That's me

That's me
That's me

Sunday, 16 October 2011


You smell.

Friday, 14 October 2011



Who dusts the Daleks? They're very clean. Is there a designated duster Dalek?

Whatever happened to comedians who wondered about whatever happened to white dogshit?

What are the 39 Steps? Is H one of them?

Who "invented" air quotes?

Do I have too much time on my hands?

That's it.

Monday, 10 October 2011

Roger Quimbly's Rules Of Twitter

RULE 1 -   Stop taking it so seriously, it's only Twitter.

RULE 2 -   Ignore people who write blogs about the 'Rules Of Twitter'.

RULE 3 -   Think for yourself.

RULE 4 -   I think this should have been Rule 3.

RULE 5 -   That would make this Rule 4.

RULE 6 -   No shirts, no shoes.

RULE 7 -   Is made to be broken.

RULE 8 -   Rule of thumb.

RULE 9 -   Rule of Three.

RULE 10 - Rula Lenska.

Happy Tweeting!

Your Pal,


Thursday, 22 September 2011

How Was Everything?

Dinner with Mrs Quimbly is a culinary adventure and sometimes a journey into the unknown. Often both.  Particularly when she cooks.
A visit to a restaurant is an impossibility, of course, but a visit to a pub for a spot of lunch shouldn't be too much of a challenge. Or at least, so you'd think.
Having found an acceptable pub, chosen a table and then moved the prerequisite three times in order to obtain just the right seating, lighting  and correct ambience, but with the lavatories in sight and a clear view of the exit, we ordered our food.
Now, I have to say that the meal, when it eventually arrived, wasn't anything to write home about - although, given a sharp enough object, such as a chisel or a diamond drill, I may have been able to inscribe a message on the hard piece of meat masquerading as a steak that I found on my plate and then pop it in the post. However, being English, I accepted the meal for what it was: another in a long, dreary line of disappointments, and ate it resignedly whilst ignoring the grunting, gnashing, belching and swearing coming from my companion and occassionally wiping splashed gravy from my jacket sleeve, shoulder and the side of my head.
The sound of clattering cutlery died down and the end of the meal was signalled by a loud slurping sound, eventually subsiding into the soft sussuration of the sucking of teeth and the occasional click of dentures upon wood.
The waiter/barman approached. He smiled, opened his mouth and uttered the now seemingly universally-obligatory Transatlantic post-prandial enquiry.
"How was everything?"
I fixed my gaze upon him.
"Well, the Big Bang was quite messy, evolution went well and the Rennaissance was a corker. I'm not so keen on ... oh, you meant the food, didn't you?" I replied in my head.
Something entirely different came out of my mouth, of course.
"Most welcome."
He smiled again to indicate that I had validated his existence with my remark.
And then came the moment that I was dreading.
"And how was everything for you, madam?"
In my mind I calculated the time that it would take for me to reach the exit before the inevitable occurred, but Usain Bolt would have been hard-pressed to have risen from his chair before the onslaught arrived. I merely gripped the edge of the table and waited.
"I'll tell you, dear. The f*****g sausages looked like a set of shrivelled old dosser's c***s, but without the piquant  flavour. The mashed potato had the consistency of some f*****g thing that had spent a week passing through the chef's digestive system before s*****g it onto the f*****g plate and the gravy had the flavour of month-old s***k that he'd stored up in his b******s and w****d all over the plate whilst imagining Margaret Thatcher, naked, f*****g a goat, and mixed up with some f*****g wallpaper paste before p*****g in it.
Also, it was a very small portion."
"Well, you ate it."
"It was better than what I get at home, dear. Now get me the f*****g dessert menu."
We are now barred from that pub.

Sunday, 14 August 2011

The Kemp Town Looting

Last Friday evening, as is our habit, Mrs Quimbly and I strayed from Hove and esconced ourselves in a Kemp Town pub to partake of a quiet drink. I had my usual half-pint of a fine local ale, while Mrs Quimbly refreshed herself with three large bottles of Kopparberg Mixed Fruit Cider, a glass of port, a Bacardi Breezer and several tequila slammers, or, as she calls it, 'the usual'.
Having slaked our respective thirsts and been politely asked to leave and not return, we ambled homeward through the streets of Kemp Town, while Mrs Quimbly sucked on her customary pipe.
This particular evening, being the beginning of the annual Gay Pride weekend, the streets were a little more crowded than usual with young men dressed in colourful shirts and smelling powerfully of L'eau D'Issey Pour Homme.
Not wishing to hear the tiresome and all-too-familiar torrent of near-the-knuckle sexual innuendo and foul language, nor witness the graphic miming of various forms of unsavoury fellatio and back door shenanigans, I steered Mrs Quimbly up a side street, where she was unable to inflict said horrors upon those poor, innocent young fellows.
As we walked I noticed an elderly gentleman standing in a shop doorway, with a walking stick in one hand and a bemused look on his face. At first I thought that I'd caught sight of my own reflection, until I noticed his brown leatherette shopping trolly. I remarked amusingly that, as it was 10.30pm, it was a little late for a man of his age to be shopping and walked on, chuckling.
We had gone no further than a couple of yards when we heard a loud crash. Instinctively, Mrs Quimbly pulled me towards her for protection, but I struggled free, unwilling to be used as a human shield yet again.
As she reached into her bag for a weapon, I scanned the area for hoodies and gangs of feral youths looting the hairdressers, novelty item emporiums and delicatessens of Kemp Town.
In my mind's eye, I saw the headlines: 'HAVE-A-GO HERO QUELLS RIOT', 'QUIMBLY TO THE RESCUE' or, perhaps more realistically, 'LOCAL MAN KILLED IN STREET ATTACK'.
To my surprise, however, the street was deserted, save for a pair of corduroy-clad legs sticking out horizontally from a shop doorway.
I walked back to see the old gentleman prostrate upon the pavement, blood pouring from a cut on his bald head, a broken window next to him and his shopping trolly lying flat beside him. He had clearly fallen with some force and the bemused look upon his face had now changed to pained incomprehension as the blood ran down his face and soaked into his raincoat.
Instinct once again took over and I told him to lie still as I reached into my pocket for my phone and dialled 999 for an ambulance.
Mrs Quimbly's instincts also took over. Seeing a man helpless and bleeding on the ground, she went in to finish him off with a good kicking and steal his wallet.
I pulled her roughly away and told her to go into a nearby pub for something to staunch the bleeding. Looking somewhat abashed, she merely righted his shopping trolley and left muttering obscenities to herself.
As we waited for the ambulance to arrive, I asked the old chap his name and age. For the purposes of privacy I shall call him Lionel, although it was actually Henry. He was 69 and had just been to the Co-op to buy a couple of bottles of something for the week ahead, when he lost his balance and fell.
After another five minutes Mrs Quimbly returned with some paper towels, a pint of Guinness and a young man called Brian who was dressed as a sailor.
"I don't think he should have any alcohol after a blow to the head" I said.
"This is for me, you dozy c***." She replied.
As I turned from her and looked down the road I saw the ambulance approaching.  I flagged it down and after briefly telling them what had happened, I handed Lionel over to the professionals.
As we walked home and Hoveward in the moonlight, we discussed the evening's events.
"I hope he'll be all right".
"He'll be fine" said Mrs Quimbly. "Not a bad evening, all things considered. How about another little drinky?"
I didn't reply, lost as I was in my own thoughts, and we walked on in silence.
The streets were now deserted and the quiet of the the night was broken only by the distant wail of an ambulance siren, the faint and muffled 'chink chink' of glass and the rumble and squeak of the unoiled wheels of a brown leatherette shopping trolley.

A new blog.

I may write a new blog later. This isn't it.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

My New Year's Resolution.

My New Year's Resolution was to blog more. I think I'm doing pretty well so far.

Sunday, 12 June 2011

More bloggery.

This blog isn't going as well as I'd hoped. To be honest, I don't really think that my heart's in it. Or any of my internal organs actually. Particularly my brain.

I'll post it anyway though.
Um .... it's raining today.

Where's the delete button? Is this it?


Tuesday, 5 April 2011


I have no idea what the secret of comedy is. It's a secret. No one will tell me.

Tuesday, 22 March 2011


I'm on Facebook! I don't know why.

That's all.

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Saturday, 22 January 2011

Bad karma.

Whilst watching the popular YouTube video 'Woman falls into fountain at mall while texting and walking' on my phone, I slipped in some dog excrement and slalomed face-first into a lamp post, bouncing off and landing on my arse. Fortunately no-one was on hand to video this moment and in turn post it online causing further hilarity. How ironic.

Thursday, 13 January 2011

Happy New Year!

A very Happy New Year to my readers. It's a little late, I know. Sorry. 

(And Merry Christmas too).