#FP Yum Yums and Sausage Rolls

I’m in love with
a girl from Greggs.
She’s
a strawberry blonde
with fantastic legs.

She panders to
my hungry soul
with
Yum yum buns
and sausage rolls.

And on the edge
of the queue
for
lunchtime stew,
our eyes meet
and
I whisper

‘I love you’

#FP

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#FP Mister Whippy’s Desperate Measures

The following is a real story. It bears no resemblance to anything fictitious. It is utterly true and really, really happened.

January 2009, an Ice Cream Van

It was bitterly cold. Cantankerously cold. Slap you around the face with a frozen kipper, cold. Not ice cream weather, cold.

Mister Whippy was sitting in his van in a housing estate somewhere in the East Midlands. He was wearing his favorite stripy jumper, the puce one with a pink flamingo on the front and a squirrel motif on the left shoulder. Radio 3 was playing and he hummed along (badly) to a Verdi Operetta.

Trade wasn’t exactly brisk. It wasn’t even isk. It wasn’t even k.

Mister Whippy stood up. He was barely 4 foot 2 in his Cuban heels. (He’d bought them at a farmer’s market in Havana in 1986.) His family had been in the ice cream game for generations and with each generation, evolution had shortened frames and contorted limbs to fashion the perfect ice cream van salesman.

Mister Whippy was said. He was suffering from ‘seasonally affected ice cream disorder’. Everything he owned was in his ice cream van. He loved his van. He met his wife there. Took his first canasta lessons in the driver’s seat and on a quiet autumn afternoon in 1997, spilt raspberry ripple sauce over a brand new pair of spandex cricket whites. So many wonderful memories.

But now, shivering in the back of his van with a bulging ice cream dispenser, a full compliment of crisps (including hedgehog flavor) a multiflavorous selection of chocolate confectionary and an assortment of household staples, he was a worried man.

Children passed by, heads buried in parka hoods, ears plugged with headphones, eyes glued to mobile phones. They didn’t want ice cream. It was too cold and, besides, ice cream wasn’t cool. Well, technically it is cool as in cold but not cool as in cool.

They wanted cheap cider and cigarettes and loitered at the community centre in their fake Nike trainers and ear lob stretchers. They talked in text speak and said ‘totes adorbs innit’ a lot.

Mister Whippy had tried everything. BOGOFs, free flakes, double cones, marshmallow toppings: everything. He’d even experimented with warm ice cream. That didn’t work very well. It was time for desperate measures. Somehow he had to accelerate climate change or come up with a cunning sales plan. Whatever was to be done had to be done quickly before he became an ex ice cream salesman. An outcast. An ice cream pariah. A failure. A broken cone.

That night, he slept in Fits and Starts, a run down travelling salesman motel in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Nuneaton. He dreamt of summer and queues and crying children with droopy cones and mums and dads and dogs and dog pooh. He woke with a start! ‘I’ve got it!’ he thought loudly. ‘I’ve got it!’

The following morning after a full Abyssinian breakfast of Dulet and pineapple salad, he drove to Costco.

He parked up and strode purposefully into the store. He walked past the aisles of bric a brac and scurrilous offers (although he was tempted by a six man tent for £5.99) and entered the booze section. He selected all manner of spirits; limoncello, cherry brandy, nettle wine, Mexican ox whisky, absinthe, Oreo liquor and, of course, Drambuie and jauntily passed through the checkouts.

He drove to his new pitch in the middle of town outside the betting office and set about making that day’s brew of ice cream with the addition of alcohol. Alcoholic ice cream.

He played his jingle, ‘Have an alcoholic ice cream on me” AC/DC and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. A disgruntled gambler emerged from the betting shop, crumpled his loosing betting slip in his strong hand and stopped. He had seen Mister Whippy’s new sign. ‘Try my new alcoholic ice creams. The ice cream to be seen with’

‘I’ll try a double bourbon vanilla slice please’

‘Raspberry sauce?’

‘Why not’

Before long they were queued around the block to buy copious amounts of Mister Whippy’s famous alcoholic ice cream. Pubs emptied and park benches were overflowing with sitting alcoholic ice cream imbibers.

Mister Whippy was happy. Desperate measures, alcoholic measures to be exact, had turned him into a new man and unleashed a blazing trail of newfound optimism and alcoholism.

He felt 4 foot 4 inches tall.

And the teenagers from the community centre? They thought his cider vanilla 99’s were ‘totes adorbs innit’.

Any hoo.

Morning

The quilted
eggshell blue sky
eerily preternatural

was

suffused
with chill
morning light

and

dotted
with fragile,
fledging clouds
through
which rose
a ballast of birdsong

a superfluous
cacophony of shrillness
to bebother
the calm of
another new day

a new day
full of promise and life.

Hats. Love them, hate them.

I love hats.

Hats are good for hiding things and for carrying lunch when my hands are full and bags are in short supply.

I hate hats.

I’m not a hat person or a cap person, for that matter. Hats are rude and intrude when I’m trying to have a friendly natter.

I love hats.

Wooly bobble type hats are excellent tea cosies in a pinch when you discover hamsters nesting in the cosy your Nan knitted.

I hate hats.

Hats with brims allow water to drip onto your neck when it’s raining. Umbrellas are better at shedding water.

I love hats.

Hats make excellent pitcher’s gloves when playing impromptu baseball games in the park with passing Americans.

I hate hats.

Baseball caps worn back to front keep sun off the neck and leave foreheads with a pronounced white band. It also looks stupid.

I love hats

French onion sellers wearing jaunty berets, on sit up and beg bicycles with strings of onions slung around their necks like garlands, always make me smile.

I hate hats.

When it’s windy, wearing a hat takes one hand out of play as the other is required to hold said hat on one’s head.

I love/ hate hats.

I could prattle on and on about the evils or otherwise of hats but I’ve got to dash.

Now where’s my beanie hat?

It’s cold outside.

I’m in denial that I posted any of these Friday Phrases tweets. It was my mother, the old trout. (And the gardener, Christophererererer)

Timmy didn’t appear on Friday Phrases this week because he’s on half term holidays.
Alone again, naturally.
Wait! That was last week!
#FP

My TC’s in denial that I exist.
‘Send her a DM’
A DM for a TC for VD?
‘Something you’re not telling me?’
Valentine’s Day you div!
‘Ah!’
#FP

In denial of ageing,
retiring and dying
growing old disgracefully
pass the Absinthe darling
a toast to life
the world and his wife
#FP

My slim fit shirt
is in denial
that my stomach’s
bursting through
It hugs my skin
with buttoning
keeping insides in
and figure true
#FP

Congratulations Mrs Sparrowwombat! A baby boy!
‘Sure it’s a boy?’
Yes. He has bits.
‘It could be a figment’
She’s in denial! Shock her!
#FP

You can’t still be in denial that the earth is round. We’ve circumnavigated the globe 16 times now!
‘What if we sailed the other way?’
#FP

You did do it!’

‘I don’t deny it’

‘You’re not in denial?’

‘Is this for a tweet?’

‘It…..could be’

‘In that case. I didn’t do it’

#FP

In denial
buy
skinny
jeans
that
stretch to fit
over
fatty
bits
so
I
look thin
with
minimum fuss
a pert
derrière
to flaunt
on
the bus

#FP

To be in denial infers a possibility of acceptance, of some posit or treatise or state of mind or event that is denied.’

Say what?!?

#FP

It felt like a wookiee
had jumped on his chest
indigestion from brekkie
no cause for alarm
In denial of pain
running down his left arm

#FP

on
gurney
strapped
and
zapped
injected
shocked

A
family
in denial
resist
opinion
hope
and love
their final
bastion

eyes wide shut

#FP

Friday 13th!

And?

‘Evils will befall us’

Tosh!

‘Apocalyptical, gargantuan evils’

Codswallop!

‘In denial are we?’

In my office actually

#FP

I am the dominant sex of the species’ men everywhere.

‘They’re in denial, the poor things’ women everywhere.

#FP

If you’re carb free: explain the donut box hidden down the back of the sofa’

Cyril was in denial.

‘I can explain’

‘Can you?’

‘Nope’

#FP

Last week he was busking on street corners, now he’s at Wembley singing his no 1 hit ‘Velociraptors are Cool’, all the way from Ireland….INDY NIALL!

#FP

I’M MARRIED!!!!!

I HAVE CHILDREN!!!!!

I HAVE A JOB!!!!!

Me, in denial every. single. day.

(At least Twitter’s real)

#FP

years
slip by
with
barely
a
whisper
and
barely
a
cry

mirror
images
lie
in
denial
of time
in
denial
of age
as
time
flutters
by

#FP

Reasons I’m in denial.

1. I didn’t do it

f. I wasn’t there

4. Aliens invaded London

h. The dog ate it

What was the question again?

#FP

Cybil?

‘Jeffrey?’

Let’s pretend it’s Friday!

‘Could it be Friday Phrases fever?’

Never!

‘In denial again Jeffrey?’

Gin Cybil?

‘Yes please!’

#FP

If I was trekking across Africa and I fell into the Nile river, would I be in denial?

Not sorry.

#FP

I’m not in denial. I’m just choosy about my choice of reality.

#FP

It’s almost time for Friday Phrases. Bet you can’t wait!’

I HATE Friday Phrases!

‘Sounds like you’re in denial’

I AM NOT AN ADDICT!

#FP

In denial #FP

a peck on the cheek
a phone call mid week

then
it escalated
out of control
with
pester texts
midnight
DMs
irony
and
hyperbole

it
fizzled out
with
both in denial,
threatening
intervention
divorce
and
reprisal

and
today,
still
married to
each other,
they search
the web
for another
lover.