Kevin Ansbro's Blog, page 5
November 7, 2017
Putting my foot in it
Anyone who really knows me will already be cognisant of the fact that I am prone to the most cringeworthy of social blunders.
In the progression of time, I have injudiciously congratulated rotund women on their pregnancies, I’ve ineptly guessed at ladies’ ages while in their presence, and once asked a chap if he and his daughter holidayed together often, only to be told that the lady was in fact his wife!
Indeed, putting one’s foot in one’s mouth is as natural to me as swimming is to a dolphin.
I am verily the Grand Master of Gaffes, the Maharajah of Misinterpretation, the Sultan of Solecism (you may wish to bow or curtsey at this point).
But, surpassing all others, my worst ever faux pas was THIS one...
(and it is a true story).
We bought our house twenty years ago (from a chap named George) and moved in the same week that my wife's granddad (also a George) died.
The house phone rang one morning. On the other end was an old lady. I didn't know any old ladies, other than my wife’s gran, so I took it to be her.
"Hell-o," I chirped.
"Who's that?" the old lady asked.
"It's Kevin," I breezed.
Her tone was confused: "Kevin?"
"Yes, Kevin. Julie's husband."
"Julie?"
(Oh bless, she's got herself in a right tizzy after losing her husband, thought I).
"Julie, your granddaughter."
"Well, where's my George?" she asked.
(Oh dear, she's evidently so consumed by grief that she's got herself in a complete muddle).
"Um, George isn't with us anymore, is he?" I said as tactfully as I could.
"Isn't with us?" she gasped, becoming yet more befuddled.
So I called upon my best soothing voice. "Yes, George, he’s ... um ... he's dead, remember?”
"DEAD? Ohhhhh ... oh, God, ohhhh ... he's dead?" she quavered, really losing it.
My wife stormed into the room and, putting me in mind of Sybil Fawlty, snatched the phone whilst simultaneously calling me an idiot (a bit uncalled for).
"I'm so sorry for my husband. How may I help you?"
"—Yes, as you know, your son has moved out of his house. We’re the new owners and you've dialled his old number. Fetch a pen and paper and I'll give you his new number..."
I very nearly gave the poor lady a heart attack.
What a twit!
: )
In the progression of time, I have injudiciously congratulated rotund women on their pregnancies, I’ve ineptly guessed at ladies’ ages while in their presence, and once asked a chap if he and his daughter holidayed together often, only to be told that the lady was in fact his wife!
Indeed, putting one’s foot in one’s mouth is as natural to me as swimming is to a dolphin.
I am verily the Grand Master of Gaffes, the Maharajah of Misinterpretation, the Sultan of Solecism (you may wish to bow or curtsey at this point).
But, surpassing all others, my worst ever faux pas was THIS one...
(and it is a true story).
We bought our house twenty years ago (from a chap named George) and moved in the same week that my wife's granddad (also a George) died.
The house phone rang one morning. On the other end was an old lady. I didn't know any old ladies, other than my wife’s gran, so I took it to be her.
"Hell-o," I chirped.
"Who's that?" the old lady asked.
"It's Kevin," I breezed.
Her tone was confused: "Kevin?"
"Yes, Kevin. Julie's husband."
"Julie?"
(Oh bless, she's got herself in a right tizzy after losing her husband, thought I).
"Julie, your granddaughter."
"Well, where's my George?" she asked.
(Oh dear, she's evidently so consumed by grief that she's got herself in a complete muddle).
"Um, George isn't with us anymore, is he?" I said as tactfully as I could.
"Isn't with us?" she gasped, becoming yet more befuddled.
So I called upon my best soothing voice. "Yes, George, he’s ... um ... he's dead, remember?”
"DEAD? Ohhhhh ... oh, God, ohhhh ... he's dead?" she quavered, really losing it.
My wife stormed into the room and, putting me in mind of Sybil Fawlty, snatched the phone whilst simultaneously calling me an idiot (a bit uncalled for).
"I'm so sorry for my husband. How may I help you?"
"—Yes, as you know, your son has moved out of his house. We’re the new owners and you've dialled his old number. Fetch a pen and paper and I'll give you his new number..."
I very nearly gave the poor lady a heart attack.
What a twit!
: )
October 23, 2017
😱TWO-SENTENCE HORROR STORY😱
Goodreads asked Kevin Ansbro:
Can you tell us a two-sentence horror story?
** MILLIE'S BIRTHDAY **
"That was easier than I thought it would be," chirped Millie Brady on the morning of her tenth birthday as she held her step-father's hand and waited for Mother to return home from the supermarket.
The scream that escaped Agnes Brady's throat didn't come at once: the first thing she noticed was a rare smile on her daughter's face; then she caught sight of the axe, the bloodied party dress and, lastly, the wedding ring on her husband's severed hand.
.
October 5, 2017
My author Q & A interview
Such fun to be interviewed by Whispering Stories recently...
http://whisperingstories.com/writing-...
http://whisperingstories.com/writing-...
June 15, 2017
Charles Dickens in twerking shock!
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, twerking predates Miley Cyrus by 150 years.
This of course has come as no surprise to me: I do believe that Charles Dickens first wrote about twerking in A Tale of Two Buttocks, back in 1859...
"I revere the memory of that night. I had imbibed of a vast quantity of ale and, my tolerance for alcohol not being what it once was, started twerking like a mutha-fornicater on the bar counter at 'The Three Cripples' tavern. Forgoing the chains I normally wear in life, I shook that booty until my buttocks were but a diaphanous blur.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
-Charles Dickens
(as told by Kevin Ansbro).
This of course has come as no surprise to me: I do believe that Charles Dickens first wrote about twerking in A Tale of Two Buttocks, back in 1859...
"I revere the memory of that night. I had imbibed of a vast quantity of ale and, my tolerance for alcohol not being what it once was, started twerking like a mutha-fornicater on the bar counter at 'The Three Cripples' tavern. Forgoing the chains I normally wear in life, I shook that booty until my buttocks were but a diaphanous blur.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
-Charles Dickens
(as told by Kevin Ansbro).
November 13, 2016
What would I do if I woke up to find my sex changed to the opposite?
Yeah, what on Earth would I do if I woke up one fine morning to find that I had become a woman overnight?
This question, and more, is answered in Jaideep Khanduja's Q & A session with me on his wonderful website:
https://pebbleinthestillwaters.blogsp...
This question, and more, is answered in Jaideep Khanduja's Q & A session with me on his wonderful website:
https://pebbleinthestillwaters.blogsp...
July 7, 2016
Fiona's Birthday
.
.
Galumphing into the garden, Fiona Bagshaw generated a damp, stormy blur of blonde hair and bingo wings. Wrapped in a large towel and perfumed by shower gel, she stomped onto the patio, causing dahlia petals to scatter like pigeons.
"Where the bloody hell is he?" she muttered to herself before noticing that the shed door was wide open. The singular object of her pursuit, husband Donald, was last seen in the living room, surfing satellite TV channels dressed in a tiger print onesie.
"What on earth are you doing?" she thundered, finding Donald glumly inspecting a paintbrush, whose bristles had solidified into plastic.
"My brush has gone hard," he announced.
"Look, if that's some kind of childish euphemism I'm really not interested."
"I was hoping to paint the garage door this weekend—"
"Well, can't this wait? May I remind you that it is my birthday and that we're supposed to be at Adriano's within the hour!"
"Hey, relax, I'm always dressed and ready before you anyway," he smirked. "Oooh, has someone forgotten to take their little HRT tablets?"
So, Fiona, on her forty-ninth birthday, bellowed like a savage and sent him crashing into a stack of buckets with one violent shove of the garden rake.
"And, just so you know, James and Hayley have already arrived with the kids, so stop pratting about!"
"Babe, can you help me up?" he implored, showcasing puppy dog eyes and a large plant pot that helmeted his head.
"You can piss off."
"Sorry about that," Fiona said in a sing-song voice, apologising to her daughter and son-in-law and their two children, who had watched events unfold from the safe harbour of the conservatory.
"...Ooh, presents! Are they for me?"
***
After blow-drying her hair and squeezing into her favourite party dress - the one she bought especially to see 'Take That' at Wembley - Fiona studied herself in the full-length mirror: Only a small amount of podge and barely a wrinkle - not bad for forty-nine, she thought while smoothing the contours of the dress.
Once downstairs she was pleased to see that Donald had changed out of his onesie and was chatting with the others in the kitchen.
Steadying herself against the tumble drier, Fiona teetered on each leg, in turn, to slip on a pair of heels. From this low vantage point she glared at his Bart Simpson socks but noted that, otherwise, he looked sufficiently presentable.
"You smell nice," she said, sniffing Donald's neck with a cold suspicion that he might not have washed and deodorised himself. She deliberately neglected to mention that a large cobweb was conspicuously draped across his hair like a tatty doily. Judging by the duplicitous smirks on her daughter and son-in-law's faces, she wasn't the only one keeping this anomaly quiet.
Good, serves him bloody right, she thought, kissing her husband squarely on the lips and thanking him for being ready.
"Zip me up at the back would you?" she asked, pointing over her shoulder as if he might need reminding where her back was.
"Gordon Banks is the best goalkeeper in the world!" Five-year-old Connor announced on his return from the bathroom.
"Gordon Banks?" Donald whooped. "Maybe forty-odd years ago! Where on earth did you pluck that name from?"
"From the man in the ceiling."
"What man in what ceiling?" Donald asked, getting on his haunches to smile directly into his grandson's face.
"The man upstairs ... he said that England are playing West Germany in the World Cup Final tomorrow."
"You are hilarious, " Donald chuckled before picking Connor up for a Superman ride.
"Gordon Banks, eh? ... Right, who's ready for pasta and pizza? C'mon birthday girl, let's go."
***
29th July, 2015
~ precisely one year later...
Because today was her fiftieth birthday, and in the absence of an offer to join George Clooney aboard his yacht on Lake Como, Fiona took the afternoon off as annual leave from her job as project manager at Hammersmith and Fulham council. Donald had enigmatically assured her that there would be a 'surprise' waiting for her on her return.
One thing was certain, whatever the surprise, it wasn't likely to bestow bragging rights over Monica Sutton and Tina Hollins. Monica, of course, told everyone and anyone about her swanky fiftieth birthday at some lofty restaurant within The Shard, whereupon Tina crowed interminably about the fancy dinner her husband had arranged for her at Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons.
"Raymond Blanc himself spoke to us in the herb garden, nuh, nuh, nuh," Fiona wittered to herself, impersonating Tina's supercilious tone while waiting for the traffic lights to change.
She pondered the pallid inevitability of her own impending celebration, squeezing the steering wheel as if it might somehow yield juice: Donald, with his customary lack of ingenuity, had booked a table at Adriano's.
"Babe, but you love it there, " he chirped when she suggested a break from the norm, "Leave it to me, I'll book your favourite table for 8 o'clock."
After unlocking the front door and flinging her keys onto the hallway dresser, she immediately became aware that the sum total of his 'surprise' was a bottle of Tesco Prosecco, festooned with a pink bow, and a small CD-shaped parcel which looked as if it might have been wrapped during a rollercoaster ride.
Alarmingly, despite her not expecting there to be anyone else in the house, she heard a series of loud metallic noises emanating from upstairs.
Fiona tentatively placed one foot on the bottom stair and craned her neck to listen to the commotion.
"Donald! Is that you?"
She instinctively grabbed the wooden giraffe figurine brought home from Kenya and held it like a baseball bat before venturing further. When she reached the landing, the hatch to the loft was fully open and a large spanner lay directly beneath. Furthermore, the metallic clangour therein was accompanied by some exuberant whistling from a person as yet unseen.
Perplexed, Fiona couldn't immediately understand why Donald hadn't warned her about work being carried out in the house, and also wondered why there wasn't a tradesman's van in the driveway.
"Hello! Hello-o! It's Mrs Bagshaw ... Can you hear me!" She shouted, crowding her hands around her mouth in the manner of an Alpine yodeller. Then the clanging stopped and a young male voice rang out from above.
"Oh, hello madam. You must be the lady of the house?"
"Yes, I am. What exactly are you doing up there? Clearly my prat of a husband has forgotten to warn me."
"I'm plumbing in a new water tank," he answered, his face partly shadowed.
"Oh? So what was wrong with the old one?"
"Uh, don't rightly know madam ... now you've got me—"
"Did my husband get in contact with you? Was he here earlier?"
"Um, I'm fairly certain he left me a key—"
"Fairly certain? Have you developed some form of amnesia young man?"
Fiona, increasingly concerned at the vagueness of this whole improbable turn of events, stared up at the rafters, hands on hips, hoping for answers. Crouching down, his face appeared in full light. She noticed the man was fresh-faced and handsome and, as he leaned forward, an errant tendril of hair tumbled from his otherwise-slick coiffure.
"Could you please do me a favour madam? Throw me up that spanner would you?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure," she answered, bending to grasp the tool, before hurling it towards his outstretched fingers.
"Cor, great throw missus!" he chuckled, waving it as if it were a flag.
From what she could see of him, Fiona guessed the plumber to be barely into his twenties and for such a young lad he had an old-fashioned way about him, which she instantly found endearing.
"Could I offer you a tea, coffee, soft drink?" she called, watching the heels of his work boots disappear from view.
"Ooh, lovely," he chirped, his broad smile reappearing from the shadows, "tea, please. White, two sugars."
While waiting for the kettle to boil Fiona called Donald's mobile for some clarification, but it went straight to voicemail. Returned to the landing she took a chair from the guest bedroom and stood on it while elevating his mug of tea. Why hasn't he used the loft ladder? Must be one of those daft health and safety rules they have to adhere to.
"Tea's ready!" she yelled, watching a recalcitrant wasp batter itself against the loft's fluorescent light. And why hasn't he switched on the light? How odd.
"Oh, thank you so much, just the ticket," he said, liberating the mug from her grasp with a pincer movement. Fiona was struck by the familiarity of his face, she'd definitely seen him before somewhere.
"I bet your old man is looking forward to the big game tomorrow. I've managed to bag a ticket and I'm so excited."
"Oh, what game is that?"
"England against West Germany, World Cup Final! ...What game, indeed."
"Ha, ha, very funny ... although I'm female I do know that the last time England were in a World Cup Final was the year they won it, in 1966. And I should know, my father died on the way to the game, hit by an ambulance."
"Forgive me, madam ... I don't want to disrespect the memory of your father, but how could he have been run over by an ambulance on the way to a match that hasn't happened yet?"
Exasperated by his game-playing nonsense, Fiona stepped down from the chair, shaking her head. Though initially likeable, the boy's vagueness and his weird sense of humour had become irksome.
"OK, I shall leave you to carry on!" She shouted brusquely.
Then, just as she was about to try Donald's number for the second time, the young man called down to her.
"Thanks for the tea, I'd better crack on as I need to get home early - it's my daughter's first birthday today."
"Oh? It's my birthday today as well!" She countered, her interest rekindled. "What's your daughter's name?"
"Fiona," he replied, disappearing from view.
Fiona was immediately thrown by the stark curiousness of his remark.
"What? ... Wait! What did you just say?"
She positioned the chair under the hatch.
"Hey!! What did you say?" Her voice was urgent now, as she remembered where she'd seen his face before: the black and white framed photograph on her mother's mantelpiece.
Kicking the chair to one side, she snatched a hooked pole from the airing cupboard and scrambled the loft ladder down onto the carpet.
Frantic, she clambered up the rungs.
The fluorescent light was off.
And when she pulled the switch cord,
her father was gone.
*** THE END ***
.
Galumphing into the garden, Fiona Bagshaw generated a damp, stormy blur of blonde hair and bingo wings. Wrapped in a large towel and perfumed by shower gel, she stomped onto the patio, causing dahlia petals to scatter like pigeons.
"Where the bloody hell is he?" she muttered to herself before noticing that the shed door was wide open. The singular object of her pursuit, husband Donald, was last seen in the living room, surfing satellite TV channels dressed in a tiger print onesie.
"What on earth are you doing?" she thundered, finding Donald glumly inspecting a paintbrush, whose bristles had solidified into plastic.
"My brush has gone hard," he announced.
"Look, if that's some kind of childish euphemism I'm really not interested."
"I was hoping to paint the garage door this weekend—"
"Well, can't this wait? May I remind you that it is my birthday and that we're supposed to be at Adriano's within the hour!"
"Hey, relax, I'm always dressed and ready before you anyway," he smirked. "Oooh, has someone forgotten to take their little HRT tablets?"
So, Fiona, on her forty-ninth birthday, bellowed like a savage and sent him crashing into a stack of buckets with one violent shove of the garden rake.
"And, just so you know, James and Hayley have already arrived with the kids, so stop pratting about!"
"Babe, can you help me up?" he implored, showcasing puppy dog eyes and a large plant pot that helmeted his head.
"You can piss off."
"Sorry about that," Fiona said in a sing-song voice, apologising to her daughter and son-in-law and their two children, who had watched events unfold from the safe harbour of the conservatory.
"...Ooh, presents! Are they for me?"
***
After blow-drying her hair and squeezing into her favourite party dress - the one she bought especially to see 'Take That' at Wembley - Fiona studied herself in the full-length mirror: Only a small amount of podge and barely a wrinkle - not bad for forty-nine, she thought while smoothing the contours of the dress.
Once downstairs she was pleased to see that Donald had changed out of his onesie and was chatting with the others in the kitchen.
Steadying herself against the tumble drier, Fiona teetered on each leg, in turn, to slip on a pair of heels. From this low vantage point she glared at his Bart Simpson socks but noted that, otherwise, he looked sufficiently presentable.
"You smell nice," she said, sniffing Donald's neck with a cold suspicion that he might not have washed and deodorised himself. She deliberately neglected to mention that a large cobweb was conspicuously draped across his hair like a tatty doily. Judging by the duplicitous smirks on her daughter and son-in-law's faces, she wasn't the only one keeping this anomaly quiet.
Good, serves him bloody right, she thought, kissing her husband squarely on the lips and thanking him for being ready.
"Zip me up at the back would you?" she asked, pointing over her shoulder as if he might need reminding where her back was.
"Gordon Banks is the best goalkeeper in the world!" Five-year-old Connor announced on his return from the bathroom.
"Gordon Banks?" Donald whooped. "Maybe forty-odd years ago! Where on earth did you pluck that name from?"
"From the man in the ceiling."
"What man in what ceiling?" Donald asked, getting on his haunches to smile directly into his grandson's face.
"The man upstairs ... he said that England are playing West Germany in the World Cup Final tomorrow."
"You are hilarious, " Donald chuckled before picking Connor up for a Superman ride.
"Gordon Banks, eh? ... Right, who's ready for pasta and pizza? C'mon birthday girl, let's go."
***
29th July, 2015
~ precisely one year later...
Because today was her fiftieth birthday, and in the absence of an offer to join George Clooney aboard his yacht on Lake Como, Fiona took the afternoon off as annual leave from her job as project manager at Hammersmith and Fulham council. Donald had enigmatically assured her that there would be a 'surprise' waiting for her on her return.
One thing was certain, whatever the surprise, it wasn't likely to bestow bragging rights over Monica Sutton and Tina Hollins. Monica, of course, told everyone and anyone about her swanky fiftieth birthday at some lofty restaurant within The Shard, whereupon Tina crowed interminably about the fancy dinner her husband had arranged for her at Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons.
"Raymond Blanc himself spoke to us in the herb garden, nuh, nuh, nuh," Fiona wittered to herself, impersonating Tina's supercilious tone while waiting for the traffic lights to change.
She pondered the pallid inevitability of her own impending celebration, squeezing the steering wheel as if it might somehow yield juice: Donald, with his customary lack of ingenuity, had booked a table at Adriano's.
"Babe, but you love it there, " he chirped when she suggested a break from the norm, "Leave it to me, I'll book your favourite table for 8 o'clock."
After unlocking the front door and flinging her keys onto the hallway dresser, she immediately became aware that the sum total of his 'surprise' was a bottle of Tesco Prosecco, festooned with a pink bow, and a small CD-shaped parcel which looked as if it might have been wrapped during a rollercoaster ride.
Alarmingly, despite her not expecting there to be anyone else in the house, she heard a series of loud metallic noises emanating from upstairs.
Fiona tentatively placed one foot on the bottom stair and craned her neck to listen to the commotion.
"Donald! Is that you?"
She instinctively grabbed the wooden giraffe figurine brought home from Kenya and held it like a baseball bat before venturing further. When she reached the landing, the hatch to the loft was fully open and a large spanner lay directly beneath. Furthermore, the metallic clangour therein was accompanied by some exuberant whistling from a person as yet unseen.
Perplexed, Fiona couldn't immediately understand why Donald hadn't warned her about work being carried out in the house, and also wondered why there wasn't a tradesman's van in the driveway.
"Hello! Hello-o! It's Mrs Bagshaw ... Can you hear me!" She shouted, crowding her hands around her mouth in the manner of an Alpine yodeller. Then the clanging stopped and a young male voice rang out from above.
"Oh, hello madam. You must be the lady of the house?"
"Yes, I am. What exactly are you doing up there? Clearly my prat of a husband has forgotten to warn me."
"I'm plumbing in a new water tank," he answered, his face partly shadowed.
"Oh? So what was wrong with the old one?"
"Uh, don't rightly know madam ... now you've got me—"
"Did my husband get in contact with you? Was he here earlier?"
"Um, I'm fairly certain he left me a key—"
"Fairly certain? Have you developed some form of amnesia young man?"
Fiona, increasingly concerned at the vagueness of this whole improbable turn of events, stared up at the rafters, hands on hips, hoping for answers. Crouching down, his face appeared in full light. She noticed the man was fresh-faced and handsome and, as he leaned forward, an errant tendril of hair tumbled from his otherwise-slick coiffure.
"Could you please do me a favour madam? Throw me up that spanner would you?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure," she answered, bending to grasp the tool, before hurling it towards his outstretched fingers.
"Cor, great throw missus!" he chuckled, waving it as if it were a flag.
From what she could see of him, Fiona guessed the plumber to be barely into his twenties and for such a young lad he had an old-fashioned way about him, which she instantly found endearing.
"Could I offer you a tea, coffee, soft drink?" she called, watching the heels of his work boots disappear from view.
"Ooh, lovely," he chirped, his broad smile reappearing from the shadows, "tea, please. White, two sugars."
While waiting for the kettle to boil Fiona called Donald's mobile for some clarification, but it went straight to voicemail. Returned to the landing she took a chair from the guest bedroom and stood on it while elevating his mug of tea. Why hasn't he used the loft ladder? Must be one of those daft health and safety rules they have to adhere to.
"Tea's ready!" she yelled, watching a recalcitrant wasp batter itself against the loft's fluorescent light. And why hasn't he switched on the light? How odd.
"Oh, thank you so much, just the ticket," he said, liberating the mug from her grasp with a pincer movement. Fiona was struck by the familiarity of his face, she'd definitely seen him before somewhere.
"I bet your old man is looking forward to the big game tomorrow. I've managed to bag a ticket and I'm so excited."
"Oh, what game is that?"
"England against West Germany, World Cup Final! ...What game, indeed."
"Ha, ha, very funny ... although I'm female I do know that the last time England were in a World Cup Final was the year they won it, in 1966. And I should know, my father died on the way to the game, hit by an ambulance."
"Forgive me, madam ... I don't want to disrespect the memory of your father, but how could he have been run over by an ambulance on the way to a match that hasn't happened yet?"
Exasperated by his game-playing nonsense, Fiona stepped down from the chair, shaking her head. Though initially likeable, the boy's vagueness and his weird sense of humour had become irksome.
"OK, I shall leave you to carry on!" She shouted brusquely.
Then, just as she was about to try Donald's number for the second time, the young man called down to her.
"Thanks for the tea, I'd better crack on as I need to get home early - it's my daughter's first birthday today."
"Oh? It's my birthday today as well!" She countered, her interest rekindled. "What's your daughter's name?"
"Fiona," he replied, disappearing from view.
Fiona was immediately thrown by the stark curiousness of his remark.
"What? ... Wait! What did you just say?"
She positioned the chair under the hatch.
"Hey!! What did you say?" Her voice was urgent now, as she remembered where she'd seen his face before: the black and white framed photograph on her mother's mantelpiece.
Kicking the chair to one side, she snatched a hooked pole from the airing cupboard and scrambled the loft ladder down onto the carpet.
Frantic, she clambered up the rungs.
The fluorescent light was off.
And when she pulled the switch cord,
her father was gone.
*** THE END ***
May 15, 2016
Me, talking posh on BBC Radio
I was invited onto BBC Radio Norfolk to talk about my book...
https://plus.google.com/+kevinansbro-...
https://plus.google.com/+kevinansbro-...
My author Q & As
I was recently fortunate to receive an invite to appear on Jaideep Khanduja's wonderful blog site to answer some questions of his choosing.
PREPARE FOR EARTH-SHATTERING DISCLOSURES!!
(Not really, it's just me banging on about stuff in my usual fool-headed way).
Here it is...
http://pebbleinthestillwaters.blogspo...
PREPARE FOR EARTH-SHATTERING DISCLOSURES!!
(Not really, it's just me banging on about stuff in my usual fool-headed way).
Here it is...
http://pebbleinthestillwaters.blogspo...
April 27, 2016
KARDASHIAN'S BOTTOM
Joyous from their hunting trip, Yami and Tipo strode into a jungle clearing shouldering a haul numbering two monkeys and one tapir. The men belonged to the Mikopo tribe and, save from loincloths fashioned out of plant fibre, both were as naked as nature had intended.
Tipo, the sharpshooter of the two, had felled both monkeys with curare-tipped darts, while Yami's arrow saw to the tapir.
Tipo stepped over a monkey carcass to take a look. “Oh, her skin is so shiny, like that of a piranha."
"...And just look at the size of her bottom," added Yami.
"Indeed. Her arse is enormous," Tipo marvelled.
"Plus, she doesn't feel the need to wear clothes," Yami remarked, thinking her to be far more sensible than the few outsiders he'd met thus far.
"And let's not forget her shiny skin," Tipo reiterated, giving the celluloid an inquisitive sniff.
"So what shall we do with this incredible gift?" Yami pondered, absent-mindedly stroking his nostril stick for inspiration. "Yes! I have it! She will of course be able to stop the blue-eyes from building their dams and cutting down our trees."
"Or perhaps her bottom is full of fish?" Tipo speculated, "enough to feed the entire village!"
"For sure!" said Yami. "Though a goddess such as this would possess an intellect far greater than any human ... Perhaps we could exchange some of our botanical knowledge for just a little of her wisdom."
"Or maybe she might let us daub patterns on her buttocks?"
"Perhaps she might, Tipo, perhaps she might ... but, for now, let us celebrate our good fortune. Tonight we shall build a fire and drink caicuma!"
"Yes! And maybe eat monkey?"
"Of course we'll eat monkey!"
***********************************************
Sure enough, that very evening, the menfolk left their small-bottomed wives to chat among themselves in the village longhouse while they sat under the stars, around a blazing fire drinking caicuma and inhaling hallucinatory snuff that sent them all into a merry trance.
Kim Kardashian came to them in a vision, dressed only in a handful of parrot feathers. She bedazzled the tribesmen with her perspicacity and teased them with her well-upholstered backside. In fact, such was the potency of her dance, the men's loincloths were soon hoisted as high as flags.
Everyone retired to their hammocks later that night safe in the knowledge that the supremely intelligent goddess with the shiny buttocks would soon arrive to be their saviour.
. . . . . THE END . . . . .
Tipo, the sharpshooter of the two, had felled both monkeys with curare-tipped darts, while Yami's arrow saw to the tapir.
A Cessna droned low above the canopy and shortly afterwards a photograph, glossy and dappled with fingerprints, fluttered to the ground before them.
Tipo instantly took fright and scampered into the undergrowth, leaving Yami with one end of the bamboo pole resting on his collarbone and a pile of dead animals at his feet. Ever the bravest, he inched forwards in the manner of a bomb disposal expert, picking the photograph up before dropping it, fearing biological contamination from the outside world.
"What is it?" Tipo called out, his voice tremulous and uncertain.
"I'm not at all sure ... it appears to be an image of a goddess," Yami replied.
Little did he know, but the objet d'art, which he had again clasped in his hand, was a photograph of Kim Kardashian slathered head to toe in nothing but baby oil.
Tipo stepped over a monkey carcass to take a look. “Oh, her skin is so shiny, like that of a piranha."
"...And just look at the size of her bottom," added Yami.
"Indeed. Her arse is enormous," Tipo marvelled.
"Plus, she doesn't feel the need to wear clothes," Yami remarked, thinking her to be far more sensible than the few outsiders he'd met thus far.
"And let's not forget her shiny skin," Tipo reiterated, giving the celluloid an inquisitive sniff.
"So what shall we do with this incredible gift?" Yami pondered, absent-mindedly stroking his nostril stick for inspiration. "Yes! I have it! She will of course be able to stop the blue-eyes from building their dams and cutting down our trees."
"Or perhaps her bottom is full of fish?" Tipo speculated, "enough to feed the entire village!"
"For sure!" said Yami. "Though a goddess such as this would possess an intellect far greater than any human ... Perhaps we could exchange some of our botanical knowledge for just a little of her wisdom."
"Or maybe she might let us daub patterns on her buttocks?"
"Perhaps she might, Tipo, perhaps she might ... but, for now, let us celebrate our good fortune. Tonight we shall build a fire and drink caicuma!"
"Yes! And maybe eat monkey?"
"Of course we'll eat monkey!"
***********************************************
Sure enough, that very evening, the menfolk left their small-bottomed wives to chat among themselves in the village longhouse while they sat under the stars, around a blazing fire drinking caicuma and inhaling hallucinatory snuff that sent them all into a merry trance.
Kim Kardashian came to them in a vision, dressed only in a handful of parrot feathers. She bedazzled the tribesmen with her perspicacity and teased them with her well-upholstered backside. In fact, such was the potency of her dance, the men's loincloths were soon hoisted as high as flags.
Everyone retired to their hammocks later that night safe in the knowledge that the supremely intelligent goddess with the shiny buttocks would soon arrive to be their saviour.
. . . . . THE END . . . . .
July 5, 2015
KINNARA
My novel 'Kinnara' is set in Phuket, Thailand and also in Norwich, England.
Being a regular visitor to Thailand has given me a good understanding of the country's culture and its wonderful people. Both my wife and I are fortunate to have many Thai friends who have left us with more than a passing knowledge of their language.
So, for a long time, I'd wanted to write about this captivating country and its welcoming people.
Being a regular visitor to Thailand has given me a good understanding of the country's culture and its wonderful people. Both my wife and I are fortunate to have many Thai friends who have left us with more than a passing knowledge of their language.
So, for a long time, I'd wanted to write about this captivating country and its welcoming people.
At the heart of Kinnara's story there are three main characters: Sawat, the eternally-optimistic beach vendor who patrols Patong beach: Calum, a young English guy who flies to Phuket alone after catching his girlfriend in a compromising situation: then there's 'The Mother Killer', a psychotic murderer who preys on expectant mothers in Germany.
Neither Sawat, Calum, nor the killer, yet realise that their destiny lies in the hands of a mythical creature who resides beneath the turquoise waters of the Andaman Sea.
The UK publishing editor very kindly gifted me the following review:
'Murder, myth and Mr Ordinary meet up in this extraordinary novel. However bad the weather is here, Ansbro's vivid writing will transport you to a sun-drenched tropical island - with darkness at its heart. I loved it!'
-Karen Holmes, editor 2QT
www.kevinansbro.co.uk
Warm regards, Kevin.
