Far from tree-mendous

No, you’re not looking at a tree that’s somehow grown hands. Those hands are mine. What was I doing behind the tree in question? Listen up - I’ll tell you the whole sad story.

After my three most recent blog entries, my sister Nadine pounded her fists on my bedroom door.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’ she screamed through the wood of the door.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I protested back through the very same door.

Nadine was having none of it. She stormed into my room and snarled: ‘Were you so stupid as to think I wouldn’t see those insults you wrote about me in that pathetic blog of yours with the rubbish photos?’

Evidently, I had thought she wouldn’t see them. But equally as evidently, she’d found me out. Seems you can’t get away with anything on the internet these days.

It soon became clear that Nadine wasn’t alone. The angry grunts behind her came from those band mates of hers in Dental Treatment.

‘Sonny Jim, you’re coming with us,’ growled the drummer. In normal circumstances I would have corrected him and protested that my name was Ben. But something about his features told me that this wouldn’t have gone down well.

Against my will, I was escorted (dragged kicking and screaming more like) to the park down the road. As punishment for my slander, they tied me to a tree and abandoned me there, but not before snapping this photo of me.

Crying out for help only brought sniggers or looks of embarrassment from hurrying passers-by. Eventually my pleas were heard by a good Samaritan in the form of Myrtle from the year below me at school. She loosened my bonds on the condition that I present her with a variety pack of Monster Munch the next time I bump into her. It would be worth every penny.

On my return, there was a yellow sticky note plonked on the screen of my laptop. Big bold handwriting demanded: ‘There’s a picture in your inbox – bung it on your blog or we’ll tie you up in town.’

Well, that’s my sorry story and here’s the promised picture. I hope you’re happy, Nadine.

PS. In true ‘Da Vinci Code’ style, there might just be a hidden message in this blog.

PPS. The first letter of each paragraph. That’s all I’m saying.

The worst thing in the world

Today's picture is slightly clever, even if I say so myself. It took quite a bit of setting up, but that's okay because I was angry at the time, and I needed to channel my rage into something. It was either: kick Clinton, next door's ugly cat; totally trash my bedroom (but that would have meant tidying up afterwards); or build a complicated model shot for a photo for my blog.

Look closely at the picture. You might think that's a full-size toilet with a person sitting on it, but it's actually just a miniature and the person is an Action Man. Or it would be if I had one. Instead, it's a Shrek doll from Poundland which I painted pink so it would look like a real person.

The picture, of course, illustrates the worst thing that can happen in the world. Desperate for a dump, you plop yourself down and go about your business. Soon there's a sigh of contentment at a job well done, and the icing on the cake is the ritual wiping of the rear.

What a comedown then to find that the bog roll's run out and there's nothing else to hand. This is what happened to me this morning. The only explanation is that the previous occupant was far too lazy and selfish to replace it for the next one in the loo.

And who committed this heinous crime? It has to be my sister, Nadine. Arrgh! She's the pits! She drives me stark, staring bonkers she does! Gnnnhhh!

Now that I've got that off my chest, it's time to paint Shrek green again so that I can flog him on eBay. Watch out for it. I'll be listing it under: 'Shrek doll, as featured on my brilliant, popular blog'.

Noise annoys

Last week, I wrote about my sister, Nadine, and the band she’s in called Dental Treatment. I’ve only seen them perform a couple of times, and it’s a couple of times too many, believe me!

The last time I saw them was at the Boardwalk in town. I happened to take my camera with me, and I’m glad I did ‘cause I got this snap of the support act.

Dental Treatment is what you would call a heavy metal band (though I’m tempted to call them something else!), so you might find it surprising that their warm-up artist was an accordion player.

Well, Dental Treatment found it surprising as well! They hadn’t booked a support act. They were just about to walk on stage when up popped this person who led the audience in two rousing verses of ‘We all live in a yellow submarine’.

Turns out it was a bloke called Kevin, an estate agent by day but a female impersonator by night. Kevin specialises in gatecrashing gigs and pub concerts and marching up to the stage to steal all the limelight.

But the staff of the Boardwalk were having none of it. Just seconds after this picture was taken, two burly bouncers got Kevin in a headlock, escorted him to the stage door, and chucked him out onto the pavement. The wailing his accordion made when he landed on it was ear-piercing.

But it still wasn’t as bad as the concert that followed. My ears are still ringing…

Sandwich short of a picnic

Sorry about the blurry photo. I took it from the window of the car while Dad was driving.

It’s a sandwich shop, in case you hadn’t figured it out. But I didn’t take the photo ‘cause I’m a big fan of sandwiches … although I do like the occasional cheese and marmalade on a bit of brown bread.

No, I took it because the name reminded me of my annoying older sister, Nadine.

She’s not a big fan of sandwiches either, she’s not short and she doesn’t go for picnics. But put all those words together – ‘sandwich short of a picnic’ – and you’ve summed her up perfectly.

I blame it on her headphones. She’s always listening to music full blast in her room. It can’t do her brain any good.

She’s also in a band. Dental Treatment they call themselves. I reckon it’s ‘cause listening to them is more painful than having your teeth done.

Nadine doesn’t like me, but that’s okay because I don’t like her either.

That’s more than enough about Nadine. Next time I’ll write about something more cheerful, like swine flu or piles.

Every town has a Boris

This is Boris. Every town has a Boris.

You know: someone slightly odd. Someone who roams the streets alone, laughing, shouting and having an imaginary conversation with a person who’s clearly not there.

Someone you cross the road to avoid, because you know that his cheery, mild-mannered exterior is likely to turn nasty at any moment, for no apparent reason.

For just breathing, coughing, scratching your nose, or daring to overtake on the pavement, your town’s Boris might hurl the worst form of verbal abuse at you, or even lunge out with his fist.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he would turn back to his imaginary friend and continue his light-hearted banter about buses, sprouts, flat-pack furniture … or anything.

Of course, he might not be called Boris. Your town’s odd person could go by another name … or you may not know his name at all.

Truth be told, I don’t know for certain if Boris is our odd person’s name, but he looks like a Boris, don’t you think?

He specialises in limping up and down our high street, bellowing: ‘Seed plants! Seed plants!’ Don’t ask me why. Maybe he comes from an agricultural background?

He also chucks clothes pegs at anyone that annoys him, which happens quite a lot. He’s an expert shot, so do watch out.

Maybe you have a Boris in your town. Tell me about him (or her) by leaving a comment below.

Ta-da! My first photo

Last year, I wrote a book. No one bought it.

It was called The Big Wow, and ‘big wow’ is the right thing to say when you look at the sales figures. (If you’re interested, you can still get hold of it here and here. Plenty of copies left!)

So this year I’ve decided to leave novel-writing behind and make my mark in the exciting world of photography. (Got a camera for Christmas and I’ve only just put in some batteries.)

Here, for your enjoyment, is the first of my attempts. It’s Clinton, next door’s cat.

What can I say about Clinton? He has a unique skill. Two, if you count flatulence.

Clinton has psychic powers. He knows where you want to be just split-seconds in advance, so that he can get to the exact same spot before your feet do. He loves getting in the way and trying to trip you up.

This photo is no exception. It was supposed to be of some marigolds in our back garden, but Clinton whooshed in out of nowhere, spluttered up a furball, then tried to lick the lens just as I took the picture.

Still, as first attempts go, I suppose it’s not bad. What do you think?

And you have to admit … my next photo can only be better. Wonder what it’ll be?