parent and infant, I have to be subjected to her sloppy voice, her obtrusive presence through my fence (which I had built higher so I couldn’t see the top of her useless fat head) and her disregard of politeness and modern decency. I can’t help but tune in to her abrasive voice which shunts me out of self reflection and idle day dreaming. So I stay in and turn the TV up.

If I want to sit in my front room, I am subjected to her banging on her window at her children and shouting “fucking shut up I can’t hear the TV”. I also have to be subjected to her fucking fat arse glowering at me through my window as she walks her cat on a lead (yes, on a fucking lead!) and lets it shit in my garden even though she knows I am watching.

She calls her cat “pussy cat”. Pussy cat is her prisoner. Much like Jabba the Hutt in The Empire Strikes back has Princess Lea as his pet. When I leave for work, pussy cat looks mournfully on as I pull out from the crescent. His eyes plead with me for sweet release, whether that be through escape or death. I scowl back my reply “no, because you shit in my garden and I have to watch”. Pussy cat feels emasculated being on a lead. Pussy cat has made several bids for freedom and I hear Jabba screech at her children for allowing it to get out. I root for Pussy cat and hope this time he has made it. Maybe he is enjoying prowling around the neighbourhood feeling fresh air on his whiskers and socialising  and frolicking with other cats.

The next day, pussy cat mournfully greets me through the window. He has been extradited back to his fat prison and is Jabba’s pet once more. He sits, stock still, like an ornament and regards me. Maybe he feels that I’m his Han Solo. Stop shitting in my garden, I say to him.

Kowalksi’s Lament, part 2, a Hazard of Parsnips mini story

Goddamit. Damn it.

Kowlaksi had pinned all his hopes on Sherby57 and now he was wondering why he saw fit to do so.

Ever since Kowalski had become conscious of being drawn to DI Ian, he had been in a maelstrom of despair that only Amaranto clothing can abate. Yes. The only thing that Kowalski had found that regulates his emotions is Amaranto/Papaya Clothing, Matalan’s own brands. That and his Daewoo Matiz. Sure, the other police officers in New York and St. Helen’s found it a bit fruity and continental, but there was no telling what Kowalski might do in a fit of road rage. He played it safe and drove the soothing Matiz. Kowalski was certain that a strapping hunk like him could do some serious damage with a Kowalski tongue-lashing  and he wasn’t that much of a loose cannon that the authors previously suggested he was. Chief Inspector Acorah had repeatedly informed Kowalski that he wasn’t too big to be spanked across his knee. CI Acorah’s secretary and guiding light, Sam, would whisper inaudibly that it was no longer appropriate to say those sort of things and remember what happened to Inspector Saville.

Kowalski had ‘rocked’ up to Sherby 57’s late at night to seek his advice. Kowalski had heard that what Sherby57 didn’t know about love, Haddaway could only ask questions about. Sherby 57 had spent a large part of his young manhood under the tutelage of ‘Style’ and ‘Mystery’ the reknown pick up artists (PUA) and had cultivated a PUA character of his own (Casio’)who could pick up a girl before you could say ‘playboy bunny tattoo’.  Style and Mystery had heard that St. Helen’s and Widnes had the most rocking potatoes and hot bitches and had made a bee line for this chick-topia. There they had ‘hooked up’ (not had sex with) Sherby 57 and they had rewarded his knowledge of the area with dark arts in cat-string-theory.

Kowalski began hammering on Sherby57’s door. It had come off the hinges and was beginning to stick within the door frame. Sherby stood there benignly as this hulking Yank began fixing the frame and sanding the edge of the door.

During this spot of spontaneous DIY Kowalski’s story came tumbling out between sobs. Sheila, crude drawings, Der Naughty Kitty, Clarence and Ian. Sherby 57 knew all of this as he had partly written the story in the pub with World of Sheds but he kindly heard out the sobbing man until all that was left was a dried up husk. Sherby had left it there around breakfast time as he couldn’t stand shredded wheat and delighted that it might torment the post man as he was morbidly scared of Donald Trump. Kowalski was still standing next to it with his hammer and sandpaper in hand looking hopeful.

Sherby cocked his head and leg to one side as he listened intently.

“Listen Kowalski”

Kowalski drew near. So near that Sherby could smell Kowalski’s scent. It was ex-clam-ation! which was quite a feminine scent. Sherby liked it so he wasn’t going to judge, but he liked Angel by Thierry Mugler better.

“there’s only one way to turn you back on to women as you hope”

“yes” breathed Kowalski and closed his eyes ready to receive the learned information he craved.

Sherby57 took this to mean that Kowalski was trying to keep flatulence from escaping. So he lit at match and shooed his cats away from the door so Kowalski couldn’t blame them.

“Listen, Kowlaski, you’ve got to read fifty shades of grey. The whole friggin’ trilogy. It’s the most erotic thing ever written. That is your only hope. Either that or ‘Riders’ by Jilly Cooper. It’ll really have you fancying the birds if that’s what you want”.

“yes it is”

“It’s alright to fancy fellas Kowalski. I mean I don’t and wouldn’t, but it’s alright for you to”

Kowalksi glowered at Sherby and stormed off in the Matiz. He drove straight to the Matalan in Wigan and emerged only when the security guards roughly manhandled him out.

To be continued.

Cabbages are not the Only Vegetable-Part 1.

She didn’t know it before, but she knew it now. The smell of women’s safety smells of cabbages. Who knew? She didn’t. 

Jessica had heard of the all-women hostel nestled in a leafy part of London, but she had never dared to book a room there. What if it turned out not to be safe? What if it was a scam, and she would book her room only to discover that it was a myth, a fabrication, a hushed whisper on a grapevine. She swallowed and pressed ‘book room’. It was really unusual to have a mouse that was activated by her swallowing reflex, but Jessica wasn’t like  other women. So what if it cost millions to develop the swallow-double click mouse…Jessica was a successful odour panel member, and those guys earned £10 and hour. To hell with it!

She had booked it. She had booked a single room at the Greensmith’s House. She was going. She packed her towel. Sheets and other bedding was not required, this was some edgy place. Check in was after 1:30. Check out was 10:30. She beamed in delight. She loved to know check in and check out times. It reminded her of the Kwik Save. 

Jessica had booked a first class ticket as she wanted it to be special from the start. When she woke up that morning she tingled with Anticipation. This was her new Avon Shower gel with a menthol afterglow. She really should buy some more from the girl down the road.  Intrusive questions spilled froth from her frontal lobes. Would there be a kitchenette or a large catering style kitchen with different units? Would there be glasses so she could get a drink? What if she needed a shit and someone was in the next stall in the bogs? Was there a full length mirror in the room so she could check out her jump suit or straighten her fez?  These questions excited her and terrified her in equal measure as she hurtled towards the capital with her Penn State pretzels and complimentary cup of coffee. 

To be continued…


Commitment to Blog

A few weeks back, I made a commitment to myself to blog once weekly. As you can see, I haven’t been doing too badly after a seemingly endless and, I’m sure for you, dear readers, emotional and tense time without regular acorns from the tree of Sheds.

I had  hoped to bring you more Thomas Bangalter’s Bang Altar (a popular feature so far, thanks for all the feedback) and more of the Kowalski mini adventure this week. Primarily because my good friend Sherby57 is unwell and I know that the only thing that will cure his illness is the bezoar, nay, magic bullet of my blog.

Sadly, events have conspired against me, and it’s been a difficult time at Shed Villas, culminating in a difficult night at Wigan A&E. I really think that that A&E needs to consider the comfort of their plastic chairs, especially if you are there for 12 hours. My arse was so numb that I could have had a brazillian bum lift and not felt a thing. Thankfully, my arse is great, so there was no real need for such radical surgery. You’ll just have to take my word for this.

Suffice to say, there is no blog, apart from this metablog. So, just be grateful for something. Hopefully, next week, I’ll be back on track with some rhomboid busting bloggage and all will be well and balanced in the universe.

See you soon

Dr. A.

Kowalski: a Hazard of Parsnips spin off-mini adventure

Kowalski groggily opened one eye. Like a sleepy Cyclops  he contemplated getting up. He stared at the outfit he had laid out on the corby trouser press for the day ahead  Sure, it was a challenge to accessorise the trouser press he carried round with him ritually, but Kowalski makes his own fashion statements, even if they were really heavy and cumbersome. 

He had carefully chose his finest corduroy pants, tan bomber jacket, wide tie and striped shirt. He hadn’t worn shit this fancy to work since he used to meet Sheila on his lunch break. 

SHEEEILLLLA! Why did you have to be a crude drawing! A sketch. A rendition of a woman. Then STOP. What? 

Kowalski scanned his thoughts, guardedly. Like a guarded thought-scanner. He was thinking the usual thoughts about his beloved wife, Sheila, but yet…something was different. 

Kowalksi was usually old school. He subscribed to Aaron Beck’s postulations that it is not the events themselves that causes our distress, rather the way we think about it. Theoretically, if two men experience the same event…say their wife had been part of a hot body show, they could have totally different emotional reactions. Their emotional reactions would be modulated by their thoughts about that event.  One man might think “wow, my lady is a total hot slag. Fuckin ace” the other ” my wife is broken and ruined and I am less of a man” leading to feelings on the sad spectrum. Like those men, Kowalski had always been broken by his thoughts of Sheila. 

However, today was different. Today he was thinking the usual thoughts, but the emotion was different. Almost as if his conviction in his grief about Sheila had waned. He was so used to these thoughts, they were second nature, they were automatic. But now those automatic thoughts had been replaced by a disbelief, a challenging of his own thought process. 

Am I still sad? Kowlaski solemnly regarded his countenance in the mirror. This was no mean feat from being in bed and the mirror being located 6 foot up the wall. 

No. I am not. 


So what has my sadness been replaced with?

The answer came as a tentative whisper in the form of a crumpled, listless, police officer. 


Detective Inspector Ian Detective Inspector.

That’s why he had become more careful over his appearance. That’s why he’d been in the gym pumping his muscles. That’s why he’d been shaving his legs every day. That’s why he’d been carrying the trouser press. That’s why he’d joined Linkedin. 

Kowalksi was rattled to his very foundations. What WAS he? He’d always thought of himself as straight down the (drawn) line. He was attracted to crude sketches of women, not real life, living, breathing, rippling, writhing, sweating men. 

There was nothing else for Kowalski to do. He trashed the entire road and all the villages in a ten mile radius and then spent three hours in Matalan. God he was confused. 

There was only one man who could help him. 

That man was Sherby57…

To be continued…



Thomas Bangaltar’s Bang Altar: Part 2

Good Day

I return. My name is Mister Thomas Bangaltar. I like to investigate religions. It give me a break from making the music. Some times when I play the music my bottom get sore from sitting down so I have to get up and investigate subjects.

My favourite subject at school was religious studies. I had a teacher with brown eyes and curly hair. He was short and thin. He was about 45 years old. His name was Monseiur Active. He was my friend. He said I did good. I like religion since. Monsieur Active he used to meet us in the sixth form block at break times. He used to be at the bars where we would go to. He would talk to us and purchase us Absinthe and Pernod. He said he was our friend.

Here is the Religion I have been invetigating: Jewism

Jews like god. They no like what he did recently though. They only like his old stuff. They say his recent stuff was not as good so they no read it. It a bit like when Frasier got a bit merde.

Jew god, he no like bald men. He is a vengeful god. He punish bald people by making them wear doily for putting the glasses on the table. He say bald men’s head reflect his face in unfavourable way from up in the sky. Like when you look in spoon when your mum give you your petit filou once you have finished your croque-madame. God no like this. He also no like artificial lighting, so he make all jew houses have lots of mood lighting in the form of candelabras. God like to be seen in flattering light. He no like superbowl lights.

That is all I have found out. Good day to you.

Respectful wishes