There was a buffoon called Johnson Who thought he was Charles Bronson But he fucked-up Brexit So attempted to exit Dressed as a woman in Labour   Unfortunately for Boris No one was fooled by “Doris” So he pulled out a gun Broke into a run But was caught in the commons by Keir Starmer   “But… but…. but, Boris stuttered “Brexit is oven-ready. And buttered!” “Don’t give me that clap-trap, You’re just a tabloid hack And as thick as a brain-dead lama”   As Boris started to weep and plead Keir pulled out a writ and began to read “I don’t need no fancy prose Let’s pelt him with tomatoes And leave him for the Tories to dismember!”   But out of the throng rushed Dom Fresh from his castle with aplomb “I’ll save the day,” he said His face a beetroot red “We will never give up or

It is more than likely I will change my name in the very near future which will no doubt please my husband and his family. However, I will be probably be keeping Turley as a pseudonym for my comedy writing since I’ve been writing under it for over a decade. So, I am afraid my ex is just going to have live with the potential of my embarrassing him. Oh dear. What a pity!   Initially, I plan to use my new name in my private life only, but it’s possible I might use it for my planned crime writing. It depends on how I feel at the time. Of course, I have thought about reverting to my maiden name or another family name which makes complete sense. However, I quite fancy to revert to total anonymity for at least a brief period.  One of my sons has suggested Jane Bond. 

Yes, I have had three glasses of wine as I am off work for a few days as I am self-isolating prior to a minor medical procedure. I am, therefore, feeling a little ribald. So, I decided to write a poem.   Now, before some of my lovely American readers go apeshit, please remember this a comedy blog (even if it has been slightly lacking in humour for a while.) As a consequence, the poem is in my usual eloquent style which required some deep thought for all of 5 minutes.  Here we go: There was an old man called Trump Who had a particularly small lump For a brain He lost an election Got a floppy erection And was never seen or heard of Again. Quality stuff – although the last line is probably rather optimistic. Let’s face it who doesn’t want to see more of Mr Trump. He is

A few months ago I was generously given a phone as mine kept dying on me and the battery was one of those irreplaceable ones. I duly set-up facial recognition in addition to a password. Unfortunately, since then it has only recognised my face… maybe once. I can’t decide whether on the day I set it up I was looking astonishing gorgeous or completely hideous… or perhaps like a female version of Boris Johnson. I think Boris and I have a lot in common at the moment. He looks completely shagged-out running the country during the pandemic and the Brexit crisis; I looked completely shagged-out through the stress of my elongated divorce. We both look our ages of 55. I used to look ten years younger but lately, I am looking battered. The only real differences between us are that  Boris has a 32-year-old girlfriend, a top job and a

On Wednesday I had a meeting with my solicitor, a pensions actuary and my husband’s barrister. I had been told to expect my husband and his solicitor in the virtual meeting room.  (Yes, that’s right. Over 4 years since my separation I still don’t have a Decree Absolute and still no financial settlement. Consequently, life is very difficult for myself and my sons.) The meeting was scheduled for 12pm to suit my husband’s requirements. However, he didn’t turn up and no apologies were made. Instead, he sent his barrister rather than his solicitor. Of course, the reason my husband didn’t turn up is that he is too afraid to face me himself. Too afraid I will call him out in front of other professionals.  Anyway, during the course of the meeting, my husband’s barrister treated me like he was at court hearing. Trying to qualify everything I said in a

Apparently, many people are more aware of their dreams at the moment because they are resting and sleeping more.  Some dreams appear to be related to the pandemic in that they feature, perhaps obscurely, death, fear and isolation. Others are less obvious and related to parts of our lives we are missing during the pandemic – like food for example. This makes complete sense. However, I am someone who generally doesn’t sleep that well but I do occasionally have quite vivid, obscure and often frightening dreams. Sometimes I experience sleep paralysis. Last night, I had an entirely different dream. I rarely dream about people in the public eye. The last one was Hugh Grant. (Hey ho.) But last night I dreamt about Boris Johnson, our PM, currently laid up in hospital with Coronavirus. Basically, I dreamt I was having sex with Boris. I have no idea what this means (other than

We have an expression in the UK “dressed to kill” which is an expression for basically making the most of your appearance and trying to look as attractive as possible. Now when you reach my grand old age of 55, dressing to kill takes some skill. It’s also preferable to have a large glass of gin before you look in the mirror. Because you look a lot better when your vision is blurred. You can also try and kid yourself you’re only 39. I have been telling my boys I am 39 for years. I don’t think they believe me any more. Well, not since the tooth fairy quit. Now, even though I’m past my prime, when I go to work, I attempt to look as smart as possible with clean, pressed clothes and fresh make-up. I find a trowel is excellent for putting on my foundation and a kids’

I had a look back at my previous B posts for the A to Z and saw that I’d come with Bullshit (a personal favourite) Brighton Cock (a spin on Brighton Rock, the novel by Grahame Greene),  Balls and Breasts and Balderdash. An eclectic choice, I feel. So, to live up to my previous posts I decided to opt for the words Baloney and Bog Rolls. Now, in order to make sure I am not misinforming people I decided to check out the definition of baloney. I discovered there were in fact, three definitions. The first is a sausage, the second is a resident of Bologna, Italy. The third fundamentally describes this blog which means nonsense. So, to incorporate the two themes have come with an (almost) nonsense poem: Bog Rolls. Bog Rolls, I like them. Soft and cushy on my bottom. It’s a pity I don’t have any ‘Cos some fucker

So, here I am on April Fool’s Day back here on my blog unprepared, as ever, to participate in the A to Z. I have zero ideas what I am going to write about so as usual this is where I say to myself: Oh crap, why did you commit to this? You arsehole, Turley. Hmm. Arsehole. I suppose I could make a blog out of that. Mind you, that wouldn’t be very lady-like. And, possibly, as any post using the word arsehole might make reference to Mr Trump it might alienate my lovely American readers. So, no can do. Oh okay, let clutch at some straws. Apples? Okay, they’re round and green. Sometimes red. Even a bit pinkish. They can be crunchy. They are super for making cider from though. If only I had some cider… Oh, and a couple of hours ago, I found some old wrinkled apples