Holiday Blog

This week I decided to take a break from my ongoing publicity drive. I needed to recharge the batteries and blow off the cobwebs. A vacation was in order.

Thus, on Monday morning, my companion and I climbed into the Smithmobile and drove the fifty miles to the ancient and mysterious island of Llanhorny, believed to be the rudest place in Wales. Leaving the mainland behind, we crossed the bridge on the stroke of noon, intent on losing ourselves in the strange landscape and culture of this alien world across the water.

It was only when the first cartographers set foot on Llanhorny and detailed the rugged coastline, that it was discovered the island was shaped like an enormous minge. Copies of maps were sold to navigators and masturbators alike, the saucy topography inspiring lust in lonely gentlemen of the age.

Weaving along tangled country lanes, we make for our first stop, the oldest working dirty dairy farm in the country, where the milk maids are said to wear no knickers and often bend over to attract the attention of passers-by. The place is a bugger to find, as, according to rumour, the island’s council took down all the road signs and sold off the scrap metal to buy drugs. Just as we are on the verge of giving up, we stumble across the farm, but alas, it is closed on Mondays.

A little disheartened, we continue our quest, turning left toward the coast where we hope to visit the National Museum of Tits. After driving straight through an unmarked junction and narrowly avoiding a car accident, we find a parking space and make the short journey on foot along the promenade to the museum gates, but alas, find it to be closed on Mondays.

After a mug of coffee from our flask we consult the guidebook and make for the Institute of Freelance Lesbianism, a cooperative set up by a couple of carpet munchers, back in the seventies, who fled prejudice in search of a simpler island life. We find the institute, and rubbing our hands in anticipation of seeing some hot, girl on girl action, attempt to gain entry via the front door. Unfortunately, according to a note taped above the letterbox, the place is closed on Mondays.

Our holiday is not going well. Frustrated and saddened, we give up on our rude pilgrimage and decide to go to the hotel and get drunk. After another hair-raising drive, we arrive at the quaint inn and carry our luggage inside. Here, at the bar, we find a dairy farmer, a museum curator and a couple of stout ladies in dungarees, drinking lager and arguing about the football results. The landlord scowls at us and barks in guttural language, that the hotel is closed on Mondays.

Pant Rant

Today, I am a worried man. Aside of the usual panics and quibbles that distress me, there is an extra load bearing down upon my shoulders. I am scared we may lose the greatest word in the English language. Pants.

The basis of this fear lies in the creeping Americanisation of our culture. Our traditions are changing. The Senior Prom and Trick or Treat have become an integral part of our youngsters’ development. People sit on couches rather than settees, and wear shades rather than sunglasses. A checkout girl at the supermarket even recently told me to “have a nice day”.

Well I’m sorry missy, but I’m British, and I have absolutely no intention of having a ‘nice’ day. I shall have a rank, fucking miserable day, as is my wont, and no amount of nauseating, sickly sweet rhetoric will change that.

Our overweight cousins from across the Atlantic are causing linguistic confusion by mixing up the meaning of the word pants. When they say pants, they mean trousers. When they say underpants, they mean actual pants. How long before the first British child adopts this misuse and spreads the foul affectation to the rest of our youth?

We must resist at all costs. We must cling on to our love of pants, the same way their sturdy elastic lovingly clings to our waists. Pants are funny. Pants are the heart and soul of our sense of Britishness. And most importantly of all, pants are not, and must never become, trousers.

It is for this exact reason I shall today be writing a stiff letter to the President of the America, insisting he and his nation of obese, gun-wielding lunatics desist from damaging our culture any further, or else run the risk of incurring our wrath. No longer shall we meekly bend over and allow the star-spangled hand of the United States to ram its precocious, fledgling language up our British bottoms.

For we here in these isles know the true meaning of pants. We were wearing pants when the Yankees were still in short trousers. Long before the declaration of independence had even been signed, we here in the old world were adjusting our delicate bits and examining our gussets for skidmarks.

That’s right, Mr Trump. It was we who invented this language which you pervert on a daily basis, and it is we who shall define its parameters. A pant is a pant. A trouser is a trouser, and that’s the way it shall stay.

And before you go off to eat your fourteen-pound steakburger, with your AK-47 and your banjo balanced across your knee, I suggest you take some time to think about how you could change your linguistic usage to best suit our needs.

I am suggesting you take immediate steps to insist all American trousers from now on be referred to as over-pants, thus negating the need to place the unnecessary word ‘under’ in front of the classically elegant word ‘pants’.

Take heed of my warning. Wars have been fought for less.

Yours, in pants,

SJ Smith

More Publicity

With the release date of my fourth novel Return to the House of Fox drawing ever closer, I have been wracking my brain for ideas to raise my profile, in the hope of driving sales up toward double figures. After my attempt to break a world record ended in dismal failure, I have decided to stage a charity event, in the hope of gaining much needed publicity.

Next week I will be participating in a sponsored wank, with all proceeds going to the Gethin Jenkins Foundation for People with Huge Heads but Unusually Skinny Legs. This terrible affliction affects many across Wales, and the foundation does great work by helping suffers buy baggier trousers and grow distracting fringes. I am hoping to raise more than £4 to go towards their sterling efforts.

I will be wanking from Castell Spinbreath, in the heart of rural North Wales, to the Pen y Bryn public tavern, Llanrhos, also in the heart of rural North Wales, but a bit to the left. This epic journey of some seventeen miles will take six days to complete, and see me wanking through some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. I will be joined by local celebrities along the way, who will wank alongside me.

So please, show your support; dig deep in your pockets and send cash, in none sequential, used bills, to SJ Smith, Castell Spinbreath, Wales. And don’t forget to honk your horn and wave if you see me wanking in a street near you.

Publicity

With the launch date of my new novel Return to the House of Fox fast approaching, thoughts this week turned to publicity, and how best to pimp my magnum opus to the masses. I’m not allowed on TV after my infamous wardrobe malfunction on the Des O’Connor Show, and they’ve refused to have me back on the radio since I inadvertently used the C word during Children’s Hour.

How then, with the mainstream media shunning me, should I go about ensuring SJ Smith is the name on everyone’s lips?

The answer came to me during a heavy drinking session in a skip behind Tesco. I should make an  attempt to break a world record. What better way to draw attention and boost my reputation? I immediately got on with researching the subject, scouring the web for heroic feats to undertake. The world record for swimming the Channel? Too much like hard work. The world record for eating cheese? No thanks, might give me heartburn.

Then I found it, the perfect challenge for a bone idle fellow like me; the world record for running over old ladies, while driving a double decker bus dressed as Philip Schofield.

A few phone calls and several cans of lager, and I was soon ready for my attempt. A shining red double decker was dispatched from the depot, and my good friend Dodgy Dave managed to procure a dozen old dears from a local Alzheimer’s ward. I donned a grey wig and clutched a cute kitten, and passers-by swore I was a dead ringer for Schofield himself. With everything in place, I gunned the engine and lurched forward to make my mark on history.

But, is as often the case, the day was beset by difficulties. Either my wig would fall off or the kitten would escape, or else the old ladies would wander off to make racial slurs or play bingo. And then a tramp failed to notice the ‘Sorry, not in service’ sign on the front of the double decker, climbed aboard and shat himself on the back seat. The bus company insisted on recalling the vehicle for a hosing down, and I had to wait ages for a replacement.

Eventually, with the sun sinking in the west, I made one last ditch effort. Accelerating along the High Street, I swerved this way and that and mowed down the collective of pensioners. Zimmer frames, false teeth and fur lined boots flew in all directions, and as the screams finally quieted I lit a cigarette and waited for my attempt to be verified.

Norris McSquirter, a wrinkly old bastard in an ill-fitting suit, wandered up and down, hands behind his back, counting the corpses. The current record stood at ten. Had I done enough?

Alas, no. McSquirter conducted an autopsy on one of the old biddies and found she had died not from wounds inflicted by my aggressive driving, but rather from an attack of mange. He ruled the attempt a failure, and sped off chuckling in his Aston Martin.

So, no world record for me, and with only two and a half months to go until the release of Return to the House of Fox, I must come up with a different way to spam the public.