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Let’s face it, every blogger and their dogs will be talking about Trump today so I won’t.  Instead and as promised we bring you the latest gory story by Zelda McLeich, which will make even less sense to American readers than their election has to us Brits.

Blunt Object

by Zelda McLeich

Goodbye, Nick Trott, our final victim.

I think we did the world a favour, getting rid of this ‘person’.

When his facebook page said he was Kristen Bell’s ‘number one fan’, he wasn’t joking! If she didn’t live on another continent most of the time, I’d have feared for her safety — talk about stalking!  And people call us obsessives.

The rooms wallpapered with pictures of her, half of them with his face photoshopped over Dax Shepard’s, or whoever she’s with —  creepy or what?  It was so tempting to rip them all down, but the last thing we wanted was for him — for any of the three bastards — to know we’d been in their houses.

We didn’t leave Nick until last just because he only lived an hour or so from our home.  He was the last of our persecutors — and, it turned out, the weirdest.  It’s even annoying that it wasn’t even Shepard’s presence in the film that he cared about!  He’d have been better suited to Idiocracy, but he didn’t seem to know that one — because she wasn’t in it, no doubt.

But now it’s all over for him too, and it won’t be long before they find his body, and not long after that before even our dimwitted police can trace the car that ran him over — and reversed over him a couple of times for good measure.  I’m so proud of my Gary for so many things, even his driving.  And checking there were a good few cctv cameras on the route Mr Trott took from the pub quiz night to his cottage.

So, once I print this off, I shall head up the wooden hill and join poor, lovely Gary in bed and we can take a last, fatal drink together.  If my chemistry is as good as his computer skills, it will be a quick and painless end, and all our worries will be over at last.

Then, when our bodies are discovered, the boys in blue will understand the connection between three apparently random killings, in the West Country, Wales and East Anglia.  And the public will see that they were far from random, far from motiveless, far from unjustified, and maybe all those who treated us like shit will feel a pang of remorse.

Ah well, that’s it then.  Goodbye, oh so cruel world.

[Diary of Martha Taylor, November 21 2015]

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He might have known almost as much as my Gary about Adam Sandler movies, including the first bloody films he even had bit parts in, but that didn’t help quiz geek Merlin Pritchard survive the icy waters of Cardiff Bay last night.  Maybe he could have swum to safety, had Gary not knocked him out — and tied his arms together — and put a plastic bag over his head — that was 5p we didn’t mind paying.  Hessian bags for life are great for everything except suffocation, lol!

We were very excited to find he worked at the Welsh Assembly and caught the last water taxi from there to near his family home opposite the rugby stadium. It’s not the busiest transport at this chilly time of year, but certainly the most appropriate on which to punish Mr P for being such a smartarse.  Our lives may be ruined, but, in return for his part in that, his parents are going to have a miserable Christmas — then again at least they’ll have a Christmas — and more to come.

And at least he had a family, come to think of it.  Neither Gary nor I have seen our respective ‘rents for years, not even when we asked them for help after he lost his job again and his IT tutoring business lost all its stupid clients.  Not to mention that Merlin seems to have been welcome in his local pub quiz team — the one we two could have slaughtered, if we weren’t smart enough not to draw too much attention to ourselves when we joined in.  Coming third was enough to let him know we were around, even though he’d have no idea who we were, nor how our lives (and his pending death) had become intertwined. Some time next year his folks might get to see our finest hour, but I doubt they’ll feel like watching.

Of course once his body’s dragged out the water, people might recall the fracas on the boat, when I caused a diversion by ranting and raving about nothing at the sharp end, and Gary did the business at the stern and lowered him quietly into the Taff; but we live two hundred miles away, and have no connection with him or the area, nor, as far as ordinary, unimaginative, ignorant folk can tell, any reason to want the Welsh sod dead anyway.

In a few weeks people might link the ‘mad’ woman to his last trip, but by then it’ll be too late. And it won’t be the first time I’ll have been called mad, but once the full facts are known, it should be the last.

[Diary of Martha Taylor, November 11, 2015]

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People have always been overfond of pointing out that neither Gary nor myself is particularly slender or light.  I like to think that may have been Sheryl Keaton’s last impression of us, as Gary pinned her body to the floor and I sat on the pillow over her face.  Of course we hope she was paying attention to our patient explanation of our visit, and its connection to the film in which her namesake, Diane of that ilk, played an overbearing mother to Dax Shephard, my husband’s favourite comedy actor.  We tried to impress on her that the rewards of knowledge, based on real appreciation of ability, should not be thwarted by some passing interest based on a coincidence of name, especially when those rewards could have meant the difference between happiness and misery — or, in our cases, life and bloody death.

But I don’t supposed she’d have cared, any more than anyone else.  Just two speccy, overweight nerds, obsessed with quizzes, computers and science — fact and fiction.  Well, thanks to computer skills we found her and thanks to weight, we showed her!

Exeter’s a nice town.

[Diary of Martha Taylor, November 10 2015]

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Everybody thinks those guys are so nice and amiable, but they seemed cold to us.  Their ‘sympathy’ at our failure seemed more like gloating to me.  And all our detail about why we needed the money so much, all the things that had gone wrong of late which we could have fixed with that windfall, and how screwed we’d be without it — I bet all that gets left out, and we’ll end up looking like greedy, geeky, boring whingers.  Again.

We’ll soon see about that.  I kept them talking — droning on they probably called it but the joke was on them and their fake politeness — ‘cos while I distracted them, Gary managed to find out where the lists were kept and noted the names we needed to know.  You can’t just let people ruin your lives, and do nothing.

When people see the programme, I wonder if they’ll understand?

[Diary of Martha Taylor, July 21 2015]

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ALEXANDER ARMSTRONG:
So, Gary and Martha, you didn’t manage to find that all-important pointless answer, but not only have you come through to the final with record low scores, and a two-nil success in the head-to-head, but you’ve come as close as you possibly could to winning our biggest ever jackpot which now rolls over to the next show, when we’ll be playing for twenty six thousand pounds [whoops from audience].  But at least you can take a Pointless trophy home each, which is some compensation.  Richard …

RICHARD OSMAN:
Yes, hard luck, guys, an amazing performance all round, and such bad luck to get three one-point answers in the final — and I can tell you that — Smother, Going Overboard, Hit and Run — it was a different one of our hundred each time. Yeah, I know, frustrating, eh?

But let’s look at the pointless answers you could have had, starting with Will Ferrell — you’d have thought, wouldn’t you, his films’d be better known than Drax Shepard’s, but maybe you should have gone with him, there are some surprising ones here and you mentioned a couple …

[Transcript from Pointless, Series 14, BBC1.  Filmed July 10 2015.  Never transmitted.]

 

By way of explanation, for folks who’ve never heard of it, Pointless is a BBC quiz show in which contestants in pairs give questions to assorted types of question.  The same questions had been put to 100 correspondents online before the show, and points are awarded depending on how many of this group identified that element, country, fact, whatever.  The highest scoring pair are eliminated from each round.  A wrong answer scores 100 and a pointless answer, one that none of the hundred gave, scores zero and increase the jackpot (which goes up a thousand pounds per show until someone wins it) by £250.

The couple who win the show get a trophy each and a chance to play for the jackpot. They are given a choice of categories (in this case, US comedy actors), and then a three-option question like, as here, name any film for which Adam Sandler, Drax Shepard or Will Ferrell have an acting credit. In this case if any of their three answers is pointless, they win the jackpot.  Usually the winnings happen every three or four shows, so average three or four grand.  Occasionally someone will get painfully close with each answer, but, as far as we know, no one has been quite so pissed off as Gary and Martha here.

Next week we get back to your genial bloggist and his general musings about the nature of democracy.  A concept which is now very much in a worldwide spotlight.

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