Meanwhile make-believe notes from Nairn's infamous make-believe character (thanks Pookie):
I) When Mr. Boneyard suggested going out on his yacht, I accepted. His name’s Barnard, but having met him, ‘Boneyard’ is more appropriate, and the yacht is a dingy with aspirations of grandeur.
“Fetch me a drink…” I crooned, and as he tottered off below decks, I gazed desperately into the darkness of the harbour, with it’s little boats bumping together.
“Lager or cider?” he barked, as I leapt nimbly into the freezing water, my thoughts only of home.
Sadly, the pink velour tracksuit I had chosen to wear, quickly became waterlogged, dragging me deeper and deeper into the abyss…
II) She couldn’t resist the idea of being perched aboard a yacht, clutching a pina colada, or something equally classy. But being stone cold sober and in a state of shock, words failed the former glamour model, as she climbed aboard the good ship ‘petit pois’. The aperitifs consisted of cans rather than bottles - not a drop of bubbly in sight. There was only one thing for it. If only she hadn’t been wearing a huge pink sponge!
III) “Fetch me a drink, Mr. B…” she crooned, breathing a huge sigh of relief as the ageing car salesman disappeared below decks. What to do? What to do? She looked wildly about her for a means of escape. There were plenty of other boats in the harbour, but most of them even more ridiculous than this so-called yacht she had been invited onto, by that fiend in human shape, Adrian Barnard, or Mr. Boneyard, as she had mentally renamed him.
“Lager or cider?” he bellowed. She rolled her eyes. Just when she had thought things couldn’t get any worse! There wasn’t any point in answering. She had to act now and fast, or her entire evening would be in ruins. And what, she pondered in horror - what if someone were to see her aboard this crate, clutching a can of Strongbow, making inane chit-chat with a man who could barely speak? That was it. Her mind was made up.
Adrian Barnard appeared on deck just in time to see his date disappearing over the edge of his boat and into the harbour.
“Pookie…!” he screamed in alarm.
“Pookie! Don’t worry, I’ll save you…!”
“Fetch me a drink…” I crooned, and as he tottered off below decks, I gazed desperately into the darkness of the harbour, with it’s little boats bumping together.
“Lager or cider?” he barked, as I leapt nimbly into the freezing water, my thoughts only of home.
Sadly, the pink velour tracksuit I had chosen to wear, quickly became waterlogged, dragging me deeper and deeper into the abyss…
II) She couldn’t resist the idea of being perched aboard a yacht, clutching a pina colada, or something equally classy. But being stone cold sober and in a state of shock, words failed the former glamour model, as she climbed aboard the good ship ‘petit pois’. The aperitifs consisted of cans rather than bottles - not a drop of bubbly in sight. There was only one thing for it. If only she hadn’t been wearing a huge pink sponge!
III) “Fetch me a drink, Mr. B…” she crooned, breathing a huge sigh of relief as the ageing car salesman disappeared below decks. What to do? What to do? She looked wildly about her for a means of escape. There were plenty of other boats in the harbour, but most of them even more ridiculous than this so-called yacht she had been invited onto, by that fiend in human shape, Adrian Barnard, or Mr. Boneyard, as she had mentally renamed him.
“Lager or cider?” he bellowed. She rolled her eyes. Just when she had thought things couldn’t get any worse! There wasn’t any point in answering. She had to act now and fast, or her entire evening would be in ruins. And what, she pondered in horror - what if someone were to see her aboard this crate, clutching a can of Strongbow, making inane chit-chat with a man who could barely speak? That was it. Her mind was made up.
Adrian Barnard appeared on deck just in time to see his date disappearing over the edge of his boat and into the harbour.
“Pookie…!” he screamed in alarm.
“Pookie! Don’t worry, I’ll save you…!”
6 comments:
Cant sleep tonight worrying about dear Pookie, please tell me she is OK.
Thanks for your concern, concerned. I have had better evenings, it's true. Having CPR performed upon me by a 2nd hand car salesman was a tad traumatic to say the least! But I made it home relatively unscathed. I wish the same could be said of my lovely pink tracksuit. Ah well, I have another - in 'Sunblush Red' - plum to the likes of you & me!
Oh Pookie Darling i am so glad to
hear your OK i will sleep better
tonight knowing you are fine but sorry about your lovely pink tracksuit as i know you always take great pride in your appearance, hope you are going to ware "The Sunblush Red" [Plum]outfit sometime at The Nairn Book
& Arts swarey.
Toodle Pip Sweetie
I doubt "what a relief" that Pookie will attend 'Little pinkie fes' (Nairn Book & Farts) as Pookie is already a well known artist and is unlikely to want to rub things with the hoi polloi, however, should we see a blushing tracksuit at the event...
Whits a this airtie fairtie aw aboot The Sunblush Red is that nae
a kind a tamata & this Little Pinkie Fes is that for folkies
we awfae wee handies that prefer the mannies before than the quines.
Nairn Book & Farts, ive read a few novels in my time & the misses
maks a grand plate o neeps & cabbage which guarantees me the windy poos dis this qualify masell
for ain entry.
You will ken me ive got the bunnett
on we ma designer dungarees & the
Exchange & Mart under ma oxter.
Aw the best folkies
I couldn't have put it better myself. Unfortunately, said tracksuit has faded horribly in the wash. My half-witted so-called 'personal assistant' (ha!) put it on at 60 degrees! I ask you! Stupid girl cares nothing for the environment - unlike me. So, what shall it be for the broken 'earts festivities? My Live in Lover, Dr Lecter, favours the purple-esque brassiere & accessories, but then he is a man 'of the flesh', so to speak - very little in the way of real class. But that's why I adore him so, the cheeky little fellow, that he is!
Anyway, regarding possible outfits - all suggestions gladly received, even rude ones. (Especially rude ones.) Hasta la Vista babies... Pookie Candelabra, semi-retired glamoure modelle. X
Post a Comment