The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman

My Nominees for the US and UK Elections and Other Waffle

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Tue, 31 Oct 2023 15:36:00 +0000

It's the early hours of the morning, and I have had a large gin...

Late-night alcohol is always a good recipe for writing gibberish. And I have not written gibberish for a while on my blog as I have been busy writing gibberish for my MA in Comedy Writing. Which I recently passed with a distinction. Yay!

Yes, it transpires that even academics can be fooled into thinking gibberish is genius. Excellent.

So anyway, I have written two sitcoms, a short film, a sketch show and a comedy-drama pilot for a series. Now, I have to see if I can get a producer or broadcaster interested in one or more of them. That's the tricky part. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in having written them and knowing that at least they made the examiners laugh.

Now, onto other matters. God, the world is chaos. I can't think of any time in my life when the UK and the world have been in such dire need of a complete reset. War in Europe, war in the Middle East, the evergrowing impact of climate change, economic recession, rising fuel prices and woke wars. 1300% rise in antisemitism in the UK since October 7th.

What a miserable world it is at the moment.

I can't even release the tension by looking at The Daily Mail's "Wall of Shame" because I haven't even heard of 95% of the people on it. I am actually thinking of taking out a subscription to SAGA instead. I guess I might as well read about cheap funeral plans and medical insurance for the over 50s.

It's a wonder I could find anything funny to write about for my MA. Especially since comedy and comedians are frequently being attacked by the woke ideologists. I was so disappointed by Richard Curtis apologising for writing jokes about fat people the other day, which was primarily a reference to his script for the film Bridget Jones Diary.

Which is based on the book by Helen Fielding. A woman.

I really thought Richard Curtis had more gumption. Turns out he hasn't. I don't know what he has even got to fear, considering he's made his fortune, and if he never writes anything again, he won't be short of a bob or two.

Kudos to J K Rowling: A woman of steel and principles. It's a shame women don't have more positions of power. Maybe the world wouldn't be full of dictators and power-hungry nut jobs.

Rant over. (Temporarily, anyway.)

Anyway, it was relatively easy to find funny stuff to write about for my MA. There is still a lot that is funny in the world. I used a lot of my personal experiences as a jumping board for ideas and then let my imagination do the rest. And I don't worry about who I might offend in my personal writing and whether I am PC or not. I am too old to worry about that, and what's more, I believe the average person is capable of distinguishing when a joke is actually a joke and not an offensive diatribe. We need to laugh at ourselves and others - if we don't, we'll all go mad or end up like one of those who seem to find offence in everything. No doubt they could even find offence in their own reflections if they tried.

On a completely unrelated matter, when I see pictures of Vladimir Putin, I can't help thinking of Davros from Dr Who. I reckon Putin does use body doubles of his younger self, and below is what he actually looks like now.

The blue ball is apparently an eye. I think it's actually where Putin's frontal lobotomy went wrong, and they had to insert a giant marble to fill up the vacuum.

To be fair to Putin, he does seem to possess more of his marbles than Biden. Of course, that isn't hard. Let's face it: anyone who makes Biden look like a genius can't be functioning to the best of his ability. Or be functioning at all. I am gobsmacked that either of them is still alive, considering Putin seems to have had every illness possible, according to The Daily Fail. And Biden...well, he does a superb impression of the living dead. How can he possibly run for office again? You might as well elect Big Bird.

My proposed candidates for the next US Election

Big Bird - "I've Got A Beak, And I'm Prepared To Use It," Party. (Pretty sure he'll negotiate the exodus of grain supplies from Ukraine.)

Joey from Friends - The "How Ya Doin'?" Party - (Why not? He might be thick, but he's got a tuxedo and the ladies like him. He can also say his lines properly.)

Taylor Swift - The "Musical Chairs" Party - (I just want to hear the break-up music when she gets kicked out of office.)

My Proposed Candidates for the next UK Election

Dr Who - "The Sonic Screwdriver Party" (Well, nothing else has worked correcting the wrongs, so we might as well try the screwdriver.)

Jimmy Carr - "The Jokers" Party (Oh, come on - we all want to hear some jokes about Putin's mum.)

Hugh Grant - "The Dance Moves" Party. (Hugh's got real rhythm and grove. So, even if he screwed up more than the current bunch of wasters, at least we'd all get fit.)

Right, time to check out the latest news headlines...

ARGH...................................................................................

Less is More (well that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it)

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Thu, 02 Feb 2023 22:54:00 +0000

I've been practising my haikus, which you may recall, I'm not particularly good at. However, I wanted to address the woke issue in a concise, meaningful way as it is such a serious matter for discussion and particularly relevant to me as a comic writer.

Which, if you know me, translates as:

1) I'm too lazy to write a long analytical post.

And

2) I'd rather watch a movie and eat tortilla chips.

However, I feel obliged to say my part. So here goes, and I am pleased to say that in the writing of the following haiku, I broke my own speed record!

45 seconds. Awesome. I might get 2 movies in tonight.

Ok, here goes with the haiku.

Man, I'm so fed up
with this bat-shit wokey stuff
head in the oven

Now, where are my tortilla chips?

Sixteen Years On

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Sun, 08 Jan 2023 21:12:00 +0000

So this post is just going to be a stream of possibly (wildly erratic) thoughts. So hang on to your breeches; we could go anywhere with them.

Cripes, I only managed three posts last year. And I call myself a writer? Pathetic! Though, to be fair to me, almost everyone who was blogging with me in 2007/8 no longer blogs or blogs even less than I do now. A few later blogs are still going, so kudos to those writers because it is difficult finding time and inspiration when life gets in the way. I have actually now been writing this blog for sixteen years. Oh. Dear. God. Just think of all that crap out there on the Internet for my kids to read after I peg it. (Ho, ho, ho.)

So you may be wondering if I'm still writing. Indeed I am, although I'm not working at full speed yet as life has been very complicated for many years, and I'm only just beginning to get back into the flow. I'm actually in the final legs of an MA in Comedy Writing. (It's the first of its kind.) I've written a short film, 2 sitcom pilots with series outlines, and a sketch show. My final and last project will be an hour-long comedy-drama which will probably be part of a film script. The idea of the MA was to provide me with some structure after my rather long absence. The MA can't teach you how to be funny - it examines strategies and structures, and, overall, is about how to produce professional work that TV and film producers might want to read rather than"how to be funny". When I've finished, I hope to have a portfolio of work that someone, somewhere, might like. One of my objectives is to write a film script for Gerard Butler. I mean, why not? (Ho hum.) Obviously, I want to be one of those writers actively involved in the project. I'm quite happy to participate in the casting procedure (and if Mr Butler needs a dresser, I'd be quite happy to perform that arduous task too.)

God. 300 is an awesome film. Like Gladiator. Fantastic.

Cripes. Maybe I'm actually a man if I like those types of gory films?

Hmm...talking about gender identity is not a good idea. Even this old big mouth knows talking about it is a no-goer if you don't want to be cancelled or strung up by your bits and pummelled with verbal abuse and mouldy prunes.

Anyway, it's good to know that whilst my ovaries might be like pickled onions at my age, my imagination is not. Well, not when it comes to Gerard Butler. In fact, I propose a new title in the Whitehouse/London/Angel has Fallen series. How about Housewife Has Fallen. Obviously, it would be about a housewife who has fallen from the top floor of her executive detached home, forced to work all hours of the night and day in numerous jobs and flog her jewellery to support her children before discovering that her ex (known as X) is plotting world domination (his strategy of doing absolutely nothing means the world is likely to explode through catastrophic climate change). Enter Gerard Butler as Mike Banning, a hot fifty-something secret service agent, who must solicit the attention of The Housewife to take on X and a host of corrupt politicians and oil barons, in some gun-toting action-packed sequences.

If there is any doubt, I can confirm it will be an x-rated movie.

Onto other matters. My God, all this Harry and Meghan gossip in the news is driving me insane. Is there anyone on this planet who isn't close to blowing their brains out to try and avoid the next sordid revelation? Also, I am disgusted that Harry's publishers have allowed him to talk about his "kills" in Afghanistan. Anyone with half a brain should realize that that claim could have serious security repercussions. Someone at the top of Random should have vetoed it, whether or not Harry might have had editorial control. I think the inclusion of that statement just shows how vulnerable and misguided Harry is - he really does need to be brought back into the family fold to be protected from himself. Unfortunately, that seems unlikely to happen while he's still married.

What else has been going on this past year? Oh...Ukraine. Not a subject to be flippant about. However, here's an interesting fact. Putin is the same height as Tom Cruise.

I, therefore, take back, on bended knee, every joke and subtle dig I have ever made at Tom's expense over the last 16 years (and there's been quite a few) because, quite clearly, compared to Putin, Tom is completely sane. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that Tom, being the daredevil he is, is probably the only man brave enough to take out Putin given half the chance. I cannot believe some of the stunts he does - you've got to hand it to him. What a star. I reckon he should shoot himself over Russia using the US missile defence system, parachute into the Kremlin and take on Putin in hand-to-hand combat. It would be almost a fair fight, sizewise at least. Tom, of course, is 60, so he has a slight advantage over Putin, who is 70, but I figure it will be evened out by the time Tom's taken out several hundred heavily armed Russian bodyguards and disarmed the nuclear weapons system as he'll probably be a little tired and sweaty.

Wait a minute - what about if Tom parachuted in wearing a Putin mask - like the replica masks in the Mission Impossible films? Oh God that would be awesome. Two Putins, each one trying to convince an array of armed psychotic killers he is the real Putin and shoot the other instead. Blimey - that would be a nail-biter. World peace might all boil down to whether or not Tom can master a Russian accent.

Ok, what else has been going on in the world? Well, here in the UK, we have had three prime ministers in a year. Johnson, Truss and Sunak. (Sounds like some second-rate one-hit-wonder folk band from the late 1960s.) I feel a little bit sorry for Liz Truss. Being a tad too eager to make her mark, she screwed her term up, although I think it is also probably fair to say Sunak's ascendency looks like it was planned for some time, and a state-educated woman without much verbal dexterity was probably not going to last long anyway in a house dominated by over-privileged white males. Truss, unfortunately, was no Thatcher, and we all know that Thatcher outclassed and worked harder than all her male party rivals.

Sunak has been having it easy so far as with Harry and Meghan dominating the headlines for weeks, he's been let off lightly as the UK continues to sink into a monumental decline. The state of the UK and, indeed, the world is depressing. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to write any comedy at all after looking at the news headlines. But then I come across articles like THIS, and I am revitalised. If you can't be bothered to read it, let me tell you it's about an 88-year-old Frenchman who stuck a WW11 shell (bomb) up his arse for sexual pleasure. The shell measured 8 inches long by 2 inches wide.

Painful.

I don't know what to be more amazed at - the fact at 88, he still has urges, or that he had the physical strength and agility to manoeuvre it up his backside (Perhaps he just plunged himself on it after perhaps securing the shell to a vice) or that he had the courage to call for the assistance given his unusual predicament.

Mind you, if you get thrills from shoving an explosive up your arse, then perhaps visiting casualty with your y-fronts around your ankles and declaring, "Excuse Monsieur, do you 'ave a bombe disposal unit 'ere. I 'ave inadvertently sat on a bombe" is probably not going to cause too much embarrassment.

Anyway, clearly, this 88-year-old Frenchman was not on the frontline defending the border from the Nazis when they invaded, as, without a doubt, that sort of mad courage would provoke fear amongst even the most resolute of invaders. You certainly wouldn't want to get involved in any hand-to-hand combat. Imagine being clubbed by a shell retrieved from someone's anus.

You know, I kinda fancy seeing Tom Cruise parachuting into the Kremlin with an explosive up his backside.

Now that would make one terrific film.

Are You Having A Laugh?

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Fri, 25 Mar 2022 18:45:00 +0000

An ex-secret service agent with a personality problem and a desire for imperial glory.

An aged president who looks like he's got a giant fork prong stuck up his arse to keep him upright.

A floppy-haired bumbling classics graduate with a predisposition for crass decisions.

A tinpot dictator who showcases his weapons like a movie trailer.

A comedian who has found himself elevated to global status.

If the world wasn't on the brink of war this surely would be the cast list of a first-class situation comedy.

What Happened to My Wine Gums?

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Fri, 11 Mar 2022 00:30:00 +0000

Since my post earlier last night, I've been sorting my books and CDs, which until recently have been still packed in my basement in my new home.

The basement (or glorified cellar if you wish) was one of the attractions of my new home - providing a place where I could hoard all my crap. I don't use the word "crap" lightly, as it would indeed be crap to most people. However, I rather like hanging onto my personal crap. Most of which is a multitude of books. Of course, my books were about the only things the Ex didn't request in the divorce settlement, so I still have them. Then again, maybe that's not surprising given his reading material mainly consisted of car manuals and supermarket receipts.

God, I am so restrained. After 5 years of divorce hell, I don't know how I've managed to remain so diplomatic. Is there a Nobel peace prize for restraint in the face of a divorce? If so, I should definitely get it.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say was - I'd been sorting out some books when I decided I had done enough work to give myself a treat. So I got out a packet of wine gums which are one of my favourite treats. This particular packet had grabbed my attention because it said "30 % less sugar" on the packaging. So I opened the packet and peered inside, hoping to spot a black or red sweet.

I was mortified.

I have deduced that the manufacturers have produced 30% less sugar sweets simply by reducing the number of sweets by 30%.

I know it's a tough world out there at the moment, but that is pretty bloody miserly. So I say - send all those 30% less sugar packets to Russia and let the Duma experience real hardship. I reckon with no Big Macs and no decent wine gums to chew on Putin will be gone before the year is out.

Timely Reflections

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Thu, 10 Mar 2022 22:27:00 +0000

Contrary to my post last year saying I was back in the writing business, my time writing on my blog has been limited. Mainly that's because after moving home, I started a new job with a national charity which subsequently sucked up all my time and energy. It left very little time for me to pursue my MA where I was not totally exhausted. So several weeks ago, I made the decision to leave so I could do myself justice in my MA. I was offered a part-time job in the cultural sector, which I accepted.

The next day Russia invaded Ukraine.

Several weeks later and 4 days into my new job, I've concluded I made the right decision even though a part-time job means I will have to live frugally at least until my MA finishes. I listen to the news and watch the terrible events unfolding in Ukraine, and my mind races through all the possible scenarios of how this war may play out. There is no end that does not involve the suffering of many people.

So today, I am grateful to be alive. To live in a country that upholds freedom and democracy. That I've survived a brutal divorce, a health scare, numerous stressful and exhausting jobs and escaped covid. I'm grateful I have a roof over my head, the opportunity to further my education, 3 wonderful sons and, hopefully, will live long enough to look back on these last few tumultuous years with philosophical eyes.

Tomorrow I begin the race to catch up on my MA. My first project, a short film script, needs tweaking, but it has been suggested it is good enough to make the grade. Fingers crossed. My second, a pilot for a sitcom needs committing to paper. The sequel to The Changing Room needs finishing, as does my psychological thriller.

Time is of the essence. These last few weeks have shown that we never know what is around the corner. I'm just grateful that, in my case, it's not a tank or missile.

Birdsong to Wokesong

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Thu, 14 Oct 2021 00:21:00 +0000

Many years ago, I read Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. It's a terrific, emotive book that now sits on school syllabuses alongside other past literary masterpieces. If you've not read it then you've missed out.

Anyhow, a few years later, whilst at The Cheltenham Literary Festival (a very prominent cultural affair in the UK), I happened to see Sebastian Faulks close up. I was climbing the stairs to take my seat early for his forthcoming talk, and to my surprise, I saw him seated in a room off the stairwell. He glanced up, and we looked at each other for a moment, and then I carried on walking up the stairs. I suspect he was wondering if I recognised him and whether I was going to solicit his attention for an autograph. Awkward. In fact, I was actually thinking, "He looks strangely attractive for a guy with red curly hair." (I'd been binge drinking the night before.)

Now, if I had been thinking more strategically, I could have offered my "services" for a leg up in the literary world or (if I had been feeling particularly demonic) I could have offered to proofread his forthcoming novel for free and send his career into literary freefall.

Anyway, it was a disappointment to read HERE in The Daily Mail that Sebastian said at this year's Lit Fest he had stopped describing women in his writing and that he felt liberated by it. Apparently, a female academic at a previous festival in 2018 had challenged his "right" to write about women. Subsequently, Sebastian reviewed his position.

So basically, Sebastian caved into some woke woman who wanted to silence one of the greatest living writers of our times because she's offended. So no more descriptions of women by Sebastian. Humph. How miserable and boring! Personally, I found some of his descriptions jolly amusing.

It must be bloody miserable to be a white middle-class man at the moment. So miserable that one of our greatest authors can't even raise his pen above the parapet to describe a woman in a work of fiction without some woke extremist getting her bloomers in a twist.

It seems to me that lately, the issue of gender identity is growing like an uncontrollable cancer. It appears it is rapidly becoming a breeding ground of intolerance that is adversely affecting the arts and the areas of academia that seek to debate and nurture critical thinking.

Where does this repression end?

It ends with a very few dictating our thoughts and actions. A minority dictating to a majority who fear repercussions. People afraid to laugh. People afraid to speak. People afraid to even whisper.

Hmm. Sounds rather like fascism to me.

Surely it's imperative in a free, democratic, society that the voices of artists, writers, musicians, free-thinking academics and philosophers are allowed to speak openly. To debate. It is also vital, in my opinion, that successful ones like Sebastian stand up and be counted. Sebastian might well feel liberated - but somehow I suspect that is the liberation that comes with knowing he's not going to be verbally stoned and have his books burnt rather than the liberation of not writing descriptions of women.

Enough said. Now I'm off to write my upcoming novel. It's going to be a novel about a white middle-class woman who falls in love with a white middle-class male author who unfortunately turns out to have no balls. (Not sure if a lack of balls counts as a disability and whether I'm on dangerous ground.) Anyhow, I'm struggling to describe the absence of balls as obviously I don't have any. Of course, I could use my imagination, but let's just say when it comes to balls, I prefer tennis balls anyway - they're not as hairy and you can't choke on them.

And so I return...

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Tue, 12 Oct 2021 22:00:00 +0000

The lights have been out on this blog for over a year, but now, at last, I return. I do so to remember what creative writing is like and unlock the key to my imagination. Where else better to do that than here, where my journey began 14 years ago.

So, with a glass of gin in hand, let me begin.

So first, there are two subjects to cover. Although I shall probably only cover them briefly here, it is almost impossible not to mention them. They are Covid 19 and my divorce. No doubt I will return to them again in due course.

Fortunately, my immediate and extended family and I have been unaffected by Covid except in small, recoverable doses. But, regrettably, a number of my friends and acquaintances have lost relatives, and my former brother-in-law was hospitalised in intensive care. So, if you have lost relatives or perhaps are now suffering long covid, I offer you my sincerest condolences.

Secondly, on August 27th this year, I finally received my Decree Absolute. Almost 5 years since my separation. And now - sit back - my legal fees were a staggering £55,000. That's around $74,000. Those costs came out of my divorce settlement, which I had to fight for until almost the bitter end. It is a ridiculous amount of money to spend over a relatively tiny pot of cash, but when one party fails to cooperate, if you want a vaguely fair resolution, then you have to fight for it.

I have learnt quite a lot about family law, especially how it fails to protect the weaker party, and I am not impressed. I will be elaborating on this at a future date. It's possible I may get some of my costs back as I have an ongoing case being investigated by the Legal Ombudsmen for negligence against my first legal team. Their mishandling of my papers meant I had to secure other legal representation, which proved vastly more expensive. However, ultimately, those extraordinary costs were incurred because my former husband did not want to give me a fair settlement and consistently delayed proceedings by not producing his paperwork so that my solicitor had to undertake more work in pursuit of them.

I would say he adopted the same attitude to the divorce proceedings as he did throughout our marriage on any matter of importance, and that is a total unwillingness to discuss any topic of significance. Ultimately, he has stripped me of the ability to give our sons the support I could have done. As the mother of his children, he should have known that I would always put our sons' wellbeing before my own, but the fact he didn't even want to give me a fair settlement speaks volumes of just how little he cared for me but for our sons too. In the end, he couldn't rise above his own disinterest and bitterness to do the right thing.

I have not talked about my divorce at length in the past for fear of upsetting my children, but they are all adults now, and they have not only been a witness to my trials they too have first-hand experience of the hardship and financial struggles we have endured these last 5 years. My youngest son especially has suffered far too much, which simultaneously makes me extraordinarily sad and enrages me. He was a staggeringly good tennis player with national titles, but through lack of finances, I was unable to salvage his tennis career. His academics were seriously affected, and last year he was diagnosed with a rare illness called erythromelalgia.

Through a financial contribution from my brother-in-law, I was able to salvage his elder brother's tennis career. Subsequently, because of his tennis achievement in the US college league, where he became a top 10 NAIA player, reached the nationals and achieved All American status, he is now studying for an MBA in the US on a full scholarship. I often wonder how my younger son must feel knowing he was the better player. I can say that too without offending his brother, who would often say that his younger brother was more talented. Luckily, all I can say is that my youngest son was born with my sense of humour and he is very resilient. I am pretty sure the majority of children would not have taken so many kicks in the teeth as well. I am more proud of him and my other sons now than I have ever been.

So, at this point in time, I have moved way up North in the UK and have bought a cheap nondescript terrace where I can live with minimal costs. I am currently not working in a conventional 9-5 sense as my health is shot to pieces, and it is now time to look after myself.

So, where do I go from here? Is there any laughter left in the former Mrs T?

Well yes!

Luckily my sense of humour has never totally deserted me, but it has been very hard at times to find it when the odds have been against me. However, to fully unlock the key to my comedy writing, I have signed up for a brand new MA course. It's the only one of its kind in the UK. It is being run by a well-known comedy producer with all the right connections to get me up and running again. So, I need to start writing. I need to break through the barrier of silence, and this is why I have returned now to The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman.

So I have a vast amount to talk about. I have missed commentating on so much these last five years: Brexit, Trump, Johnson, Covid 19, the rise of wokeism (ugh)...even tiny Tom Cruise and Kim Kardashian's arse!

But of course, my experiences mean I also have a lot to say about other matters, especially feminism, the legal system, ageism, women's careers, sexism and so on.

So I have plenty to say. Yes indeed. And in my own particular style.

So join me here on The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman as finally I move forward and unleash, once more, my verbal assaults upon the world!

Ebook of Fantasia is Free on Kindle

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Fri, 15 Jan 2021 18:45:00 +0000

My short story Fantasia is free to download as an ebook on Kindle for five days. Please feel free to share with friends and anyone who might be interested. It's already gone to no 1 in the free children's environment with just a few downloads. It would be lovely to see it there a little longer. Any reviews would be most welcome!

Bad Poetry 2: A Tale of Terrible Misfortune

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Fri, 20 Nov 2020 00:27:00 +0000

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 surrender!”

“Not you again, Dominic

You’re a number one prick!”

Said Keir as he summoned the judge

“We’re done with this fudge.

And you and your visionless glasses.”

Then out of the chambers came Her Majesty

To sort out the political travesty

“It is time for the tower

On your knees and cower

You’re a pair of unwholesome arses!”

Down went her thumb

As a guard beat the drum

And Boris and Dom were hauled away

“Let’s do this in style,” said the Queen with a smile

“Take the offenders and whip them in my blenders!”

So this is the end of this sorry tale

Where justice did rightly prevail

There is some last advice

Which I hope will suffice

To ensure this will never repeat

Never, ever, piss off our Queen

She’s old, stubborn and very mean.

And when she is moody

She will mix a smoothie

Made from kale and her secret cream.

What's in a name?

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Wed, 18 Nov 2020 00:29:00 +0000

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.

Which rather appeals. For obvious reasons. Luckily, I can still laugh at myself. I can only thank God and my family genes for blessing me with a sense of humour.

Anyway, I am not sure if Jane Bond is the name but it would certainly fit on the front cover of a book well and I am looking for a name that has a "ring" to it.

If you have any suggestions please do drop me a line or leave a comment. Give it your best shot. I am open to all wild suggestions!

Three Glasses of Wine leads to Bad Poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Mon, 16 Nov 2020 22:18:00 +0000

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 pure comedy gold as is our own Mr Johnson.

Let's see what I can manage tomorrow night after a few drinks. Nominated subject matters welcomed.

Talking About Faces

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Tue, 27 Oct 2020 23:36:00 +0000

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 stack of cash whereas I have two cats, a tea cosy and haemorrhoids.

It's a man's world.

A Boot in the Face

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Sun, 18 Oct 2020 11:00:00 +0000

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 condescending manner ("I think what Mrs Turley is trying to say is...") and, at one point, when I said that the report needed greater clarity so that a layman could understand it, he said he'd never heard of the word "layman".

I assume the point of this rather pathetic act was to try and make me feel foolish and undermine my confidence. Of course, I knew the word existed and that I had used it in exactly the right context. So, I just raised my eyebrows to express my disbelief that the barrister didn't (apparently) know such a word.

The barrister's condescending manner continued. By the end of the meeting, I was tearful and could hardly speak.

Ever since an image has been replaying over and over in my mind. It is the image that accompanies the words below of George Orwell in 1984:

“There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always— do not forget this, Winston— always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face— forever. ”

I think it is time to rewrite that quote:

“There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always— do not forget women of this world, men will always be intoxicated by power. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on a woman who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a man's boot stamping on a woman's face— forever. ”

That readers is the sad truth. The physical strength of men has made them kings, rulers and politicians throughout history. Women all over the world are subjugated by men. Their genitals are mutilated, they are assaulted, raped and murdered to satisfy the lust and greed of men. Women are second class citizens ruled by men and their egos.

I am tired of being the understanding, empathetic wife doing the "right thing" and conforming to my Catholic upbringing and traditional values.

I am a very patient person. But on Wednesday something finally snapped. I am done with being a patient, empathetic woman. I am not going to be bullied by my husband or his barrister. I don't care if I walk away with nothing from my marriage because I will have the love of my children and I will still have my voice.

No one is going to stamp on my face anymore.

And I will use my voice to its best effect.

E is for (Non ) Erotic

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Thu, 09 Apr 2020 23:26:00 +0000

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 I am probably very, very desperate for sex.) However, I am somewhat relieved Boris is making a recovery. It would have been awful if his condition had continued to worsen. I would have felt guilty somehow - killed by my enthusiasm for sex!

On balance, I suppose because Boris has been mentioned in the news 24 hours a day for weeks perhaps it's not surprising. We are also the same age so I suppose somehow I was willing him to live as a reflection of my own life and mortality.

Still, sex with Boris? I don't even fancy him! I think I need to see a psychiatrist. LOL.

D is for Dressed for Kill

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Wed, 08 Apr 2020 23:05:00 +0000

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' washable thick felt-tip pen great for eyeliner. (If you've not got one of those try a permanent marker and save yourself a daily chore. I also recommend a mirror which at least X20 magnification, especially if you wear glasses otherwise you'll look like Coco the Clown.)

So anyway, in this time of lockdown, when there is not much to be happy about not having to put my make-up on and iron a mountain of clothes for my boys is one small benefit. Yay! My utility room no longer looks like a laundrette hit by a freight train. In fact, the only clothes I iron are the ones I wear for the two nights week I work in a supermarket.

Yes, I am working in a supermarket. It's a bit of risk when there's pandemic on, but where needs must. We'll talk about that another day.

Anyway, on other days when I am home, I'm generally looking like a total scruff. I am not sure if my elderly neighbours are more afraid of the pandemic or the unrecognizable women walking up and down the street looking like a cross between Worzel Gummidge, the scarecrow, and a potential murderer.

But hey it's great. I can wear the same trousers for days! And (cough, cough) I think I've worn some knickers for two days running. My mother did always tell me to wear clean knickers every day in case I got run over by a bus but there are no buses running around here so I've no worries now. Hurrah!

Well not unless I get Covid 19, in which case it won't just be me who needs a ventilator.

*********

Stay safe, everyone. And God bless all our wonderful medical staff all over the world.

C is for Cabbage and Caterpillars

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Sat, 04 Apr 2020 15:40:00 +0000

After my post on A where I explored the use of shrivelled apples in my fridge in this time of lockdown, I thought you might like to see one of my other creative recipes.

So basically, last week when I was looking desperately in the fridge to see what concoction I could manufacture from the rotting contents, I discovered two well-past-the sell-by-date cabbages. You know, where the outer leaves have gone yellow and look as appetising as a snot-covered handkerchief.

Anyway, times are hard. So, I tossed the cabbages in the air with gay abandonment and consulted my recipe book for a dish where the ingredients consisted of two mouldy old cabbages and very little else.

Sadly, there were none. I did think about disguising the mouldiness in vinegar and making sauerkraut. However, I've got to be honest, pickled cabbage holds no appeal to me. I gather sauerkraut is a German dish - so maybe I shouldn't be surprised it's only marginally less offensive than a blitzkrieg.

So, folks. I settled on the easy option.

Cabbage soup.

Luckily, I had all the other ingredients I needed: water and salt.

So, to make my delicious cabbage soup, all you need to do is:

1. Chop up your cabbage. You may or may not wat to check for caterpillars first depending on your protein requirements. Personally, I couldn't be bothered. I just went for it with a large knife.

2. Shove it in a pan with some water and salt. Bring to the boil and then simmer so the caterpillars rise to the surface and you can decide whether to leave them there or fish them out and use them to stuff some out-of-date vol-au vents which you can have as starters. Alternatively, you can puree them and pass them off as pesto.

3. When you have done that you'll end up at this stage:

Ugh. Doesn't look that appetising.

4. So the next step is to liquidise it!

Waiting to go into the blender.

I forgot to screw on the base section to the cup. Whoops.

5. Finally, you end up with a delicious soup:

A hearty, warm meal in the worst of times. Yay!

So there you have it. Cabbage soup. Bring on the million-pound contract for my Guide to Economical Cooking!

April A to Z : B is for Baloney and Bog Rolls.

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Thu, 02 Apr 2020 21:30:00 +0000

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 at Sainsbury's bought the lot.

I hope they get diarrhoea

Which runs down their leg

And smells like putrified egg

Then I will be happy

Even as I wear my nappy.

As I said, nonsense.

A is for Arseholes and Apples.

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Wed, 01 Apr 2020 20:31:00 +0000

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 that kinda looked like shrivelled testicles in the back of my fridge. Now in normal circumstances, I would probably try to lob them into the bin from about 2 metres but because of the extraordinary circumstances the world finds itself in and I three adult sons to feed on about a tenner a week I went:

"Yayyyyyyyyy! Food! Oh dear God. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Then I raided the freezer to see if there was anything that could accompany four shrivelled ~~testicles~~ apples.

And I found some blackcurrants. Now I am not sure how old these blackcurrants are but I would say anywhere between 3 and 15 years old.

So folks, I am in the process of making apple and blackcurrant crumble. I hope. I say this as I am not sure how old my flour is yet. It may be like cement.

If I do not appear here tomorrow is not because I have been hit by Covid 19 (yet and, hopefully, never) but because I succumbed to food poisoning.

Stay safe, Everyone. See you tomorrow.

Ps. Anyone who thought the title of this blog was leading to something else needs to clean-up their thoughts.

A Word Of Not So Serious Warning

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Sat, 14 Mar 2020 17:15:00 +0000

On April 1st, which is April Fool's Day here in the UK, this blog reopens for business as I rejoin the virtual world in the April A to Z blogging challenge.

So whilst you are in lockdown, gnashing your teeth on the last of your dried cream crackers and wiping your arse on the pages of Fifty Shades of Grey, you can join me here on The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman where I shall be providing my own unique view on the world as I see it. We've got a lot to talk about.

As usual, there will be no rhyme or reason to any of the subject matters I will tackle. It will be whatever pops into my mind on the day. And if I'm bored and my brain is befuddled, I will be posting pictures of hunky men in their underpants.

So nothing to lose then by dropping by if you're a woman. If you're a man, brace yourself it could be a bumpy ride.

And if there's anyone who wants to throw a topic into the brewing pot now. Drop me a line below.

2019 update.

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Sun, 24 Nov 2019 13:28:00 +0000

I was clearing down some of my emails this morning while I was looking for a particular email and came across a number of emails dating back to my early blogging days. It brought me back here to my blog and remembering the immense fun I used to have blogging and reading blogs from all around the world. Sadly, most of those blogs have now died out.

After 12 years of blogging, I don't want mine to die out, so here I am with an update.

In October, my Decree Nisi was passed by the Family Court. It has taken this long as I have had far too many problems and obstacles to overcome - getting divorced was the least of my problems.

For example, since September 2016, I have had 7 jobs.

Job no 1 (4 months) - Left to join a rival company (Job no 2) for a higher salary. The company sub-contracted me to another. (Job 3)

After 3 months the company, I was originally contracted to (Job 2) went into administration. Several days later, the company I had been subcontracted to offered me employment which became Job No 4. They also subcontracted me to work for another firm which, in effect, was Job no 5.

Nine months later, the two companies I was working for decided to withdraw from the shopping centre in which I was based. I was made redundant with a week's salary.

I was unemployed for about 3 weeks. It was an awful time. I was depressed and hit rock bottom. Then the employer of Job no 3/4 offered me a short-term contract working in London - Job no 6. I was promoted to Acting Manager, but I was paying a fortune to travel into London and working with people who had a zero-work ethos. So, when I got the chance to leave three months later, I moved to go to Job no 7. Job no 7 provided some stability on a better wage but was problematic in that it was on zero-hours and I never knew how long it would last.

So in July this year, I was laid off with no redundancy and no job to go to. I was unemployed for 4 months. I applied for numerous jobs, had countless interviews. All of which went well. One interviewer even told me I was the strongest candidate, but they didn't have the money to pay me a decent salary so they offered it to someone else. I came to the conclusion that it is still very much an ageist, sexist society even here in the UK. Even women employers are ageist - young women are often insecure and fearful of older women with more life and work experiences so they employ younger people who can be easily managed and manipulated.

Eventually, after numerous interviews and rejections, I finally got a job (no 8) which I started 2 weeks ago. It is a store manager's job paying a school leaver's wage. It requires a lot of physical labour.

I am now knackered and broke.

Despite this, I don't regret ending my marriage. In fact, if anything, it has proved it was precisely the right thing to do because my husband's behaviour since our separation vindicates my decision. In the three years since leaving this area, he has not once come to visit our children. He has never voluntarily offered any help, pays whatever he feels like paying into the joint account and in the 4 legal meditation sessions behaved like an ass not producing the financial documents required by law on time. Bizarrely, during the last session, he seemed to think the onus was on me to verify he didn't own his car - most people would just produce their company car documents. At that point, and when he made it clear he didn't think I should have more than 50% of the house equity despite the fact the boys live with me, my income expectations are much lower than his, I have no pension of any note, no income at that time and no wealthy family to fall back on or live rent-free with (as he does) it was apparent mediation was just a time-wasting effort.

However, the biggest pain for me continues to be the effect on my children. Especially on my youngest son, whose formerly outstanding tennis career is effectively ruined as a direct result of my husband's financial irresponsibility. His academics have suffered too, which given the situation is not surprising. There will be no forgiveness from me ever for the effect he has had on my son. My children and I are now closer than ever, they have witnessed my struggles, and they know nothing is going to stop me fighting for them and for what is fair and just.

In January 2020, we have a last-ditch meeting with the deputy court judge to try and settle out of court. Going to court will drain equity in the house, but I fully expect to have to attend court as there hasn't been one iota of common sense in my husband's actions for years. Unfortunately, if we don't agree in January, it will be approximately 10 months before we get a court date and I will have to defer the Decree Absolute. Only once the finances are sorted will I be able to determine a way forward.

So that's where I am. On the writing front, I haven't done much of my own except a memoir which I don't intend to publish in its current format although I may use some of it as inspiration for future writing. I keep my creative mind ticking by helping friends and relatives with their writing. I am waiting for the new chapter of my life to begin where I am free from the past and can embrace the future on my own terms. I have always been politically-minded, but my experiences of the last few years have really clarified some thoughts on society and especially the unequal and subservient role of women. My future writing will no doubt encompass some of those thoughts.

I am not sure when I will publish new writing. But rest assured this is one blog that will not die and one voice that will not be silenced. I still have an irrepressible sense of humour which has kept me going through my darkest moments and many tears. I have hit rock bottom and I have clawed my way out.

The only way is up.

Poetry Time

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Mon, 23 Sep 2019 19:40:00 +0000

If is a crazy word

Or an unhealthy turd

If only I had done this

Or that

Thrown away the key

And just been me

If only I had said no

And fought my foe

If only I had done this

Or that

Instead I stuck it out

And now I want to shout

If only I could be free

Sing from the tops of trees

If only I could do this

Or that

But the vice is still tight

And I'm prepared for a fight

If only women were not subjugated

Or flagellated

If only they could do this

Or that

If only women had one voice

Then we would rejoice

If is a crazy word

As fragile as a baby bird

If only I could do this

Or that

If may define my past

But I refuse to be typecast

If is a word of possibilities

Freedom from responsibilities

If only I could do this

Or that

And I will

Because I shall not standstill

Me and Brexit

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Fri, 25 Jan 2019 18:46:00 +0000

So there are enough people coming back here to prompt me to crawl from under my bed to write to a post and thank you all for taking the time to visit my somewhat stagnant blog.

So, I am still alive. I have a slightly bigger arse than I had a year ago due to consumption of Maltesers to relieve stress. However, I have yet to throw myself under a bus or drive into a brick wall ...not that I haven't thought about the enticing prospect of a collision with a brick wall but given the size of my arse I'd probably rebound and just end up wheelchair-bound rather than hanging out with St Peter.

Besides, someone's got to look after the kids, cats and chickens. So I've nominated myself as chief carer, breadwinner, loo cleaner, cook and general dogsbody. Which is not a lot different from what I did before, except from the bread-winning. And I've done a lot of it last year sometimes working 14 hours days with 2 hours of commuting on a zero hours contract. My record is 19 days work without a day off. Not bad for a 53 year old with a weight problem.

If only I was Kim Kardadshian (still can't spell that name and I've no intention of learning) and the only thing I had to worry about was which flimsy g-string I had to squash my arse into!

Ah first world problems, don't you just love'em?!

So what else shall we talk out?

How about Brexit?

So it's looking like on March 29th we will leave the European Union without a deal in place. Still, I think that's better than a worthless piece paper like the one Neville Chamberlin brought home in 1939. However, I have sent a selection of loo rolls by courier to Mrs May just in case there a last minute deal and she needs some paper she can later flush away easily. I sent a packet of 9 rolls, rather than a singular roll, because you know whatever clauses the French and Germans dream up there will be a lot of shit in them.

I also sent Mrs May a bugging device that she can plant in Mrs Merkel's office so she can listen in on German plans to take over Britain with audit rolls and small print.

You've got to give the Germans credit for trying. They couldn't defeat us with Heinkels and Stukas so they're adopting a more subtle approach which, according to my secret sources, has be named after Mrs Merkel's foreign policy and code-named "The Vaginal Solution."

Which basically means Mrs Merkel wants to **** us over and then move onto the rest of Europe. The French are already in her pocket. (They'll get in anyone's for a packet of cigarettes and a string of onions). The Spanish, the Greeks and the Italians would cave in at the sight of Merkel's thermal bloomers so basically it up to us Brits to lead the way and save the world from another German balls up.

Well I think that sums up Brexit nicely. What topic shall I tackle next? Answers on a piece of loo roll.....

Update

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Thu, 07 Jun 2018 18:02:00 +0000

Well, I didn't quite make it to the end of the A to Z. It was probably an ask too much given the complexities of my life at present.

So, to give an update on my present situation, I am working in a temporary job for an Italian firm. I have very nice boss and it is a lot less stressful than my previous role which was a nightmare from start to finish. With hindsight, I should have turned around and walked out the first day I started the job in London as it was immediately apparent I had walked into a very difficult and explosive situation.

I am now looking for a permanent role. Whilst there are prospects for this one (which would probably mean returning to London) ideally I am looking for a 9-5 job so I can spend more time with my son in his last year of sixth form. That is not easy as it means moving out of retail and, at my age, finding any position, let alone one which is not your area, is pretty damn difficult. But it is becoming more essential I find an admin job for other reasons too as, after nearly two years standing on my feet all day, the pressure on my legs and feet is taking its toll. My knees are now shot to pieces, I have lost all my flexibility and, last night, I noticed that my feet and ankles were swollen. I have started a diet today in the hope that shedding a few pounds will help as who knows how long it will take me to move out of retail and 8 hours a day on your feet are bad enough without them being uncomfortable or painful.

On a lighter note, I have written 50,000 of my new book. I think its just about done. Maybe a few more thousand will wrap it up. I have decided that I am going to use it as the basis of another book and rewrite it into another entirely different format. So you could call it a first draft in a sense but what might ultimately materialise will be very different indeed. I am just going to put it to one-side for a while as I'd like to see if I can push forward with my idea for the TV sitcom or finish the sequel to The Changing Room.

I have also started a course in counselling. I am not quite sure how I will find the time to complete it given I can barely find time in the day to do anything that isn't completely essential or the odd bit of scribbling but it was free and, as a communicator and observer of people, I am very interested in this area. I doubt whether I will ever pursue any job specifically in this area but most jobs, especially at management level, require some sort of counselling or negotiating skills so I think it will prove a useful addition to my CV.

So that's it for the moment. I'm still moving forwards, albeit very slowly and with the occasional backwards steps.

Hey ho.

S is for Selebrate

noreply@blogger.com (Jane Turley) — Mon, 30 Apr 2018 10:05:00 +0000

Okay C is for celebrate but given this is the last day in my present job which has been a nightmare from day one I think I can take a grammatical liberty. I am overjoyed to be leaving. The last three weeks where I have stuck a smile on my face and pretended I no longer care if the staff arrive late, the stock is missing and put up with the daily grief have been a test of my endurance. So with only 9 hours to go I can now SELEBRATE.....

Give me joy in my heart keep me praising

Give me joy in my heart I pray

Give me joy in my heart, keep me praising

Keep me priaising til the end of day

Sing Hosanna, sing Hosanna,

Sing Hosanna this is my very last day

Sing Hosanna, Sing Hosanna

Sing Hosanna forever and a day!