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A guide to modern living

It was in the 1930s that I first realised I had the gift. It was something of a surprise, especially to my mother when I flew out of her expletive deleted and hit the ceiling. But instead of rebounding off the ceiling like some kind of human squash ball, I kept going and exited through the roof of the hospital. I think the birds were concerned at the sight of an airborne baby. They certainly viewed with me with suspicion. Some years later, I returned to my mother and apologised for leaving without saying goodbye.

In the intervening years, I had made a name for myself in the world of female impersonation. I was very successful. And I liked the smooth silky underwear. Which wasn't strictly necesssary for the role, but was an essential part of my transformation into Jolanda.^[1] I used to get up on stage every night and sing the old favourites. The crowds adored me but I must be honest, I never adored them; the ugly drunken fools. But it was worth it for the ridiculous amount of money I received: £1000 a night. Extra if I went topless.

After being fired from that job for 'excessive enthusiasm', the nuns at my convent took pity on me and one of the younger, prettier ones, took me under her wing. And indeed, her habit. But that's another story. I never liked Jesus, but I didn't say so because I feared getting beaten by one of the gnarly old nuns. They kept special sticks for that very purpose.

I spoke my first words at the age of 3. And those words were: "Sartre is overrated". My companions mostly agreed with my statement and continued drinking. We were on the third bottle at that point. Absinth was mother's milk to us back then. Oh, the visions we enjoyed.

One time, me an Bri were down the rec collecting fag ends when we found a porno mag in the bushes. We were gonna take it, but the bloke didn't let us, so we left him to it.

The early days of bagless coal & its subsequent impact on the economy & associated factors

Of course, the problem with right-hand drive is that you need a right hand. And I'd lost mine three years previously in a freak umbrella incident which I don't like to talk about. I overcame my disability to win the Nobel Peace Prize. I met Kissinger at the ceremony and we had a bit of a laugh.

Cold baked beans isn't much of a meal, but she seemed grateful that I'd made the effort of pulling off the lid and putting them on a plate. We ate in silence, but I felt sure that this was the start of something. And I was right. We were married 20 years later, once her mental illness had subsided.

We had five children.^[2] Two of them were non-freak, so we sold them. We loved our little freaks. Sometimes we would lend them to a circus for a while. They seemed to enjoy the attention and we earned quite a lot of money. Enough to buy a new house, actually.

As the whip came down once more on my bloodied back I begged them to stop. Another flash of white-hot agony and I screamed for an end to it. I'd seen what they did to Jesus and felt sure that I was headed the same way. I didn't mind that so much, as long as I got resurrected.

Drug-crazed hippies screaming in the night

It was the summer of '08 and we were all out at Harvey's as per, when all of a sudden a great thundering roar disturbed our reverie. We rolled into balls like frightened hedgehogs and awaited our fate. Turned out to be some local kids.

So anyway, there we were, stranded, with no hope of rescue. The missionary started praying. We all laughed at him and began collecting wood to make a raft. After an hour or so, we had plenty of wood. It was now just a case of assembling it. Three days later, we had a raft. We sacrificed the missionary to appease the gods and set off for home.

Upon arrival, we discovered that the black death had decimated the population. But looking on the bright side, at least the pub was open. We all piled in and got thoroughly rat-arsed. Happy days.

Peculiar rumbling sounds emanate from my abdomen destroying the peace of the library, but it's not my fault. I only came in for a book on Arthur Rimbaud. So I lie here on the street and wonder what to do next.

Drink probably.

References

^ My Life As Jolanda (1974) by Earl Walpole
^ The Big Book Of Blatant Lies (1999) by Edward Squire, page 124

Fingernail clippings of the rich and famous: a collection

In 1953, I started my unqiue collection of fingernail clippings of the rich and famous. At the time, I was working as a cleaner at the Dorchester Hotel in London and would often find nail clippings in the rooms. I would find out who had occupied the room and put the clippings in a paper bag with the name of the celebrity written on it. My collection swiftly grew to 10,000 examples including virtually every major star you've ever heard of. My first clippings were from Charlton Moses.

1971: the toenail collection begins

I started to realise that some of the nails in my collection were toenail clippings, not fingernail clippings. As you can imagine, I suddenly found myself facing the daunting task of sorting them all out. Well, by 1971 I'd got them all sorted out and moved the toenail clippings into their own section. From then on, I made sure to verify whether the clippings were finger or toe. However, the toenail collection would always come second in my affections to the fingernail collection. Sometimes I wouldn't even collect the toenail clippings; especially not if there were some good fingernail clippings. you are such a shilly goose, and i love you just tha way you are...i love YOUUUU..

How to tell the difference

Fingernails are always softer than toenails and they usually smell nicer. Most fingernail clippings are cleaner than the toenail clippings. So make sure to study the amount of dirt on the clipping, smell it and lightly chew on it to determine hardness. Then bag it up and write the name clearly on the outside of the bag.

Thoughts on whether to sell toenail collection

Obviously, all those toenail clippings are worth a lot of money and I'm a bit strapped for cash at the moment. I would NEVER sell the fingernail collection, but I think I could let the toenail collection go. I've never been too enthusiastic about the toenail clippings anyway.

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[1] My Life As Jolanda (1974) by Earl Walpole

[2] The Big Book Of Blatant Lies (1999) by Edward Squire, page 124

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