New Reality Show-It wasn’t like that in my pants war swap

Channel Four today screened the first episode of their ‘ground breaking’ new reality tv show ‘It wasn’t like that in my pants war swap’.
In a revolutinaory new format, that the christian world has yet to see, two families swap pants, homes and eras, but hey, he he, here’s the AMAZING new TWIST!
The families are distinctly different in socio economic status.  YES! Can you believe it.  I’m gasping just now even thinking about it.  I mean, can you IMAGINE!  One family is DEAD WORKING CLASS and likes smoking bifters, tattoos and drinking meths, and the other family is, wait for it, REASONABLY WELL OFF and likes cleanliness, long words and washing!  YES!
In a hilarious unexpected turn of events, Val Wifebeater and her husband, Ivor Wifebeater swap pants with Virginia Guar-Gum and Blenkinson Guar-Gum.  They deem the Guar-Gums to be SNOBS, STUCK UP and that they don’t spend enough time with their pants, favouring shipping their pants off to after school clubs and cello lessons, whilst, the Wifebeaters enjoy spending quality time with their pants, drinking Ice Dragon and making crack pipes out of cotton buds.  This makes them better pants wearers they think.
Alas, this new and exciting format is sadly let down by the all too familar and predictable ending.  The Guar-Gums retaliate by branding the Wifebeaters SLOBS, DIRTY and sponging off the state to support their pants.  The episode ends with a confrontation which sees the Guar-Gums rubbing vim all over their faces and the Wifebeaters, forcing Vicks Vaporub into their tearducts.  Yawn. 

The Date from Bhopal

Here at world of sheds, we understand the complex juxtapostion of men and women.  We understand what it’s like for you when the object of your affections goes out for a drink with a member of the opposite sex.  You say to them "I hope you have a nice time", pretending to be all ‘generous’ and ‘cool’, ‘adult’ and ‘not-bothered’ and really you’re thinking the following:
 I hope you have a night out akin to the ‘Bhopal’ of Nights Out
I hope your night out is chernobyl like in nature.
I hope your night out could be considered ‘the Fourth Reich’
I hope your companion has a personality similar to Anthrax, Pete Burns, Hitler, jodie Marsh, Peter Andre (combined).
May your ‘date’ have a barren, lunar-like landscape where there is nothing to delight your eye apart from occasional trips to the toilet as light relief.
May every word that your companion utters, offend you to your very core. May they reveal a barely concealed facism. 
May your date make ‘Hollyoaks’ look three dimensional. 
May your company wish you’d got the last train home, or the penultimate train home "just in case".
May you consider your date ‘a complete waste of fake tan and 6 hours (including preparations) that you’ll never get back’
May your night out make gastroenteritis seem like a pleasurable pastime. 

Here it is! The wait is over! A Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 5!

Chapter 5
You rogue,  Crapper.
I returned to my fair towne of Lassiters-Upon-Creek, after fruitfully persuing my Euro-dance career (successfully, I might add) to happen upon the vengeful and unwelcome knowledge that you have been admiring and love-making (it meant something different in olden times, you dirty knave!) to my betrothed woman-thang, lady World of Sheds.
O, unhappy knowledge, Crapper.  You should know that I have persued Lady Sheds for more than eight long years, trying to catch her eye.  Gazing ‘pon her flushed coutenance down the local park when she be delighting herself with a tea towel and some insette hairspray up her delicate, bulbous, vein ridden nose, walking into Dorothy of Perkins, where she holdeth a Saturday job, pretending to buy something for my mother, and following her to ye olde Superbowl and trying to brush up against her tracksuit enclad figure, in ye Energiser at the Quasar.  A fine, fine figure, the envy of all from Ye Olde Roan in Aintree to the Saint of Helens.  Legend has it that gazing upon her disrobed figure is so beauteous, that it woud make a man drop his curry and chips. Yes.  Now, you wretch, you threaten to rob me of such pleasure!  To rob me of finding out whether the legends be true! This must stop. 
I had communication from ‘Lady’ (at least I thinketh she be a lady, she may be a knave, or an ox, I am unsure as to which) Sharon, who has a sickness of the mind.  A sickness so great, she beliveth herself to be ‘in love’ (I’m snorting that derisorily) with your worthless, scab encrusted self.  She writeth about you in a manner that would turn the hardiest of stomach and create a bilious state of affairs that only Gaviscon ultra coule abate.  She told me that whist I had been tying a neckerchief firmly around my manly neck, and emulating David Hasslehoff, you had been trying to entreat Lady Sheds by announcing " J’ai un sac du confectionaire".  Everyone knows how lady sheds cannot resist a shrimp of pink or a ‘jaw breaker’ or two.  You rogue.
There remains only one outcome to this current situation.  We must come to blows.  Not the kind of blows that you were hoping to receive from Lady sheds, no, hard blows.  Oh damn, that still doesn’t sound right.  I challenge you, sir, to fisticuffs at the Interchange of buses, in the town square.  My esteemed friend, Lord Edmonds will only be there to hold my coat, I advise you sir, to come alone.  No more shall you push your confectionary sack into my lady’s hands. 
Later, knave.
Lord Stefan of Dennis
sac du confectionaire

Past times

We’re all familiar with the shit pedallers ‘Past Times’ aren’t we?  For those of you without knowledge of ‘Past Times’ (maybe you live somewhere primitive, say,  Skem or Milton Keynes) this is a trinket-and-baubleshop-type affair that sells tat in the style of a bygone era.  Think silver art nouveau jewellery, art deco keyrings, celtic butt plugs, ye olde tudor bottle o’poppers etc. 
Well, today, I took a brief sabattical from work to hunt out a ‘present’ for a colleague who seems to favour jewels of a rennie mackintosh fandando style, when we happened ‘pon a locket.  My friend (who was purchasing the present- I had already bought my colleague who was leaving a framed picture of me because I’m so good looking) said to me "can you put things inside it?" 
I turned to the shop assistant, hovering like a morphy richards kettle, and said:
"this locket!  Can you put things inside it, like maybe, a bit of spittle?"
They looked stonily back, my colleague collapsed in laughter.
System=0, The Angel Revolution=1

An Ancient Saying

A wise man once said ‘the kids who were cool and fit n’ that at school never age well.  i know some bloke called Ian who works in Kwik Fit who thought this bird in school was well fit, and then he saw her ten years later and she was dead ugly and fat.  He said "she wasn’t like that at school, she was virtually unrecognisable"’.

you know when you’ve been out with World of Sheds When…

1.  your melon gets twisted
2.  all photographs must be taken arially, preferably by a helicopter with ‘Tony Crap’ written on the side in tippex.
3.  The stench of fruit beer stings the inside of your nostrils, like the acrid piss of captain John Bunnell.
4. You write a crap poem about some stocky women who walk past your window.
5.  when you get home, all your pockets are full of borite.
6.  your eyes, your hot hot eyes, write a novel called ‘The date from Bhopal’
7.  your acne aligns, with the heavenly bodies, to form the word ‘Dago’

This week I have been…

1.  audaciously aware of my ego boundaries

2.  polishing my garden and tidying a turd

3.  changing the lines of Charles and Eddie’s hit number one single ‘would i lie to you’ to ‘Look into my flat can’t you see it’s full of crack?’

4.  Organising a cake and arse party (more work that you’d imagine)

5.  Racing cockroaches in a perspex grandstand

6.  Fighting fascism,both locally and internationally

7.  Proclaiming that neo liberal apathy set the staging conditions for an epidemic of ‘consumption’.

8.  Bleeding my radiators until a vacuum was caused.  This blocked the movement of the arse chakra and caused localised flooding in Carlisle Lidl. 

9.  Over relying on the ill informed opinions of others. 

10.  Casting pearls before swine

11. Backcombing my hair causing enough static to power my ‘pepperpots and ashtrays at church fetes’ factory.

That is all.

Dr Angel, has thou forsaken me?

No!  But I do admit, my blogging has rather been suffering due to pressing trouser press press releases.  Please forgive this scurvy knave and be assured that a blog is in the pipeline.  In the meantime, if you are withdrawing from WoS particular brand of nonsense, follow me by ye gods of twitter.  Just search for the legend ‘worldofsheds’.
 yours, bogling
Dr. Angel