Blog Update Blog

 It occurs to me that I haven't updated my blog lately, so I'm updating my blog to say that I have no updates to my blog.

Do people even blog anymore? I certainly don't. It's all podcasts, Snapchat and Deliveroo, or so my young friends tell me. 

Well, friend - singular. His name is Maurice. I say 'young'. He's actually 47, but he moisturises. 

He's not actually a friend, strictly speaking. More of an acquaintance. Well, he works for me. 

He's not even an employee, to be entirely accurate. 

I sacked him two years ago for certain pecuniary irregularities. I never liked him. Always struck me as rather odd. Muttered to himself a lot. Wrote in a little book. But he did smell nice.

He kept turning up for work months after being let go, asking for holiday pay and shouting at me about UFOs, devil worshippers, Michael Gove and so on and so forth.

There's a restraining order now. 

I miss Maurice.

I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Ten years. I've been doing this blog for ten years.

What a waste of time.

Roger Quimbly Looks Into...

2018 is the year of the podcast, apparently.
So I'm doing a blog.

All the kids are doing it, bruv. Although I’m not a kid, obviously, otherwise this would all be in textspeak and emojicunts. And I could do that, but I don't want to alienate my non-trendy older readers :) LOL
Now don't get me wrong, I've nothing against modern technology. I think it's marvellous. In fact I'm writing this on a word processor as we speak. It's the very latest Amstrad. Now there's a young man who leads the way. Mr Lord Alan Sugar. Real get up and go. Reminds me of me in many ways. Until I look in the mirror. The man's got a face like a walnut's scrotum. No, wait. That's me. Must start moisturising.

It seems to me that many young people have lost their way and need guidance. The guidance of someone with life experience and the wisdom that comes with years. A mentor or figurehead to look up to. A cool, sensible older brother-type role model if you will. Someone who will let them know that they're understood and not just seen as stereotypes. Someone who isn't the typical narrow-minded adult to let them know that there's more to life than skateboarding, voting Labour and taking heroin.

So here I am, in cyber form (not a robot, it’s a modern computer term for the internetty e-things) to lead the way out of the wilderness of modern life and give some clear-thinking advice .... I seem to have lost my thread. Where was I?
Yes.
Blogging.

I’m going to blog relentlessly on issues of the day and show everyone who's anyone what’s what and who's who, where, why and when, then give you what for.
Each time I’ll be looking at an important issue that affects (not impacts) people’s day to day lives and giving you a hard-hitting and iconoclastic guide to getting out of the morass of muddle-headed nonsense that passes for thinking these days.

So, sign up today!

I hope you’ll join me.


Your pal

Roger Quimbly

Extracts From My Diary

JANUARY 1 1966

Mummy bought me this brand new diary for Christmas. It’s a jolly nice, leather-bound one, and she says that I should write in it with the fountain pen that Grandma Quimbly bought for me on my last birthday (the one that I had to have removed from my nose after the joined-up handwriting accident).

Mummy says I should use this diary to write down all of my adventures and dreams and wishes and things. So I shall. 

Happy New Year!

JANUARY 2

Bored.

JANUARY 3

Bored.

JANUARY 4

BORED BORED BORED!!!!!!

FORTY-SIX YEARS LATER….

NOVEMBER  12 2012

Picked up this old diary. How things have changed. What a lazy child I was.  I clearly had no application as a youngster. No drive. No focus.  I’m going to start keeping this diary again, and if nothing else will show my younger self how it’s done and the kind of thrusting, driven, successful man that I’ve become.

NOVEMBER 13

Bored.

Reflections On Objections To Public Breast Feeding (after Ogden Nash)

Some folks

have an issue

with adipose

tissue. 

Who Reads Blogs?

You do. 

How not to cause offence on Twitter

Follow these simple rules and never offend anyone on Twitter ever again.*

Do NOT make jokes about:

1) People

2) Animals

3) Vegetables

4) Minerals

5) Sex

6) Religion

7) Illness

8) Idiots

9) Grammar

10) Jokes

11) Lists

12) One Direction

13) Anything else.


Happy tweeting!


*Not a legally binding guarantee

Comment Piece: The Life And Death Of Margaret Thatcher.

No comment.

How To Do Facebook

Don't bother.

How To Tweet

Ordinary people often say to me "Mr Quimbly, I like Twitter, but I just don't know the proper etiquette, cor blimey so I don't guvnor. Is there some sort of effing guide, sir?"

I've written this especially for you, if you happen to be one of those people.

Here are some tips to guarantee your tweeting success!


1.  Always preface a RT with a 'LOL!' or a 'ha ha!' so that people know you think it's funny and haven't just retweeted it by mistake, like a half-witted, sausage-fingered clot.

2. Don't be shy about explaining someone's tweet to them. They may have tweeted a joke by mistake and be feeling rather foolish as a result. A reassuring tweet to show them that you understand their intention better than they do themselves is sure to meet with their approval, and guarantees a thank you tweet and an immediate follow. Also, you will be left with a warm fuzzy glow, knowing that you have done a good deed.

3.  A tweet to someone that you don't follow, taking a light-hearted tweet seriously shows that you have no concept of irony and are probably a right laugh in the pub. If you find their tweet offensive, as is your right, feel free to abuse them and form a virtual mob, until they are forced off Twitter. The bastards.

4.  Reply to someone's funny tweet with a funnier tweet of your own. Preferably a variation on the original tweet, which is so close in wording as to be almost indistinguishable. Guaranteed chuckles!

5.  Or why not send a version of a half-remembered old joke that is similar in some way? Lolsville!

6. Rewrite their joke in textspeak and retweet to your followers, 4 xtra LOLs!

7. Don't forget to edit or rewrite their tweet for space, so that you can add your own amusing comment. They won't mind a bit!

8. If they've used someone's real name in their tweet, instead of their @name, why not RT including that person's @name so that they can share the joke too? The original tweeter probably had no idea that person was on Twitter, otherwise why wouldn't they have done it themselves? They will be thrilled with your help.

9.  Steal their tweet verbatim.  They'll never find out. If they do, just say that you found it on Facebook; that there wasn't enough room to include their @name; that someone texted it to you, or that your retweet button is broken. These are all perfectly valid excuses. Then tell them to fuck off and get a life because nobody owns jokes.  Death threats are also currently very popular.

10. If someone tweets something vaguely similar to one of your tweets, accuse them of stealing it. What are the chances that two people have expressed the same thought in 140 characters or less? Almost zero. Remember, on Twitter everyone is guilty until proven innocent. However, none of this applies to Keith Chegwin.

11. Always let someone know when you're unfollowing them. They probably keep a close eye on their follower list and will be glad of the update.  Also,  if possible, give an ungrammatical reason for your unfollow, ie. 'Your not funny', 'your a twat', or similar. This is particularly important if you've had no previous contact with them, and they are totally unaware of your existence.

12. Always complain when people tweet about something that you're not interested in. For example, if someone is tweeting disparagingly about X Factor or a similarly popular television programme - tell them to stop watching if they're not enjoying it! And then go back to tweeting endlessly about football.

13. Be sure to let people know when you've seen too many tweets on the same subject. Tweet about it! It's far more interesting than another variation on a joke that's been done to death.
Alternately, switch off Twitter and go for a nice, calming walk. In the real world.

14. A celebrity death is an ideal opportunity to post an untimely joke in poor taste, or tweet something grossly insensitive in order to show everyone just what an arsehole you are.

15. And don't forget the emoticons. Lots of 'em. Hilarious!

These are just a few tips to get you on the road to Twitter popularity. Good luck and happy tweeting!

Your Pal,

Mr Roger Quimbly

P.S. If you've been affected by any of the issues raised in this blog, please feel free to contact me using my special, private Twitter @name, which is:  @piersmorgan.

2012 Review

It was ok, I suppose. Nothing to write home about.

My last blog.

Hard to believe that my last blog was on the 27th of March. How time flies.

How To Write Comedy

Don't bother.

My First Blog Of 2012.

 This is my first blog of 2012.

SOMEONE SAID A REALLY BAD THING ABOUT YOU IN A BLOG!

You smell.

iWonder

THINGS I HAVE WONDERED ABOUT TODAY:

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.

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,

Roger.

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.

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.

My New Year's Resolution.

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