Adventures of the Doctor in 2006

As some of you eagle-eyed stalkery types will have observed, I’ve not been blogging much these days. The reasonage is two-fold:

1) I’ve got some godawful fatigue thing

2) I’ve been working hard on the book, a bridesmaid speech (imagine what my speech will be like!) and a writing project with Sherby 57 (stay tuned, it’s going to be immense).

I do feel incredibly remiss, in manner of an apathetic workhouse owner, so today I bring you a post from this month in 2006! In those days I was a bit more ‘blue’ and more ‘edgy’, thanks to the influence of Cannon and Ball on my writing style. I was heavily into them at this stage. It was only when I grew into my ‘Little and Large’ stage that my writing style mellowed and took a more eggy stance, like the one you see today.

Anyway, enjoy a rare treat from the archives. I should imagine I’ll be mining them for you every now and again.

28.04.2006

Dr. Angel’s Instructional Videos

Those of you who know me know that I regularly produce instructional videos to educate the unwashed masses (i.e. you) into the Angel system of working. I am the educator. I knock these titles out from my shed in the Bermuda Triangle (next to the Bermuda Octagon, just after the Spar and the burnt out pram) and now I can exclusively reveal to you the latest titles that you can buy when you get paid from working in the Carrot packing factory/sunbed salon/slaughterhouse.

Please send a cheque for £3875894594876.09999999 for each title plus one peseta p&p music factory to :

Angel Industries

Shed 99

 Bermuda Triangle

Wigan

the back seat of the car

 Level 42.

Latest Releases:

  • Need an excuse to touch girls up? Learn to tickle!
  • build your own eye of the tiger
  •  1 2 3 Bumming!
  • stopping radioactivity with paper
  •  MC Hammer presents chair bonkers!
  • Why reciting lines from comedy shows doesn’t make you funny by A. N. local radio DJ
  • Killing Chris Moyles> do it for mankind
  • Natural Selection: selecting produce made easy! Use the pointing method!
  • Dirty Ticket: giving blow jobs for ciggies
  •  Write songs like an adolescent by Hard Fi
  •  Mwah wha wha by Charlie Brown’s teacher
  • Tuba Monster Anatomy
  •  What is ‘old bumfun’?
  •  1 2 3 faeces!

And then, I just leave it hanging there. I don’t even attempt to round off the post and come to any conclusion. That’s how avant-garde I was in 2006. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. I certainly did. I get a great deal of satisfaction in admiring my own genius.

Until the next time, party hearty till the breakadawn.

x

Dr. Angel goes to press

Oh sweet Jeremy Irons, shed fans. I’m all excited.

Today I submitted my final draft of my book and viewed the illustrations and chose the format (paper, style, coverings). The book goes to press Friday.

The final printed version of the book is available the week after.

You can’t buy the book. It’s a Children’s book for professionals who are working with children, almost like a treatment manual/workbook and it’s not for sale. It’s free. I’m nice like that. I’m asking for contributions for the local children’s hospital. You may like to nominate me for a Heart of Gold or similar.

I’m so happy and tired, I want to do the “yesssssss!” gesture made popular by Stefan Dennis where elbow is pulled down, hand making a fist that comes up level with forehead, whilst knee raises and almost meets it’s lovely joint friend, the elbow.

Please join me in this gesture.

Francois Part One

Some of you  gifted with the blessing of twitter may have been following my story about Francois. Due to huge pressure from my adoring fans, I’ve been asked to consolidate those tweets into one regular monthly payment, much like a debt consolidation business who can use a government loophole to free you from your catelogue bills.

So here it is. A tender story of love and loss that will move the hardiest of coutenance:

One fateful night, I sighed. He looked up from his manure plough and drew me a picture of ‘Francois’. It was then I knew he loved me.

Francois. That name stung me like a slap from a gay man. I could only smile into a receptacle and look at him from under my carpet sample.For now, all I have is a crude picture of Francois and a man with a manure plough who loves to watch me exhale.

 I enjoy the attention.

Francois.

The name plays on my lips like a herpes scab. I search the air, looking for some sign. I see one. It says ‘Give way’. I do and so I yield to my manure saviour.

He is burly and his hands are dry and cracked. They contrast with Francois’ pink silk gloves. My mind sweeps back all too willingly to the evenings where Francois would leave his pink gloves over my balti dish. Foolish memory! How you taunt me.

“Oh Francois! look what you’ve done to me!” I silently cry out, hoping in some way he can become sensible of my words.

As  my manure farmer looked dolefully on at my twisted visage, he pleaded with me to love him. Yet it was Francois that I could only think of. Francois and his quick wit and receeding gumline. How he would make a nest out of breakway wrappers and fag ends. How he’d smoke naked.The manure farmer threw a stone at me in a futile attempt to get me to look at him.  It hit my arse. Despite the crippling pain, My eyes would only see Francois and his goitre!

 Oh Francois! Once we played doggie on a stick on the wasteland behind the tip. He was so cosmopolitan. I missed hibnobbing with the binmen! Life with Francois had been a haze of celebrity binmen, soft drugs and hard women and dirty-dirty houses that smelt of chip fat.  Just thinking of the glamour catches in the back of my throat. I thank the heavens a sink is close by, in this field. Which is rather remarkable in itself, so maybe the heavens listened. The manure farmer cannot match this.   I hate the farmer for not being Francois.   He looks sad.   He silently pleads with doe like eyes for me not to leave. In my head I was already gone.

To be continued (via Twitter and then consolidated on here) http://twitter.com/WorldofSheds to join me.

Francois Part 1

Some of you  gifted with the blessing of twitter may have been following my story about Francois. Due to huge pressure from my adoring fans, I’ve been asked to consolidate those tweets into one regular monthly payment, much like a debt consolidation business who can use a government loophole to free you from your catelogue bills.

So here it is. A tender story of love and loss that will move the hardiest of coutenance:

One fateful night, I sighed. He looked up from his manure plough and drew me a picture of ‘Francois’. It was then I knew he loved me.

Francois. That name stung me like a slap from a gay man. I could only smile into a receptacle and look at him from under my carpet sample.For now, all I have is a crude picture of Francois and a man with a manure plough who loves to watch me exhale.

 I enjoy the attention.

Francois.

The name plays on my lips like a herpes scab. I search the air, looking for some sign. I see one. It says ‘Give way’. I do and so I yield to my manure saviour.

He is burly and his hands are dry and cracked. They contrast with Francois’ pink silk gloves. My mind sweeps back all too willingly to the evenings where Francois would leave his pink gloves over my balti dish. Foolish memory! How you taunt me.

“Oh Francois! look what you’ve done to me!” I silently cry out, hoping in some way he can become sensible of my words.

As  my manure farmer looked dolefully on at my twisted visage, he pleaded with me to love him. Yet it was Francois that I could only think of. Francois and his quick wit and receeding gumline. How he would make a nest out of breakway wrappers and fag ends. How he’d smoke naked.The manure farmer threw a stone at me in a futile attempt to get me to look at him.  It hit my arse. Despite the crippling pain, My eyes would only see Francois and his goitre!

 Oh Francois! Once we played doggie on a stick on the wasteland behind the tip. He was so cosmopolitan. I missed hibnobbing with the binmen! Life with Francois had been a haze of celebrity binmen, soft drugs and hard women and dirty-dirty houses that smelt of chip fat.  Just thinking of the glamour catches in the back of my throat. I thank the heavens a sink is close by, in this field. Which is rather remarkable in itself, so maybe the heavens listened. The manure farmer cannot match this.   I hate the farmer for not being Francois.   He looks sad.   He silently pleads with doe like eyes for me not to leave. In my head I was already gone.

To be continued (via Twitter and then consolidated on here)