‘Twas the night before Christmas and right through the town,
All the creatures were slurring and tumbling down,
And I, with my nightcap of Horlicks and booze,
Had just settled down for a nice winter’s snooze
When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
That I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,
And what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But my very own husband with eight tins of cold beer.
The children awoke thanks to Stephen’s daft games,
And he sang as he drank as he called out their names,
Oy Asbo! Oy Subo! Hugh Junior! Viennetta!
Oy Brangie! Oy Junior! I’ve ruined my sweater!
His heart and his bladder were filled with good cheer,
And several bottles of cheap local beer,
A sudden warm feeling came over him so,
He signed us his autograph there in the snow.
He giggled and burped as he reached for his keys,
A difficult task with his pants round his knees,
He took out his dongle – a bit of a worry,
And it shook as he laughed like a bowlful of curry.
Then up on the roof he espied our pet cat,
And he slurred as he shouted ‘What you lookin’ at?’
Then he yelled as he slipped and collapsed in a bin,
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a large gin!’
The Fry Before Christmas
The Wedding Anniversary
(from Mrs Fry's Diary)
Sunday 30th January
Our 16th wedding anniversary. Who would have thought? Apparently, 16 is Tupperware. According to Stephen, at any rate. I feel so silly now, buying him that diamond-encrusted gold signet ring and chain set. Still, he didn’t seem to object. Luckily, Stephen’s karaoke injury compensation came through just in time, so we’re off to a show and a slap-up meal tonight. I can’t wait. I can’t remember when we last went out together, just the two of us. The last time must have been our honeymoon. Of course, strictly speaking, that wasn’t just the two of us. Although it was nice of the bouncers to let us take the pram into the casino.
Amazingly, we’ve found someone to take care of all our kids tonight. Social Services won’t normally take more than two at a time. Stephen’s dressed up to the nines in his best Hawaiian shirt and leather trousers and I’ve had my hat specially reupholstered for the occasion. I’ll tell you all about it, Dear Diary, when we get back . . .
Goodness, what a night! What a show! Such timing. Such precision. Such incredible grace. I have to say, when it comes to thoroughly spectacular cultural entertainment, it doesn’t get any better than Monster Trucks on Ice. Such a shame Stephen got over-excited and the manager of the arena had to ask him to leave. Of course, Stephen being Stephen, he wouldn’t go quietly. He swore, he emptied his bucket of buffalo wings over row J and finally gave the manager the finger. His giant foam one.
Still, he calmed down once we got to the restaurant. After his first four lagers, anyway. Mrs Biggins recommended it to me. She and her Chris have been to the Rings of Fire curry house several times. It’s a fantasy-theme restaurant where all the waiters dress up in costumes. The smaller ones are hobbits and the rest are wizards and orcs. We had a hobbit, although I must say there was no discernable difference in the quality of service. All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. We had a wonderful time. In the end Stephen and I went for the C.S Lewis Special set meal. Its like the regular set meal, only naanier.
Bohemian Spam for Tea
with thanks and apologies to Mr Mercury
Am I his real wife?
Is this just fantasy?
I’ve bought up the large size,
No escaping there’s Spam for tea.
Open your eyes,
Look at Stephen Fry and see
He’s not a poor boy,
He needs no sympathy
Because he’s easy come, easyjet,
Littlewoods, little bet
When he’s cleaning windows,
Nothing really matters to Steve
To Steve . . .
Stephen,
Just gone to shop,
Put my coin into the slot,
Took my trolley, off I trot
Stephen,
I have almost done,
(Better leave before my husband hits the roof . . )
Stephen,
Oo-oo-oo . . any way the wheels go . . .
Didn’t mean to make you wait,
If I’m not back by ten, just watch a movie . .
Carry On, Carry On . . . Doctor, Nurse or Up the Khyber
Midnight,
That time has come.
Got jelly down my thigh,
Strawberry mivvi in my eye
Lie back, think of England, this can’t go on
Gotta leek in my behind that faces south
Stephen . .
(Ooh ooh-ooh - did we close the windows?)
You used to be so shy
I sometimes wish you’d never watched porn at all . . .
(poncey electric guitar solo)
I see a little pink stiletto in the van,
Sharon Hughes, Sharon Hughes, did you do the hand tango?
Underpants and night things really quite enlightening me
Gallivanting, gallivanting,
Gallivanting, puff’n’panting,
Gallivanting, there she blows
Fellatio-oh-oh-oh
I’m just a poor wife,
Nobody loves me.
She’s just a poor wife from a poor family
Spare her some time and a nice cup of tea
He’s an ape. He’s a beast. Should’ve been a priest . . .
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Still waiting for my tea!
Let me see!
I‘m going down the pub!
Watch TV!
Then maybe to a club!
Oh please don’t go oh-oh-oh!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Sitting here, with a beer and Mamma Mia video!
He’s down the pub and there’s devilled eggs and Spam
For tea
For tea
For tea . . !
So you think you can treat me like some kind of slave?
And I don’t mean the times when we just misbehave!
Oh Stephen!
Just want something more even!
(Just gonna drink stout. Looks like we’re all right out of beer . . .)
(twiddly instrumental break)
Ooh yeah, ooh yeah . . .
Nothing really matters,
Easy to believe
Nothing really matters
‘cept beer and birds and ladders
To Steve . . .
When he’s cleaning windows . . .
(Dong!)
Mrs Fry's Indispensable Guide to Twitter
Hello again, dears. So many people have come up to me in the street recently, asking, Edna, what is this Twitter malarkey that you're queen of ? So, in order to answer them and any newcomers to the Wonderful World of Twitter, I've written a brief but indispensable guide. If you also know someone in need of my very own particular brand of wisdom, send them along. There's plenty of tea for everyone. x
1 What Is Twitter?
Twitter is a social networking or mini-blogging site. It is named after the great novelist T.W.Itter (not be mistaken for T.W.Athead or T.Winnedwiththegermantownofdusseldorf), author of the classic whodunnit 'The Vicar Crack'd', in which the murder is committed by all 140 characters.
2 OK. I'm on Twitter. What now? I feel a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.
Don't worry. When you first join, Twitterworld can seem a very daunting place, a bit like that forest in the Wizard of Oz or a Take That concert. In fact Twitter is a veritable Narnia filled with a cornucopia of fascinating and unlikely mythical characters such as Horny Kitty, Barack Obama and Lily Allen.
3 Who are these followers? Why don't I have many?
Don't panic. The number of followers, or stalkers as I prefer to call them, you have is only an indication of your popularity. For example, Britney Spears has over two million whereas Josef Fritzl not so many. If you have very few followers the chances are that it's only because you're a bit dull.
4 What do these strange words mean? ROFLMAO and LOL?
Twitter has its own special language. To translate it you can either seek out an ancient artefact known as the Rosetta email, or simply read on . . .
LOL - an acronym standing for Leaning On Lamp-post, meaning the writer is either George Formby or Marlene Dietrich. Probably best to find out which before engaging them in a conversation about ukeleles.
OMG - Ogling Mike Gatting, meaning the writer is either a cricket fan or gets turned on by plump, bearded men in woollen jumpers.
PMSL - Pleasuring My Self Lightly, meaning the writer finds your message particularly interesting.
LMAO - Let My Auntie Out - a very specific, urgent message.
ROFLMAO - Room's On Fire. Let My Auntie Out - an even more specific and urgent message.
5 How Do I Know Who is Real and Who is Fake?
That's easy. In actual fact, there are only five real people on Twitter. These are me, of course, my lazy good-for-nothing husband (although very little of what he writes is real), Ashton Kutcher, Horny Kitty and someone else who writes all the other tweets, believed to be broadcaster and naturalist David Attenborough. If you're still unsure, you can also look for the 'Verified Account' sign on people's profiles, although the 'o' may be missing from Mr Kutcher's.
6 What Are Twitpics?
Twitpics are the electronic equivalent of a long Sunday afternoon with your grandmother, being forced to look through voluminous, dusty photograph albums at pictures of people you've never met or have the slightest interest in, and feeling obliged to make positive comments about young faces only social services could love while slowly chewing your way through an enormous portion of long out of date ginger cake.
7 So What Are Retweets?
Retweets are a little like Columbo. Entertaining and amusing at first, but very quickly becoming irritating as you realise it's just the same thing over and over again.
8 Why Has a Huge Whale Appeared on My Screen?
This is the special Twitter warning screen. It's shown exclusively to users who have exceeded their monthly time limit on Twitter and as a result of such inactivity are in imminent danger of becoming morbidly obese.
9 So What Should I Do Now?
Run. Run away. While you still can. It's too late for me. Save yourself! Go!
Twitter - a Michael Jackson twibute
Many people have asked me when Stephen's legendary, and some might even go so far as to say imaginary, performance at Glastonbury will be available to purchase on DVD. Sadly, due to an excess of mud and class C drugs in the sound equipment and sound equipment operator, I'm afraid to say the only record of Stephen's awe-inspiring tribute to Michael Jackson is the following transcript. However, a studio recorded single will be released at the end of the month, with all proceeds going to the Michael Jackson Give a Child a Bed Foundation. Until then, here are the lyrics from Stephen's unforgettable performance:
Twitter (a Michael Jackson twibute)
(funky intro as Stephen moonwalks onstage. Then offstage. Then finally, with the assistance of two roadies, back onstage again . .)
It's close to midnight and somehow you've crawled in late from the bars,
You check your laptop to see if you can find some topless stars,
You start to yawn, but Twitter takes the sound before you make it.
You start to tweet, and suddenly your willpower has died . .
. . . You're Stephen Fried !
'Cause this is Twitter, Twitter night,
And no-one's gonna stop you from the tweets you're gonna write.
You know it's Twitter, Twitter night,
You're fighting for your life against that Twitter critter tonight . . .
Ash Kutcher calls and his Demi enthralls in their mass charade,
There's no retweeting their god awful meeting this time,
They have a whale of a time . . .
(ba-bada-bum)
You read the porn spam, and suddenly you can't believe your luck,
They seem such nice girls, that Horny Kitty chick and Britney F****d.
You close your eyes, and hope that this is something like flirtation,
But all too soon, they hear your moaning out there in the streets,
You're out of tweets!
'Cause this is Twitter, Twitter night,
You're only on to tweet but found that Michael Jackson's died.
Yes, this is Twitter, Twitter night,
He's fighting for his life inside a bitter Twitter, baby-sitter, Gary Glitter tonight . . .
(Stephen does his best Vincent Price voice . . .)
Darkness falls across the screen,
Your battery light is flashing green,
You crawl around in search of leads
To satisfy your twitter needs.
And whosoever shall be nerds,
Use acronyms instead of words.
Must stand and face the hounds of hell,
WOOFLMAO and LOL!
The foulest stench, your laundry box,
The funk of forty thousand socks
While pizza boxes seal your doom,
And clutter up your living room . .
And though you try to go to bed
Your finger starts to jitter,
'Cause no mere mortal can resist . .
The evil of the Twitter!
Mwuhahahahahahahahahahahahaha . . . . . .
Edna Fry: The Woman Beneath the Hat - Chapter One
Reader, I married him. But it hasn't always been so bad . . .
A long time ago, in a village far, far away . . . a small wicker basket sat plump and alone on a cold, damp limestone step, snuggled against the heavy oak door of a small country residence of debatable aspect. A banshee wind howled its mournful song through the desolate night hills and pellets of rain smudged the spidery script on a single, sodden scrap of paper - 'Please take good care of this poor wee mite for in truth I fear I cannot.'
Our grocer had a strange sense of humour.
Life all those years ago was altogether more simple and innocent than now. We knew nothing of such modern advancements as the i-pod, twitter and crystal meth. Aside from occasional, organised speed-dancing events, during which 140 character flirtations were exchanged with unsuitable gentlemen from the neighbouring villages whilst engaging in endless quadrilles, there was little to occupy a young lady of marriageable demeanor, save for tapestry, flower-pressing and rigorous bouts of self-gratification.
Times were hard. My mother, the novelist Mary Naughtie - author of 'The Illustrated Calmer Suitor - for adventurous but polite gentlefolk' found herself suffering from an extreme form of female writer's blockage and despite his best endeavours, our poor dear father, inventor and entrepreneur, Joshua Kiddie was unable to find a manufacturer for his revolutionary Spinning Nanny. Our parents, therefore, found providing for their twenty-six offspring excessively burdensome. In order to alleviate this burden, they would regularly host their famous Murder Mystery Weekends at the house and by the spring of my nineteenth year only me, my three sisters and brother remained.
My surviving siblings and I rapidly reached the conclusion that it would be in our best interests to either marry or find some form of gainful employment. Being, apart from myself, generally regarded throughout the county as visually repulsive we were severely limited in our choice. We were, however, a musical family - our father played the comb and paper and our great aunt was a harpsichord - and so it was that we found ourselves forming an ensemble, with Emily on vocals, Charlotte, percussion, Branwell ,the mantelpiece, myself the violin and Sharon miming and trying to look pretty.
The Naughtie-Kiddie Fiddlers proved an instant success, winning prize after prize in music festivals throughout the land. Following our Eurovision success with 'Boom-bang-a-tiddly-diddly-i-tie on a string', we were inundated with countless sponsorship deals, all of which, for some reason, were reliant on a change of band name. These potential sponsors were almost exclusively beer manufacturers. We toyed with renaming ourselves the Double Diamonds, the Budweisers and the Old Peculiers before settling, finally, on the Coors. Within days we signed to a major record label and before very long, you couldn't walk into a regency period theme pub without hearing one of our many ludicrously catchy tunes blaring out from the jukebox.
It was at this time, however, that the cracks began to appear in our happy group and jealousy reared its unsightly visage. No longer happy to be upstaged by their younger, prettier and more talented sister, the rest of the band relegated me to the back of the stage where, at the end of a particularly gruelling tour, I fell asleep, leaving my older sister Sharon to mime her violin solo in silence to a stunned audience of Latvian steelworkers. . .
As the tabloids of the day reported, I was forced to leave in an acrimonious split. I sought representation from 24 hour legal firm 'So-U-Claim' and after a tortuous six month high court battle was left with just the band's instruments, a castle in county Tipperary and ownership of the Beatles' back catalogue.
And so, with a heavy heart and a heavier piano, I bade farewell to the Coors and set off to seek fame and fortune alone . . .
‘Twas the night before Christmas and right through the town,
All the creatures were slurring and tumbling down,
And I, with my nightcap of Horlicks and booze,
Had just settled down for a nice winter’s snooze
When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
That I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,
And what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But my very own husband with eight tins of cold beer.
The children awoke thanks to Stephen’s daft games,
And he sang as he drank as he called out their names,
Oy Asbo! Oy Subo! Hugh Junior! Viennetta!
Oy Brangie! Oy Junior! I’ve ruined my sweater!
His heart and his bladder were filled with good cheer,
And several bottles of cheap local beer,
A sudden warm feeling came over him so,
He signed us his autograph there in the snow.
He giggled and burped as he reached for his keys,
A difficult task with his pants round his knees,
He took out his dongle – a bit of a worry,
And it shook as he laughed like a bowlful of curry.
Then up on the roof he espied our pet cat,
And he slurred as he shouted ‘What you lookin’ at?’
Then he yelled as he slipped and collapsed in a bin,
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a large gin!’
APRIL FOOL, DEARS!
more The Wedding Anniversary
(from Mrs Fry's Diary)
Sunday 30th January
Our 16th wedding anniversary. Who would have thought? Apparently, 16 is Tupperware. According to Stephen, at any rate. I feel so silly now, buying him that diamond-encrusted gold signet ring and chain set. Still, he didn’t seem to object. Luckily, Stephen’s karaoke injury compensation came through just in time, so we’re off to a show and a slap-up meal tonight. I can’t wait. I can’t remember when we last went out together, just the two of us. The last time must have been our honeymoon. Of course, strictly speaking, that wasn’t just the two of us. Although it was nice of the bouncers to let us take the pram into the casino.
Amazingly, we’ve found someone to take care of all our kids tonight. Social Services won’t normally take more than two at a time. Stephen’s dressed up to the nines in his best Hawaiian shirt and leather trousers and I’ve had my hat specially reupholstered for the occasion. I’ll tell you all about it, Dear Diary, when we get back . . .
Goodness, what a night! What a show! Such timing. Such precision. Such incredible grace. I have to say, when it comes to thoroughly spectacular cultural entertainment, it doesn’t get any better than Monster Trucks on Ice. Such a shame Stephen got over-excited and the manager of the arena had to ask him to leave. Of course, Stephen being Stephen, he wouldn’t go quietly. He swore, he emptied his bucket of buffalo wings over row J and finally gave the manager the finger. His giant foam one.
Still, he calmed down once we got to the restaurant. After his first four lagers, anyway. Mrs Biggins recommended it to me. She and her Chris have been to the Rings of Fire curry house several times. It’s a fantasy-theme restaurant where all the waiters dress up in costumes. The smaller ones are hobbits and the rest are wizards and orcs. We had a hobbit, although I must say there was no discernable difference in the quality of service. All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. We had a wonderful time. In the end Stephen and I went for the C.S Lewis Special set meal. Its like the regular set meal, only naanier.
with thanks and apologies to Mr Mercury
Am I his real wife?
Is this just fantasy?
I’ve bought up the large size,
No escaping there’s Spam for tea.
Open your eyes,
Look at Stephen Fry and see
He’s not a poor boy,
He needs no sympathy
Because he’s easy come, easyjet,
Littlewoods, little bet
When he’s cleaning windows,
Nothing really matters to Steve
To Steve . . .
Stephen,
Just gone to shop,
Put my coin into the slot,
Took my trolley, off I trot
Stephen,
I have almost done,
(Better leave before my husband hits the roof . . )
Stephen,
Oo-oo-oo . . any way the wheels go . . .
Didn’t mean to make you wait,
If I’m not back by ten, just watch a movie . .
Carry On, Carry On . . . Doctor, Nurse or Up the Khyber
Midnight,
That time has come.
Got jelly down my thigh,
Strawberry mivvi in my eye
Lie back, think of England, this can’t go on
Gotta leek in my behind that faces south
Stephen . .
(Ooh ooh-ooh - did we close the windows?)
You used to be so shy
I sometimes wish you’d never watched porn at all . . .
(poncey electric guitar solo)
I see a little pink stiletto in the van,
Sharon Hughes, Sharon Hughes, did you do the hand tango?
Underpants and night things really quite enlightening me
Gallivanting, gallivanting,
Gallivanting, puff’n’panting,
Gallivanting, there she blows
Fellatio-oh-oh-oh
I’m just a poor wife,
Nobody loves me.
She’s just a poor wife from a poor family
Spare her some time and a nice cup of tea
He’s an ape. He’s a beast. Should’ve been a priest . . .
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Still waiting for my tea!
Let me see!
I‘m going down the pub!
Watch TV!
Then maybe to a club!
Oh please don’t go oh-oh-oh!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Sitting here, with a beer and Mamma Mia video!
He’s down the pub and there’s devilled eggs and Spam
For tea
For tea
For tea . . !
So you think you can treat me like some kind of slave?
And I don’t mean the times when we just misbehave!
Oh Stephen!
Just want something more even!
(Just gonna drink stout. Looks like we’re all right out of beer . . .)
(twiddly instrumental break)
Ooh yeah, ooh yeah . . .
Nothing really matters,
Easy to believe
Nothing really matters
‘cept beer and birds and ladders
To Steve . . .
When he’s cleaning windows . . .
(Dong!)
Hello again, dears. So many people have come up to me in the street recently, asking, Edna, what is this Twitter malarkey that you're queen of ? So, in order to answer them and any newcomers to the Wonderful World of Twitter, I've written a brief but indispensable guide. If you also know someone in need of my very own particular brand of wisdom, send them along. There's plenty of tea for everyone. x
1 What Is Twitter?
Twitter is a social networking or mini-blogging site. It is named after the great novelist T.W.Itter (not be mistaken for T.W.Athead or T.Winnedwiththegermantownofdusseldorf), author of the classic whodunnit 'The Vicar Crack'd', in which the murder is committed by all 140 characters.
2 OK. I'm on Twitter. What now? I feel a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.
Don't worry. When you first join, Twitterworld can seem a very daunting place, a bit like that forest in the Wizard of Oz or a Take That concert. In fact Twitter is a veritable Narnia filled with a cornucopia of fascinating and unlikely mythical characters such as Horny Kitty, Barack Obama and Lily Allen.
3 Who are these followers? Why don't I have many?
Don't panic. The number of followers, or stalkers as I prefer to call them, you have is only an indication of your popularity. For example, Britney Spears has over two million whereas Josef Fritzl not so many. If you have very few followers the chances are that it's only because you're a bit dull.
4 What do these strange words mean? ROFLMAO and LOL?
Twitter has its own special language. To translate it you can either seek out an ancient artefact known as the Rosetta email, or simply read on . . .
LOL - an acronym standing for Leaning On Lamp-post, meaning the writer is either George Formby or Marlene Dietrich. Probably best to find out which before engaging them in a conversation about ukeleles.
OMG - Ogling Mike Gatting, meaning the writer is either a cricket fan or gets turned on by plump, bearded men in woollen jumpers.
PMSL - Pleasuring My Self Lightly, meaning the writer finds your message particularly interesting.
LMAO - Let My Auntie Out - a very specific, urgent message.
ROFLMAO - Room's On Fire. Let My Auntie Out - an even more specific and urgent message.
5 How Do I Know Who is Real and Who is Fake?
That's easy. In actual fact, there are only five real people on Twitter. These are me, of course, my lazy good-for-nothing husband (although very little of what he writes is real), Ashton Kutcher, Horny Kitty and someone else who writes all the other tweets, believed to be broadcaster and naturalist David Attenborough. If you're still unsure, you can also look for the 'Verified Account' sign on people's profiles, although the 'o' may be missing from Mr Kutcher's.
6 What Are Twitpics?
Twitpics are the electronic equivalent of a long Sunday afternoon with your grandmother, being forced to look through voluminous, dusty photograph albums at pictures of people you've never met or have the slightest interest in, and feeling obliged to make positive comments about young faces only social services could love while slowly chewing your way through an enormous portion of long out of date ginger cake.
7 So What Are Retweets?
Retweets are a little like Columbo. Entertaining and amusing at first, but very quickly becoming irritating as you realise it's just the same thing over and over again.
8 Why Has a Huge Whale Appeared on My Screen?
This is the special Twitter warning screen. It's shown exclusively to users who have exceeded their monthly time limit on Twitter and as a result of such inactivity are in imminent danger of becoming morbidly obese.
9 So What Should I Do Now?
Run. Run away. While you still can. It's too late for me. Save yourself! Go!
Many people have asked me when Stephen's legendary, and some might even go so far as to say imaginary, performance at Glastonbury will be available to purchase on DVD. Sadly, due to an excess of mud and class C drugs in the sound equipment and sound equipment operator, I'm afraid to say the only record of Stephen's awe-inspiring tribute to Michael Jackson is the following transcript. However, a studio recorded single will be released at the end of the month, with all proceeds going to the Michael Jackson Give a Child a Bed Foundation. Until then, here are the lyrics from Stephen's unforgettable performance:
Twitter (a Michael Jackson twibute)
(funky intro as Stephen moonwalks onstage. Then offstage. Then finally, with the assistance of two roadies, back onstage again . .)
It's close to midnight and somehow you've crawled in late from the bars,
You check your laptop to see if you can find some topless stars,
You start to yawn, but Twitter takes the sound before you make it.
You start to tweet, and suddenly your willpower has died . .
. . . You're Stephen Fried !
'Cause this is Twitter, Twitter night,
And no-one's gonna stop you from the tweets you're gonna write.
You know it's Twitter, Twitter night,
You're fighting for your life against that Twitter critter tonight . . .
Ash Kutcher calls and his Demi enthralls in their mass charade,
There's no retweeting their god awful meeting this time,
They have a whale of a time . . .
(ba-bada-bum)
You read the porn spam, and suddenly you can't believe your luck,
They seem such nice girls, that Horny Kitty chick and Britney F****d.
You close your eyes, and hope that this is something like flirtation,
But all too soon, they hear your moaning out there in the streets,
You're out of tweets!
'Cause this is Twitter, Twitter night,
You're only on to tweet but found that Michael Jackson's died.
Yes, this is Twitter, Twitter night,
He's fighting for his life inside a bitter Twitter, baby-sitter, Gary Glitter tonight . . .
(Stephen does his best Vincent Price voice . . .)
Darkness falls across the screen,
Your battery light is flashing green,
You crawl around in search of leads
To satisfy your twitter needs.
And whosoever shall be nerds,
Use acronyms instead of words.
Must stand and face the hounds of hell,
WOOFLMAO and LOL!
The foulest stench, your laundry box,
The funk of forty thousand socks
While pizza boxes seal your doom,
And clutter up your living room . .
And though you try to go to bed
Your finger starts to jitter,
'Cause no mere mortal can resist . .
The evil of the Twitter!
Mwuhahahahahahahahahahahahaha . . . . . . more
Reader, I married him. But it hasn't always been so bad . . .
A long time ago, in a village far, far away . . . a small wicker basket sat plump and alone on a cold, damp limestone step, snuggled against the heavy oak door of a small country residence of debatable aspect. A banshee wind howled its mournful song through the desolate night hills and pellets of rain smudged the spidery script on a single, sodden scrap of paper - 'Please take good care of this poor wee mite for in truth I fear I cannot.'
Our grocer had a strange sense of humour.
Life all those years ago was altogether more simple and innocent than now. We knew nothing of such modern advancements as the i-pod, twitter and crystal meth. Aside from occasional, organised speed-dancing events, during which 140 character flirtations were exchanged with unsuitable gentlemen from the neighbouring villages whilst engaging in endless quadrilles, there was little to occupy a young lady of marriageable demeanor, save for tapestry, flower-pressing and rigorous bouts of self-gratification.
Times were hard. My mother, the novelist Mary Naughtie - author of 'The Illustrated Calmer Suitor - for adventurous but polite gentlefolk' found herself suffering from an extreme form of female writer's blockage and despite his best endeavours, our poor dear father, inventor and entrepreneur, Joshua Kiddie was unable to find a manufacturer for his revolutionary Spinning Nanny. Our parents, therefore, found providing for their twenty-six offspring excessively burdensome. In order to alleviate this burden, they would regularly host their famous Murder Mystery Weekends at the house and by the spring of my nineteenth year only me, my three sisters and brother remained.
My surviving siblings and I rapidly reached the conclusion that it would be in our best interests to either marry or find some form of gainful employment. Being, apart from myself, generally regarded throughout the county as visually repulsive we were severely limited in our choice. We were, however, a musical family - our father played the comb and paper and our great aunt was a harpsichord - and so it was that we found ourselves forming an ensemble, with Emily on vocals, Charlotte, percussion, Branwell ,the mantelpiece, myself the violin and Sharon miming and trying to look pretty.
The Naughtie-Kiddie Fiddlers proved an instant success, winning prize after prize in music festivals throughout the land. Following our Eurovision success with 'Boom-bang-a-tiddly-diddly-i-tie on a string', we were inundated with countless sponsorship deals, all of which, for some reason, were reliant on a change of band name. These potential sponsors were almost exclusively beer manufacturers. We toyed with renaming ourselves the Double Diamonds, the Budweisers and the Old Peculiers before settling, finally, on the Coors. Within days we signed to a major record label and before very long, you couldn't walk into a regency period theme pub without hearing one of our many ludicrously catchy tunes blaring out from the jukebox.
It was at this time, however, that the cracks began to appear in our happy group and jealousy reared its unsightly visage. No longer happy to be upstaged by their younger, prettier and more talented sister, the rest of the band relegated me to the back of the stage where, at the end of a particularly gruelling tour, I fell asleep, leaving my older sister Sharon to mime her violin solo in silence to a stunned audience of Latvian steelworkers. . .
As the tabloids of the day reported, I was forced to leave in an acrimonious split. I sought representation from 24 hour legal firm 'So-U-Claim' and after a tortuous six month high court battle was left with just the band's instruments, a castle in county Tipperary and ownership of the Beatles' back catalogue.
And so, with a heavy heart and a heavier piano, I bade farewell to the Coors and set off to seek fame and fortune alone . . .
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