A Postcard From Withernsea


I had a lovely year manifesting myself through the corporeal form of my nephew Michael. And there is a lot of written material that he needs to get off his arse and start editing into something coherent, like he ruddy well said he would. But just as we were getting into it all he only went and decided that he “needs a little time to think things over.” I turned around to him and said “its funny how quick the milk turns sour, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” And when he couldn’t think of a decent reply, I added “I don’t know about a little time…  You need a little room… For your big head”  Then I poked him in the ribs a couple of times and repeated “Don’t you?” while I did it.

Any road, you are dead a ruddy long time. And I’m not wasting too much of it hanging around waiting for him to get his act together. So I thought that I might as well spend some of it somewhere nice. So I am currently lodging in Withernsea, in the olden days, well before that useless lump of a nephew of mine was born.

But I know that there are a few people missing my pearls of wisdom, and it has been nice to hear from them. So I persuaded him to don the tights once again, just so that I could send you this postcard. Luckily, he still keeps a bottle of sherry on top of the cupboard next to the fridge, so it was worth the effort.

He reckons he will get around to that editing with me some time in the not too distant future, but at the moment, its all about that ruddy silly pop group of his. He is spending all his time  time cataloguing and writing about the 50 songs he has written over the past few years. And he says that he doesn’t need my help with that thank you very much.

Charming! Seeing as I am the one who trained his ruddy fingers to type out five hundred words in less than an hour, and trained his ruddy brain to make sure that at least three hundred of them weren’t complete shite.

And, to add insult to injury, he has decided not to serialise any of that stuff on the internet, because he wants it to have a ruddy impact when he releases it to a world that doesn’t care. He was born too late that one. Hardly anyone bothers reading more than a couple of hundred words at a time these days, not since they invented that ruddy U-bend Tube thing anyway.

Mind you. They come in handy for some things. Like the time my Raymond got drunk and was sick down the toilet. The plumber only managed to fish his dentures out because they got stuck in the U-boat, They were as good as new too, after we had rinsed them out in TCP.

Anyway. My Raymond isn’t staying in Withernsea with me. He’s still pining for that Muriel Dewlap, although I don’t think that she is as interested as she was after she first passed over. Especially now that that Val Doonican has arrived on the scene. Apparently she once had a fling with him whilst he was appearing at the Futurist in Scarborough, and she fancies that he might want to posthumously rekindle the flame. Aye, her and a couple of hundred others. I reckon he has got enough on his plate at the ruddy moment, and he will have rekindled a fair few flames before he gets around to her. If ever.

Any road, I have been enjoying the company of one of them minstrels here at the seaside. And before you ask, no I don’t know what ruddy colour he is because I have never seen him without his makeup on. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. But he’s a bit shy about things like that. I said to him, I said “I don’t know what your thinking about my baby, it don’t matter if your black or white.” I fancied that ruddy Rudolph Valentino, and he was black AND white.

I got a parcel from a Punch and Judy man from America the other day. Trying to get me to do fortunes again.  It was a ruddy rum looking Tarot pack, and that was in black and white too. I might use it yet. But I’ll probably not serialise it on the ruddy internet because our Michael says that we might run into copyright problems. Mind you If he ever lets me back into the light entertainment industry, then it might come in handy. You never know.

Well, I shall love you and leave you all for now, with these time honoured words…

Having a lovely time… wish you were here.

But don’t go doing “anything stupid” in your haste to join me.

God bless,

Auntie Doris.

2 thoughts on “A Postcard From Withernsea

  1. Glad you have made contact and that the nephew has donned the tights. Surely the minstrel doesn’t put make-up on THAT! You could scrape a bit off and find his true colours. Anyway I’m pleased you’ve not decomposed away entirely.

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