APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

Guess the poet!

“When I look at the silver

In your hair,

How I wish you never in the world

Had a care.

How I wish week after week

It was not always Hello and Goodbye.

You have made the weeks, months

And years fly by.

You have been our rainbow

In a dark sky.

We hope that one day it will be

Just Hello

And never again Goodbye.”

Who wrote that?

We’ll tell you at the end.

But we were thinking about relationships this week.

It is increasingly being said that many up to the age of 25, or even 35 in some cases, have never had a serious, committed, sexual relations.

In some cases they haven’t even had sex by the age of 35.

Puritan or prat?

Abstainer or Kleenex-stainer?

Shy or stupid?

It’s not for us to say, but it does seem to be taking politeness a bit too far.

According to those who carry out these studies the answer isn’t puritanical, or hormonal.

It’s because they sleep with their phones instead.

They go gooey over Google.

They go mad for Twatter, sorry Twitter.  All the sexual euphemisms got me confused for a moment there.

Let’s just say the only thing stirring in their laps are their laptops.

They probably think a Pole Dancer is an entertainer from Warsaw.

They probably think Deep Throat is the name Mark Felt used when he met Bob Woodward.

And they probably think blue movies are musicals.

Well, some of them are.  It just depends what instruments they’re playing and whether they’re playing in tune!

Now unless all these studies were carried out by doing market research in Amish villages, what are we to make of it?

Fifty years ago the motto was ‘Make Love, Not War.’

Fifty years later you could say ‘Make Love, Not Texts.’

The Earth is overcrowded, so it could be a good thing.

The smartphone could be the most successful contraceptive in the world.

We’re not complaining!

What the world need is much more love, not sex.

Love for parents.

Love for each other.

Even Donald Trump!

Now, let’s turn back to that poem.

You might’ve guessed it referred to prison.

No, it wasn’t Oscar Wilde!

It was called “To A Beautiful Mother.”

It was written in 1982, at the time of the funeral of the mother of Reggie & Ronnie Kray.

Reg was in Parkhurst at the time and Ron was in Broadmoor.

They were sentenced to a minimum of 30 years at the Old Bailey in 1969.

There is love in everyone, everywhere!

With that we’ll wish you a lovely Labor Day weekend and we’ll see you again next week.

Happy Times & Places.

Say goodnight to all the nice people around the world.

OK, goodnight folks.  See you next Tuesday.

 

 

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I’m Apple…

…and I’m Ginger.

And we saw Whiskey Tango Foxtrot this week for the first time since New Year.

“Hello, Wubbleyou, we haven’t seen you since last year.”

He struggled with an answer, somewhere between a stammer and complete brain death.

Then he laughed.

Ten minutes later.

By the way, Wubbleyou is our new pet name for him, just like George Wubbleyou Bush, only brighter and better at managing a baseball team.

And Wubbleyou said, “My mum’s knees went funny just before Christmas, but they’re not funny anymore, in fact they’re serious, but, because they’re not serious, they’re not funny either.

Answers on a postcard please to ‘I Understand Wubbleyou, 2nd Bed from the Left, Hopeless Ward, Upton Home for Retired Brains, Upton RU12 BUM.’

And he also said “I grew a beard just before Christmas.”

“So you could go down all those chimneys?”

“No, so I could look after my mum because her knees had gone funny.”

Wish this episode would go funny as well.

Then he said he’d written lyrics all about his beard, so he could sell them to Seasick Steve, so, if you’re out there, Seasick Steve, or anyone who knows him, do please get in touch via us, so we can make Wubbleyou a happy man again.

This is how it went.

“I grew a beard, which went all weird, while I was looking after my poor mum.

It grew by night and it grew by day, right down to my poor old tum.

I didn’t have the time to shave, I didn’t have the strength.

That’s why it just grew and grew to this enormous length.

I had to clean it once a week, I’m gonna tell you why.

One week I found a peanut, last seen on the Fourth of July.

Eventually my mum got back to normal, just about.

She argued over who makes tea and gave me such a clout.

They call it motherly love, they do, but I’m not entirely sure.

If anyone out there with a mum could only send me the cure.

The time was coming up to shave, but it was such a job.

It would take all night and day and get sore right round my gob.

The time came on New Year’s Eve, while watching the BBC.

There in the studio was Seasick Steve, with a cookie-duster bigger than me.

Now I’ve got my face back and I owe it all to Seasick Steve.

Honestly, the relief it is, you just wouldn’t believe.

Well, I’ll sign off now and milk the cow, she’s been waiting since New Year’s Eve.

And thank again my new found friend with the beard, Seasick Steve.”

And it’s time for us to sign off as well.

Yes and don’t forget that next Tuesday is Valentine’s Day, so it’s time to make good on all those kisses in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

So, say goodnight to all the nice people around the world, frantically trying to think who they kissed in Times Square and how to flee the country by next week.

O.K, goodnight folks.  See you next Tuesday.

 

 

 

 

 

APPLE & GINGER’S ROADSHOW

Hi, I'm Apple...

...and I'm Ginger.

Meet Ricky Doodleous.

He wanted to be a poet.

So he researched past famous poets.

And he decided that what they all had in common was alcoholism.

He thought Dylan Thomas may well've thrown up all over you if you went up
to him in a public house and then urinate in the middle of the road on the 
way home, but he would then write marvelous poetry.

And that it was the heavy drinking, vomiting and urinating in the middle of
the road that made the poetry great.

Whereas the reality was all he did when he got home was pass out and then 
put his clothes in the wash and have a bath because he was covered in vomit,
urine and probably far worse.

When he got home he couldn't've written a note for the milkman.

But tell that to Ricky Doodleous!

He was convinced alcoholism was the key to great writing.

So Ricky Dooodleous decided to become an alcoholic.

He went to the library, but couldn't find any books that taught you how to
become an alcoholic.

He was hoping to find 'Alcoholism Made Easy.'

Or 'Alcoholism for Dummies.'

Or 'How to Succeed in Alcoholism & Influence People.'

Or even 'A Hundred & One Ways To Become an Alcoholic.'

But he couldn't find anything.

So he came to the conclusion that alcoholism is like many things in life,
you learn by doing it.

So he went into the Silly Cow and asked Miserable Les what the best-
dressed alcoholics went drinking these days.

And Miserable Les told him "I've no idea, but they're not drinking it in
here, this is a respectable establishment."

And so it was that Ricky Doodleous made the fateful decision to book 
himself into a guest house in the awful little village of Upton Fled.

He went out to the supermarket and bought 2 bottles of everything.

He drank one bottle of everything before going out in the evening for the
hottest curry he could imagine.

The he went back to his digs and drank the other bottle of everything.

In the morning, when he came to, his room looked like a sewer had 
exploded in the middle of it.

Except a sewer hadn't exploded. He had.  Both ends at once.  Not a pretty
sight.

When we visited him in hospital he was feeling much better, still slightly
green about the gills and still needing to sit on a rubber ring, but
definitely on the mend.

And he had to admit that there was no connection between great writing and
great drinking.

We'll drink to that.

But Ricky Doodleous wouldn't.

But as he sat up in bed, looking slightly less green than Kermit the Frog 
and perched on his rubber ring, he said this.

"I wanted to write, but I only got tight, I've got it all wrong, but I
thought I was right.  I drank far too much and had an horrendous curry,
But instead of making me write it only made me hurry, To the nearest
sink."

And he looked at us.

And we looked at him.

And he said "I was already a poet and I didn't know it."

You'll be pleased to know Ricky Doodleous is on the mend and now works for
the AA.

Because the RAC didn't want him.

We'll see you again next time.

Yes, say goodnight to all the nice people around the world.

O.K. goodnight folks.  See you next Tuesday.