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


Meeting Toby Anstis



Recently it came to my attention, I could win a competition. Not just any competition. A competition that centred around TEA!

As regular reader of the blog know (and I know there are regular readers as I get lots of lovely comments thanking me on the ‘content’ of my blog and it is EXACTLY what they are looking for. Admittedly, they use all the same phrases, but I’m sure that’s because my CONTENT is exactly what ANYONE would be looking for, so it’s divine coincidence, rather than vicious spam bots) that I love tea. Yes, I’m beveragely bonded and caught in a naughty love-game with tea. You may not know that a ‘Good heart’ by Feargal Sharkey was written about someone making you a decent brew. Yeah. It’s hard to find all right.

Anyway, I digress. Suffice to say, any sensible tea lover follows the Tetley tea folk on Twitter. They often have competitions like “what do you best love about tea?” or “what’s your favourite tea?” Searing stuff, but it sorts the wheat from the chaff in a competition arena.

The latest competition was, obviously, tea related and I’m pretty sure you could win some tea, or I wouldn’t have entered…but wait…there’s a catch…you win tea and get the chance to meet Heart FM’s Toby Anstis.

Look, the tea I’ll take, but meeting Toby…er…I’ve nothing against the fella, but what would you say to him?!

Seriously, I cannot think of a single thing to say to Toby Anstis. I mean, the conversation is going to get quite thin early on isn’t it?

Tetley worker: Er, Mr. Anstis, we’ll bring in the competition winner in a bit. Name’s Dr. Angel. Likes tea. Female, we think. You’ve got an hour to spend some time together and then you can take your tenner and fuck off.

Anstis: Nice one, pal (I assume Toby Anstis, uses the word ‘pal’ when being chummy)

Dr. Angel: er, hiya Toby, I’m Dr. Angel.

Anstis: Hi there, I’m Toby.

Dr. A: Pleased to meet you. So…you like tea?

Anstis: No not really. Are you a fan of Heart FM?

Dr. A: I’ve never heard of it to be honest. Is it a southern radio station? I only listen to radio phone ins when the host is particularly provocative and gets people riled up.

Anstis: Oh. Why did you enter then?

Dr. A: I fucking love tea.

Anstis: you watch any programmes I was on?

Dr. A: er, I think I saw you on an episode of come dine with me, but I’m not sure.

Anstis: Oh. Do you, er, drink tea?

Dr. A: I do, Toby, I do. So…

Anstis: Well…

Dr. A:  So…

Anstis: er

Dr. A: Toby, I’m going to the loo. Just go if you need to. There’s another 55 minutes to go.

Anstis: Thank fuck. I’m going to spend my tenner on Astrobelts.

So, Shedders, be careful what you enter. Whether that may be a complicated romantic liaison with a unstable co-worker, or an ill thought out tea fest. You may get more than you bargained for (an STD or Toby Anstis).


Thomas Bangalter’s Bang Altar


Bzz, bleep bleep, whizz

Allo. My name is Thomas Bangaltar. I work in a musical situation called ‘Daft Punk’. Perhaps you are knowing it?

Where is the Bridge? Do I take the first road on the left after the church?

When working in musics is not working for me, I am spendings time discoverings different religions.


I hoping you will be sharing my goings with delight. I like to look and to discover. I like hockey and netball. Do you ever go to hockey and netball? Do you do the hockey with your friends at school?

In next weeks, I will be talking about religions that you may like and smile at. This week I talk about only the religion of my own, which is the Catholics Church. It is very nice. I like it.

In the catholics church, we eat wafers and drink blood. It is nice. A man asks us to stand up and sit down. Is is giving of the health. It is what gods wants. For us to have perfect bodies so we can dress up in Robot costumes and sample 70s basslines and pull the hot women. But those hot women must not use protection for sexy-time. It makes god sad. When God sad, he make thorns tighten round jesus heart. Everyone gets sad.

Catholics is also fun as the man who stand at front of church dress up. He no dress up like robot. He dress like a ghost. I like. He is my friend. My mum makes me go to church on Sunday. She does not let me wear robot costume. I sampled her favourite song and made out I made it up myself and release it on album to make her mad. My mum said I couldn’t wear Robot costume for a week.


Thomas Bangaltar

2012 in review: a truly lazy blog post.

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 1,900 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 3 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 18.

Read more about Hazard of Parsnips (HoP) here

and catch up on the preceding 17 chapters.

Clarence’s Diary

Dear Diary

Upon waking from a fitful slumber, a smile played upon my full lips. I think it was playing charades and it had to make the word ‘SEX’. I’m saying here I’ve got a sexy smile.

When I became sensible of my surroundings I realised my slumber had been fitful largely due to the fact I had been spooning a hedgehog for most of the night. My sleeping companion, Hedgie, had generously offered my lodgings in his, er, hedge and had offered me a cup of tea, as I had hoped. Well, diary, as sure as night follows day, Hedgie got me drunk on hedgerow wine and before I knew it we were singing the Ulyssess 31 theme tune and soon slipped into a companionable unconsciousness.

As morning broke and I noticed the spine marks in my chiselled pecs, Hedgie grinned sheepishly at me. I can’t stay mad at that guy, even though he got me drunk. He did offer me refuge from a notorious pervert, so I owe him my life. Well, I owe him a pint at least.

After I bid adieu to my spiny pal, I wondered what to do next. Should I

a) report to the nearest police station to tell them I was OK
b) Go and see my beloved delicate flower,Eileen, and some hot and dirty reunion sex. She may let me do her up the bum.
c) go home and check my mail

I decided to go with the latter. It might seem, dear diary, like a nonsensical thing to do and quite out of keeping with the character I have painted myself as, but I was really missing my vegetables, my lemon chapstick and I really needed a shit. There’s nothing like taking a shit in your own bog and I yearned for my porcelain bum embrace. Besides, I knew it would also help the writers of Hazard of Parsnips out, as they needed to move the story on and I was about to receive an important letter.

My step was light and my heart joyous to be free! I had escaped my man-napping unscathed(albeit probably broken that poor battle-scarred wench’s heart, but hey, she was collateral damage and this hunk had a body that he owed the world to preserve). My mind briefly flicked back to Teresa. I shook my head, almost as if to dislodge that thought from my mental furniture. I can’t feel sorry for her now. Yes, I lied to her, but it was my only chance of survival. Think Clarence, Think of something nice, i chastised my own brain. I was telling myself off and I didn’t like it. So I sulked at myself for a bit. I can’t stay mad at myself, largely down to my sexiness and tight, high baby bird bum, so I felt better for a bit. I even hummed a little ditty to cheer myself up. It was ‘Wild Boys’ and I imagined myself making sweet, sweet love to Eileen to that very music.

However, the windscreen wipers of my psyche kept flicking back to images of Teresa, dammit, and dampening my ardour. I really had betrayed her trust. It is such a burden being this handsome. I don’t know how most attractive people bear it. I hate the fact people give me preferential treatment because of my looks,think highly of me, and throw themselves at me. It’s such a fucking ball ache. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach when I thought of what that pervert might do to her when he learnt of how she facilitated my escape.

One thought occasionally leads to another, and this was one of those occasions. My mental furniture had shifted, like the Ikea warehouse, and I found myself pondering on other victims of my good looks. My god. I devastated them. What was this I was feeling? Was I feeling…could it be…is this guilt?

It wasn’t, I just needed a massive shit, I told myself.

As I got back to my house, I smiled as my allotment unfolded before me. It was quite handy having a fold able allotment. You could store it away and take it with you when you went on holiday. I let myself in the house, as the glass in the front door had been smashed…how strange. Luckily I had kept a jagged piece of cardboard that I knew would come in handy one day. I set about patching it up. I then realised that I should maybe stick the cardboard to the broken glass and secure it with gaffer tape, instead of trying to fix it with a needle and thread and oddments of material.

It was then I noticed it. A letter. It lay there on the mat daring me to open it. To be fair it wasn’t a massive dare to open an envelope, so I didn’t think much further about it. I tore it open to find it was a letter from Sandra Growbag. Oh Growbag! Another victim of the Clarence love-bug. I could hardly blame her, but she became such a pest. Following me home, watching me through the window, vigorously masturbating countless times in front of me. What was it she wanted now.

My eyes darted across her scrawlings:

Dear, Darling Clarence

Clarence, I cannot bear it any longer. I’ve tried playing it cool, following the rules, but it gets me nowhere. While I stay away, that darned Bilton gets closer to you. To be honest Clarence, I really don’t know what you see in her. Why would a man of taste, like you, be attracted to a woman with huge breasts, am enviable figure, a rich father, a beautiful face and a sweet disposition? Why can’t you see that she’s bAD for you, and yes, it might seem like these are positive things, but I need you to see the merits of a woman who is largely cuboid in physique, is pathological in her passion for you, gets crazy, paranoid thoughts when things don’t go her way, and can’t problem solve in any adaptive way. Oh, I see the way you look at her, like a hungry dog looks at the finish line. It makes me feel sick. She possesses some hold over you that I desire to replicate, but no not how. Until now.

It all makes sense to me. I need to be number one. The only way to become number one is at a Hot Body Show and that is where I am destined to right now. I am single minded in my determination to possess your affections and I believe by triumphing in this pageant, this will secure my place in your heart.

Do not try to stop me. Well do. If you like. You can also try and kiss me and put your hand up my top while you’re there.

Yours, unerringly

Sandra Growbag


My mental furniture had experienced an earthquake. All my psychological objects had been rattled and I took 5 hours to work out what this meant. Sandra had fallen so foul of my charms, she was entering a Hot Body Show to win me away from Eileen. Hot Body Show. That sounds fun. But wait! Alarm bells were ringing. It was the phone, it had been pushed off the hook and was making that dreadful sound. Hot Body Show. That sounded familiar. Who had mentioned that before and why was I getting a bad feeling about this.

Oh god. It was Teresa who had mentioned it. She had been enslaved as part of one and now Sandra was going, like a lamb to the toolbox. All because I’m so damned handsome. God, when were people going to stop getting hurt because I’m such a spunk?

By god, I really needed a shit now.

Adam Buxton’s BUG Manchester: 28.9.12

Some people like to cry. Some people like to gnash their teeth on the Yorkshire Moors. Other people like to pile into a large music college in a northern town and collectively laugh. I found myself in the latter group yesterday.

I first encountered Adam (Buxton)and Joe (Cornish) when I was in third year at university. It was 1998. I remember being in my bedroom on the odd Friday night (please note, I wasn’t ‘sad’ or ‘friendless’ at being in on a Friday. In those days, the nights to go out, as a student, were week-nights. Weekends were reserved for checked shirt ‘townies’ with thick necks and impenetrable accents and sky high club entrance prices. I was the proud owner of at least three whole friends at uni). I used to tune in to a delightful televisual threesome of Frasier (before it became unbearable high farce), Adam and Joe and TV Offal with Victor Lewis-Smith. They were perfect bedroom companions. They made me laugh, they were good company and they didn’t leave their clothes all over my bedroom floor. I’ve been a fan ever since.

When the opportunity came to see Dr. Buckles at a live show, I jumped at the chance. My husband took a little bit of persuading. He’s *cough* slightly younger than me and isn’t as well acquainted with the A&J show as me, but he said yes and was interested in accompanying me. Probably to ensure that I didn’t do anything stupid.

In the days leading up to BUG, I was quite stricken. As those of you who follow me on Twitter will know, I have been ill for some weeks and was devastated to think that I might not be able to make it. Manchester is some 45 minute drive for me and it’s not a drive suffered well when you’re ill and have phlegmy tendencies. I stayed in bed for days, willing my fragile, weak body better. Thankfully on the day of the gig, my wishes had been granted. The Gods of Comedy were smiling on me.And had patted me benignly on the arse too.

I tottered around the Northern Royal College of Music (or something similar) on skyscraper heels. At first, I felt like I was on some kind of crystal maze style aptitude test and I was in the industrial zone. Only this industrial zone had a faint smell of alcohol, sick and Mancunians. After some particularly taxing reading of signs with our eyes we managed to find the entrance.

On entering the college, I was quickly drowned in a Tsunami of beards and cosy jumpers. I felt like I needed to grab onto their owner’s across-body satchels to stop myself being swept away in the follicular waves. The demographic of Adam’s show was clear. Mostly men, early twenties to early forties, thick glasses, beards, alternative types with shaggy haircuts. As a scouser, I felt totally out of place. We feel naked if we are not very dressed up with hair and make up coiffed and buffed so you can see your face in it. Which is no mean feat. To see your own face in your own make up whist residing in your own body takes some huge physical and existential leaps.

As we entered the auditorium, it was heaving with beards. I feared for my safety. Never has an audience been so beard-heavy since the opening of the ‘Mike’s beard’ arena in 2008. Upon the screen was the greatest and biggest beard of all. ~And it was moving. To a count down.

4 minutes 48 seconds until BEARD!

On screen it showed Adam on his bike, grinning welcomly, biking towards our venue with a camera fixed to his helmet. Even though you knew he wasn’t on his way, this did lend to a sense of excitement seeing him dismount his bike, walk down the corridor and then arrive on stage as the count down finished. It also set the tone for what we were about to see.

Adam bumbled onto the stage to rapturous applause. He explained the format of the show for the uninitiated. Adam shows videos that he has found that he deems to be noteworthy and remarkable, and comments between videos. This was how Adam rather humbly put it, and certainly sells his show short. Adam chose some amazing videos and then would do some stand up based on each video using the mac equivalent of a powerpoint presentation. It’s hard to do a detailed review without ruining it for others, but I’ll do my best.

Using the videos as the framework, Adam used photos and Youtube comments between each to join them together to take you on a journey. He explored themes and topics such as exploiting children and Kate Middleton’s topless pictures and showcased daring and creative directors. One major theme that emerged for me was the divide between those that urge control, decency, (on the internet and beyond) and want to impose rules on a community and those that want to upset, cause chaos or rebel against what is expected of others. For me, the ~Youtube comments represented a microcosm of society. Misunderstandings being immortalised forever (David Bowie: “I’m sorry for what happened to your eye” being a case in point), people wanting to demonstrate superiority over others (“It’s brakecore you fucknose!” over what ‘beat’ a song had or “I know the real symbolism of that ‘Let’s Dance’ video and I’m so tired of everyone else who is so thick they don’t realise it-SIGH”). Those wanting to calm troubled waters, those wanting to impose the rules of society on others and being annoyed when they refuse to comply (grammar/spelling Nazis ahoy).

One thing that came across loud and clear to me, whether it was meant intentionally by Adam, is the ‘thrill of the troll’. We experienced that as an audience. Adam revealed the Youtube comments one by one and the audience gave a chortle of delight when they saw a debate over two Youtube users, one uptight and one more chaotic. It made me reflect upon how/if that manifests in our non-virtual interactions. Those people who seem to delight in being provocative, in pushing your buttons and in being deliberately out-and-out unkind to your face and how we react to that. To be honest, I’ve always felt a bit traumatised by those people. I’ve always felt that I must be ‘deficient’ in some way for them to be so horrible to my face. After Adam’s show, it’s put a whole new perspective on those people. Maybe it’s nothing personal but it’s the thrill of the troll.

It was just under 2 hours long and it was over too soon. I laughed like a drain the whole way through it and there was a woman in front of me who was crying with mirth. It was non-stop wonderful. I could hardly believe it when Adam started to wrap it up. I sat there hoping it was just an interval, but a quick glance at my watch told me that it was over. No interval happens at 11 pm.

We spilled out of the auditorium bubbling with excitement, eagerly chatting and repeating parts of it to our friends trying to relive the moment. Again, we were plunged into a plunge pool of beards. I was desperate to spot Adam as we were on the back row of the auditorium, and it was a big auditorium. I always like to sit quite close to the front at a comedy gig, as being so far away seems almost like you are watching them on a video or TV. There’s something about being in a ‘realish’ situation with the person who is performing.

My patience paid off, (as well as my ‘not-listening to my friends and looking around me as a stalker might’ attitude) as the famous beard breezed past with his bike and helmet. How funny to have a massive audience in the palm of your hand and then quietly just walk past them all. I remember either Richard Herring and/or (memory fails me) Adam talking about the ‘post gig rush’ and how you can be on a high and then go back to a hotel on your own or back to your home and the crushing contrast that can be. This had made me feel more able than I would usually to say hello.

Adam was chatting away merrily to a beard by the bar as I approached and I felt I had missed my chance. My sister told me she was going outside for a smoke and I should just follow her out for a chat instead of hanging around Adam like a crazed groupie. She was embarrassed. So was I. Would saying hello be a welcome intrusion or would it be an irritating diversion? Next thing I know I’m thrusting my hand out at Adam to shake his, despite him being in mid conversation with a beard.

“Loved the show. You were great”

Adam “thank you”

My sister then thrusts her hand out at Adam, prolonging the agony and ecstasy of the meeting.

“I thought you were great. Thank you”

Adam “thanks very much”.

We walk off. Cheeks (face) burning brightly. My mission was complete. I had met the man! I went back to my husband and my friends like a teenage fan girl having stumbled across the dressing room and snuck in.

We decided it was time to move on. There was a pub with our name on it and it was serving until 1 am. as we made our way out, I noticed Adam leaving. He was behind us. He was going out for a smoke. Fucking hell. I could get a photo with him. Our earlier encounter had strengthened my resolve and also the observation he had been chatting to fans ever since he came out. Hell. He might even like it…

me: Adam, would you mind if I had my photo taken with you please? (grinning wildly)

Adam: sure

me: thanks. I wasn’t sure if you were camera shy or camera confident (following Adam out the door)

Adam: that’s fine

My husband then takes an appalling photo of me with Adam. I want it over quickly because I feel sorry for him. I want to release him into the wild, like a hedgehog that got trapped in some plastic can holders.

My sister: can I have my photo taken with you? (to me) ask him if he wants a ‘twin sandwich’

Me: er Adam, would you mind being the meat in a twin sandwich?

Adam: no of course not

me: you were amazing tonight. We just couldn’t stop laughing thanks so much. Bye!

My husband immortalised the twin sandwich on my cameraphone. Whether it was bothersome the encounter to Adam, I’ll never know. If so, I made it mercifully brief. If it had been enjoyable banter, I’m sorry I didn’t hang around longer. I guess I’ll never know. Either way, Adam Buxton made my year.

Louis XIV horoscope corner.


Bonjour mes petits.

It is I, your libidinous leige, Louis. It has been a while since I have graced the pixels of Dr. Angel’s blog-age, the wretched mademoiselle! She say “Louis, I am too busy to write my blog” or “Louis, it’s freaking me out that a dead french king keeps texting me” and “louis I will not watch porn with you”. Ah, she is trop ennuyeux! If she didn’t have such a great ass, I think I wouldn’t talk to her, and really the dead bit, is a minor inconvenience.

So what have I been amusing myself with, mes petits? Well, it is been very boring here in Versailles. I decided that we would play a version of ‘come dine with me’ here at court. There was me, your sun-king, Cardinal Richelieu, Cardinal Mazarin and we invited Charles II of Spain (well, I invite he and his jaw-ha ha ha. Louis makes a little joke here as he is the product of excessive interbreeding and therefore disabled. His family really should have put it about a bit, comme Louis, eh?) and also the Holy Roman Emperor, as he always up for a laugh.

I was pretty sure I could win, being God’s representative on Earth. I was sure that mon dieu would see me right. Well, come dine with me was a disaster, mes petits. Charles II couldn’t keep his chin out of the food. When we found the Holy Roman Emperor’s handcuffs in his bedroom and Mazarin handcuffed me to the bedstead, sadly, the HRE did not find this amusant and ex communicated me from the Catholic Church-AGAIN. He always doing that. I mean, he is okay if we are all laughing at his bon-mots but if court laughs at him, he freakin ex communicates one of us. Last time, he ex communicated Anne of Austria because she accused him of ‘cutting le fromage’ in court. It took her two weeks to get him to change his mind, and it was only after she plied him with beaucoup de jagerbombs. The HRE loves a jagerbomb.

Anyway, mes petits, here is your horoscope.

Juan the Crab

Over the next month you will experience a range of emotions. At times you might feel really happy. Other times, you will know the dark recesses of the human condition. You may feel like this for a short time, or slightly, or considerably longer than that.

At times, you will need to forage for food. This will help you satiate your appetite. Venus rising in Scorpio means that you will not go hungry and you will probably buy some potatoes.

This month, friends will talk to you. But not constantly. There will be times they won’t be talking. Some times you will find yourself talking back. It will be a most unprecedented month.

Ring my horoscope line to hear about what potatoes you will eat this month.