Returning home late last night from Swipe Towers, as is my custom after a Thursday evening cruisng the streets of Rothergavenny for barely-clad illegal immigrants in search of an honestly earned pound, I switched on the TV set in the hope that it might have warmed up sufficiently by 11pm to allow me to watch my favourite show, BBC4's excellent The Mark Steel Lectures. Fortuitously, the wick-powered set was on top form and not only could I make out at a reasonable image but I was also greeted by the heart warming sight of the shapely Esther Rantzen presenting a programme called How to have a good death (I love these comedy nights the Beeb put on... no one can touch them, can they?) This fascinating and deeply moving programme certainly got me thinking. It's a question that our egocentric, materialistic modern culture rarely allows us to step back from our busy workaday lives to contemplate - what on earth possesses a woman in later life to base her hairstyle on one of Elton John's least fetching hairpieces? But the further thought struck me that, in the unlikely event of my own demise, I haven't got 'round to drawing up a last will and testament. Obviously my current financial situation - debt-laden penury brought about by years of extortion over sexually compromising photographs featuring a variety of the higher primates and a greased satsuma - means that my inheritors will be so pissed with me that they'd doubtless throttle me within an inch of my life (...if I wasn't already dead, of course). But then it hit me. What about the blog?? What would happen to my life's work in the event of my being whisked off to the great larded newsreaders orgy in the sky?
It's a scary thought, isn't it? So, in order to prevent my passing going unrecorded by posterity, I thought it prudent to lay down in black and white my final wishes and the apportionment of my estate....
I, Robert Cantibule Bertie Mee Swipe, being of sound body and mind (....I'm just putting what it says in The Dummies Guide to Making a Will - you don't think anyone will check up on this do you?) authorise my estate to be divided in the following manner:
To Brian Damage I leave my priceless (well, I couldn't find a sticker Bri...) collection of Victorian ligerie
(...that's vintage distressed yak's leather, Bri. Well, you would be distressed if you'd had a variety of chemicals poured over you before being left out in the sun and beaten black and blue with a tanning implement....)
To Ceridwen Devi I leave my prized photograph of Tanya Beckett pretending to be the US Treasury Secretary
(I'll try and get her to sign it next time she's in the Cow & Snuffers Ceri - and that's a promise!)
To Tim Footman I leave my badly soiled ticket stub from a recent performance at Garston Bottle Works of legendary tribute band Smiths Indeed. I'm sure with a little tippex and a heck of a lot of nail varnish it could be forged to read Bangkok Bottle Works, should the illustrious quartet ever bring their classy approximation of Manchester's finest to your particular neck of the South East Asian woods...
FredandFreds, I hereby bequeath you my size 8 1982 Barcelona replica shirt.
The blood stains should wash out, but Im not so sure about the sangria...or the castrol GTX.....or the...never mind, probably best if I buy you a new one....
Mike Da Hat, I'm running a little low on the old 'buie/baby oil buck-u-upo mix at present, but trust me- whatever's left when I pop my clogs is yours. (Rowan is in particularly ostentatious mode at the moment as the menopause begins to loom....She's even stopped reading in the middle of me ministering my attentions to her, which is a pretty good sign that she's randy as buggery, believe me. Either that or she's been sacked from The Erotic Review again....)
Hannah: Believe me, I know what it's like living in the shadow of an overbearing, Zionist mother-in-law. The mother of Ma Swipe (The First) was particularly Old Testament on matters sexual and believe me, there are only so many beasts of the field you can slaughter before even an all-over body rub from a well-endowed Jewish princess in a PVC yashmak becomes poor reward for a shagpile soaked in goats effluent (...although the kosher baby oil and babycham was very nice, I have to say...) This hardback copy of Woody Allen's Without Feathers should help:
And remember, if the violent approach doesn't work, you could always read her a few extracts......
The Rock Mother, I leave to you a ticket to last month's Barbican production of John Arden's play Live Like Pigs. You didn't miss anything RM - it's a crap play and there have been much pithier revivals. In fact, it's not really much of a bequest, but hey - what's with the complaining? At least you're still alive!!
Slothblog Jane, there aren't many half-completed lifesize facsimiles of the new Wembley Stadium made from discarded applicators in Rothergavenny, but if you can get it DHL'd down south, the beautiful example I recently purchased in error off ebay and that's currently sitting in a lay-by off the M4 is all yours! (Although, how they ever thought they could pass it off for an inflatable model of
Coronation Street's Helen Flanagan, I do not know....)
The lovely Sonia - weep not for me when I am gone, my child - to soften the blow of my departing, I leave you, in its entirety, my collection of Terry-Thomas sign x-rays.
Sure, it's an awful affliction, but - jeez - if a (wo)man can't enjoy high-fidelity images of joint conditions named after classic English comic character actors, then what's the world coming to??
Last but not least, my old pal Spinny. What do you get the girl who's got everything? Well, judging by those carpet burns, I'd say this wee lassie could do with a specially fortified pair of these:
I know they've certainly saved me a fortune in nylons over the years and they're especially handy for those cold, unswept Railtrack forecourts at major Overground Network termini. Jees, the times I've had with these, a rudely pulped marrow and an accomodating Bermudan asylum seeker disguised as Lotte Lenya in lederhosen....heck, I almost wish I wasn't about to snuff it!
Ah well, remember me kindly when I'm gone and tread lightly because you tread on ....something rather unsavoury I left behind on the forecourt at a major Overground Network terminus, in all probability....
Love on y'all,
p.s. apologies to everyone I left out - there's only so much I can type in my condition.....you will be mentioned in further dispatches, I'm sure......
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises