by Stuart Robinson


In which Tom reflects on his past life as a regression therapist and Jerry Goldsmith comes to the aid of the party.

“So, uh, how did you know? About the Dr Who thing?”

Kris pointed at Tom’s chest.

Tom looked down at his T-shirt. It bore the legend ‘Keep Calm and OH MY GOD DOCTOR WHO IS ON!”


“Ah”  said Tom. “Here I was worrying about meeting Fanz and then it just happens and I’m all like ‘Tom you are such a silly. . .wanker’.”


“That’s my name, by the way”.



“Ah. I am Peter.”

“But I thought you said your name’s -”

“Peter, Matt, David, Christopher, Paul, Sylvester, Colin, Peter, Tom, Jon, Patrick, William Krump.”

“That’s a lot of names.”

“Yes. I change it by deed poll after every regeneration story.”


“Seemed like a good idea at the time. Imagine how thrilled I was that the Doctor has a second regeneration cycle. HA HA HA.”

“Ha ha, yes.”

“My friends call me Kris.”


“Well, I imagine they do.”

“Dont you know?”

“No I mean, when I imagine I have friends, they call me Kris.”


“Well, shall we go Kris?”

“You called me Kris!” Kris gasped “Are you. . .my friend?”


“Um…Lets go with that. Shall we?”

They walked on in silence enjoying the early summer evening. Great, thought Tom, he was already worried about meeting people – what will they think when he turned up with The Hooded Weirdo? On the other hand, if they were going to point and laugh at anyone it wouldn’t be him. At first. Yay.

It was at this point Tom noticed the loud noise Kris’ shoes – boots? – were making. Was the man wearing clogs?



“Um, your boots make quite a racket dont they.”




“I am not wearing boots.”





“If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were hooves, ha ha”



“I am wearing soft leather moccasins.”

“Oh. I . . . “



“Ah here we are.” Said Kris, indicating the pub.

He took out his phone, tapped the camera to video and began to slowly sweep it past the pub, narrating in an American accent.

“The Whine Bar. Refitted in ‘03 in an attempt to make it more trendy. She boasts four crew -”

“Sorry, hang on what? Kris what are you doing?”

“A beauty pass. Like in the Star Trek films.”

“This isn’t a Star Trek film.”

“No. But. . .”

The temptation was too much. “Fukit” Tom stood behind Kris, his eyes on the camera. They both slowly walked along the front of the pub.

“Hang on, hang on” Tom took out his phone and selected the appropriate music from his soundtrack collection. Star Trek: The Motion Picture (special edition), track 6, The Enterprise. Thank you Jerry Goldsmith.


“The Whine Bar. Refitted in ‘03. She boasts four bar staff. Two floors. Top floor – restaurant. Open lunchtime ‘till 7 each weekday. Lunch times only on Sunday. Full menu, array of bar snacks. Downstairs, bar. Seven beer launchers, battery of wines, spirits and soft drinks. Fully carpeted. Beer garden. Also fully carpeted. Satellite TV. What do you think?” Kris pointed the camera at Tom.

“She’s a beauty” said Tom, all faux manly awe.

“Yeah. Treat her right, she’ll always bring you home / call you a cab.” Kris suddenly dropped his American accent. “On the other hand, one pub’s very much like another. Shall we?”

They entered the pub. Sometimes, being a geek was just plain fun.

Someone once said that a pub is a home away from home. But he was pissed and nobody paid attention to him.

Where its exterior was welcoming, the interior of the pub held all the welcome and allure of a runny nose. Which went some way to explaining the sticky consistency of the carpet. The pub had clearly seen better days, in much the same way as could be said of a rotting corpse. Whatever it may once have been, or what it had aspired to be, those days were long gone. Which is how the pub decided to remember it. Well, it was better than remembering the truth, where its aspiration had run off with a younger, sexier pub.

“I wonder where landlords go when they fancy a night out at the pub” mused Tom.

“Probably not here. Unless they really hate themselves. Right, I believe Fanz meet in the snug. You make contact while I get the drinks in. What can I get you?” said Kris.

Since the acrimonious breakup with his wife, Tom had been drinking rather more than usual, which is to say, a lot. He was in danger of becoming an alcoholic. There was really only one thing to do, only one organisation that could save him. He joined CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale. Now he drank excessively because he was an aficionado. Close call.

He regarded the sad, worn decor of the pub. “Beer please”, deciding that it was pointless to be picky. Brown water that didn’t taste of self loathing was probably as near as they could get.

Tom moved toward the snug, his pulse sweaty, his brow racing, his body so tense it was struggling with metaphors. He hadn’t felt this way since watching the special, sadistically extended edition of Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King. After two hours of Sam and Bilbo climbing the mountain, he ended up screaming “Just throw the fucking thing already.” In times of stress his vocabulary tended toward that of an old, sweary Jewish woman. A regression therapist had once told him that this was because he was indeed, in a former life, a sweary old Jewish woman. He told her she was indeed, in this current life, a flagrant charlatan klutz and then argued with her over the price of the session.

Come on Tom concentrate, he chided himself. First impressions count. Unless you were Mike Yarwood, in which case they were shit. He had to get this right.

“Hi, I’m Tom. No. Well hellooo. HELLO, hello, HELL-ooooo. No, no, no! Might as well ask if they’re into group sex. Hello, my names Tom.”


Tom looked up sharply. A – woman? – was standing before him, a look of accusation on her face. To be fair, it seemed the sort of face that looks of accusation liked to hang out on, but still. Damn it! She must have heard him mention group sex! Great. So much for first impressions. OK Tom, calm this down, straighten it out.

“Tom. Me. That is, um. Doctor. Sorry, this is silly, let me try again. Are you into Doctor Sex? Group sex, I meant group sex. Wait, no I didn’t !”

Not taking her eyes off him, the – woman? – called over her shoulder to a group of people.


Great. Two seconds and this was spiraling out of control. His pulse was, by now, very sweaty indeed.

“Oy vey iz mir!” he muttered.


“Um, what? No look you see, I’m Tom and -”

“I’m into anything you like.” The tall, bronzed man towered over him, a salacious smile playing upon his lips.



Visit our website, where you can hear more Fanz adventures in the form of FREE digital downloads!


Nice little surprise in the mail this morning 🙂


by Stuart Robinson


In which a dog is relieved, Sherlock is a knob and Tom and Kris bond. 


“Can you prove you are not the second coming of Jesus?”

“I never thought I’d have to, to be honest”.

“Be dishonest”.

“OK, I often think about that and have concluded, no, I can’t prove I’m not Jesus”.

“Ha ! Another atheist crushed before the juggernaut of my cold logic!”

“Erm, look, can we start again. . .?”

“Of course – you are the messiah after all. I take it you are en route to the Fanz meeting and are feeling nervous about the prospect.”

Tom regarded the stranger. How did he know that, he wondered. “How did you know that?” he wondered again, this time aloud.

The stranger – Kris – was tall with laser like blue eyes and the countenance of a winner of the serial killers serial killer of the year pinup competition. A bit like the Roger Delgado Master but with an even greater juxtaposition of suave elegance and sensual promise of extreme violence battling for supremacy. His clothes were neat and tidy in a way in which anyone with an OCD would approve. Tom wondered if he killed with the same neatness and fastidious attention to detail. Killed? Come on Tom, pull yourself together. Kris was speaking.

“Well now, let us consider. . .” Kris began waving his hands around as if manipulating CGI computer icons, his eyes and head following the invisible graphics as he grabbed, considered and dismissed them with a dismissive wave of the hand. Dismissively.

“Sorry, sorry” Tom interrupted, “Why, um, why are you doing that? What is that?” he mimicked the ludicrous gestures. Which anyone with an ounce of self preservation would have pointed to as being the last thing they would have done, on the grounds that it would probably have proved to be the last thing they would have done before being brutally killed. But Tom had never been able to keep his own counsel. It’s why he had such a tough time at school. Telling a school bully that actually, the word is “asked” not “arks” and that no matter how he tried he was a white boy from middle class suburbia not a black kid from the tough side of the Bronx, never failed to get him into trouble. And on occasion,  hospital. He was “arksing for it” apparently.

A man walking his dog paused briefly, wondering if Kris were having a fit of some kind and if he should stick around to watch the fun. His dog, mistaking the pause as a poo break, gratefully took advantage of his owners’ kind consideration. The man shuffled uneasily, realising that Tom and Kris were watching. He had no doggy poop bags. Should he walk on, ignoring the poo and pretending that it didn’t exist? Or was it too late for that? The man bent down and picked up the poo, with all the unconvincing nonchalance of a man who had just picked up a dog turd and was trying to ignore its warm, fresh baked, soft, sticky texture and appalling smell. Too late he realised that picking it up was A Bad Idea. Oh well, he was committed now. He looked around for an appropriate receptacle and, finding none, shoved the poo in his trouser pocket and walked off, wondering how he was going to explain to his wife that he had a dog poo in his pocket. Again.

The spell broken, Tom and Kris resumed their conversation.

“I have studied the techniques of logic and deduction as used by Sherlock Holmes – by which I mean the cool, modern one, not the old black and white one.”

“Yes, that’s not logic and deduction, that’s waving your hands around looking like a twat. I mean, in Minority Report it was cool ‘cos everyone could see the graphics. They were real, generated by their advanced technology. And it was set in the future ‘n’ shit. In Sherlock, I cant get over the idea that Holmes looks like a complete wanker. I mean, how is that supposed to look to the other characters? I keep expecting to hear Mrs Hudson and Watson giggling in the background and drawing a chalk penis on the back of his jacket.”

“Yes. Although even in Minority Report it lacks something of reality – if that was a real computer the icons would keep freezing on you and you’d get annoying pop ups asking  you to sign up to a newsletter. Or that Mandy, 19, is just one of the singles in your area waiting for your call”

The two men stopped talking and regarded each other. They had bonded in a way that only geeks can. Their briode nebulisers were primed with each others symbiotic nuclei, the Rassilon imprimatur was imprinted, they had synchronised menstrual cycles. Maybe not that, thought Tom. But there should have been lots of geeks running around, waving their arms and shouting “The Bonding ! It is the Bonding” at passers by.

“So, uh, how did you know? About the Dr Who thing?”

Kris pointed at Tom’s chest.

Tom looked down at his T-shirt. It bore the legend ‘Keep Calm and OH MY GOD DOCTOR WHO IS ON!’.

“Ah” he said.



Visit our website, where you can hear more Fanz adventures in the form of FREE digital downloads!

by Stuart Robinson



It was at ‘The Whine Bar’ that I made my first venture into the world of fandom – I felt good. Nervous, but good. New town, new people, a new life.

And for a while things seemed like they might actually work out.

Then I met Kris and he made what I thought was a simple request. He asked that I, Tom, a fellow Doctor Who fan, accompany him to a meeting of the local fan group and ask if he could join.

It was a request they should never have granted.


Tom Stamp crossed the road, dodging cars, motorbikes and anything else that wanted to kill him. He was muttering to himself. In a Stephen Donaldson novel he would be chewing off imprecations of self loathing and contempt which, come to that, he pretty much was. He wasn’t really sure what an imprecation was, nor if it was at all chewy, but it sounded like the sort of thing the character Thomas Covenant might do. He shrugged and carried on muttering.

“’Hello, I’m Tom.’” No no no no – too formal.
“‘Hi, call me Tom’” Tom tutted at himself. And then, as an afterthought and for the sake of propriety, at the motorbike that had just tried to kill him.
“Hi, call me wanker, all my friends do, or they would if I had any, I’m kind of hoping you might fill the vacancy, don’t worry, I’m not a psycho killer, although what’s wrong with killing psychos, eh? Ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA”. Oh dear.

He located a cash machine, inserted his card and tapped out his PIN. He didn’t really need any cash. He was just trying to put off the inevitable horror of having to meet new people. The cashpoint displayed its services. Hmmm. No option for “Delaying Tactic”. He opted to view his balance instead and surveyed his net worth. Thirty pounds. The sum total of his thirty three years. Less than a pound a year. He sniffed. The balance was, on balance, better than expected. He tried his opening line on the cashpoint. “Hello, are you that Doctor Who fan group?” The cashpoint whirred, clanked and, after due consideration that it had been a slow day and that it had nothing better to do, swallowed his card.

“Hello” the voice sliced into his ear the way he imagined a catheter tube might enter his urinary tract via his penis.
“Jesus!” It was all Tom could do to stop himself cowering.
“Kris” said the stranger. Who was apparently called Kris.
“Are you cross?”
“Crucifixion is fairly unpleasant after all, I just wondered. . .if I were impaled on a cross, I’d be pretty cross”.
“I’m not Jesus”
“Ah, I get it”. Kris tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “I can keep mum. . .in the basement”. That catheter image again. A really thick one this time, rammed home with all the vengeful gusto of a jilted lover.
“No, look, I’m not Jesus”.
“Prove it”
“I – hang on, what?”
“Can you prove you are not the second coming of Jesus?”
“I never thought I’d have to, to be honest”.
“Be dishonest”.
“OK, I often think about that and have concluded, no, I can’t prove I’m not Jesus”.
“Ha ! Another atheist crushed before the juggernaut of my cold logic!”
“Erm, look, can we start again. . .or at all?”


At last, the latest instalment of Fanz goes into the studio at Colchester’s Slackspace.

New equipment, new studio, new script (oops, almost forgot that :)) and new additions to the regular cast ! Whoop ! Exciting day ahead 🙂 Let the comedy commence ! ……Assuming we can find somewhere to park…..

Just to whet your appetite (even though getting people interested in creative projects, let alone comedy, via social media seems pointless – have you tried to get people to “like” a post about your latest project? You’d think you were asking them to punch a horse), and in the hopes that someone might actually read this and engage with it, below you can find links to previous Fanz episodes and our podcast sketch shows.

All are free (at bandcamp you can pay what you like – or nothing at all! (I added the ! there to make it sound exciting but since you don’t care anyway, it’s probably a waste of punctuation))

Soundbites – our iTunes comedy sketch podcast

Fanz – Episode 3 (actually the first episode of this series – there’s a timey wimey thing going on, hence the title)

Fanz original The Five Directors of Doom (a classic from the original series)

Go on, pretend you can be bothered.


8pm Disaster. On train home I removed my cardigan to use as a pillow and fell asleep. Woke up and there was a very attractive woman opposite me. She clearly liked what she saw. That little half smile spoke volumes. Glancing out the window I caught sight of my reflection. Not only did my beard contain a spat of “special sauce” from my hastily gulped, and misleadingly advertised, “Tasty Burger”, but I had clearly dribbled while asleep. A lot. Worse, the saliva was tinged with “special sauce”, lending it an unwelcome pornographic aspect.
So, not a half smile of coy attraction after all, but the usual look that says “this is why nice guys come last….alpha males may be assholes but they dont fall asleep with suggestive sauce dribbling from their mouths”. 
I couldn’t let this pass.
ME: It’s special sauce.
SHE: Sorry? 
ME: On my chin, it’s special sauce. 
ME: Just wanted to clear that up, in case, you know, you thought….it might be cum.
At this point, we both looked shocked and the conversation stalled. Cannot BELIEVE I said that…..idiot.
It was then i noticed we had pulled into my station and the doors were about to close. i grabbed my man bag and made a dash for it. 
My relief as the train pulled away was short lived. I had left my cardigan on the train! 
8pm – Cindy was in odd mood when I got home. Kris and I have tried to catalogue her moods over the years;

Pre-Pre-menstrual – The Gollum phase. This is where the old jumpers and slippers come out and she haunts the flat muttering to herself, lurking in shadows.  You can get a nasty shock if you see her first thing in the morning.
Pre-menstrual – AKA the Cindy Chocolate Festival. The flat is littered with chocolate wrappers, light switches and remote controls blotched with chocolate smears like a Luddite dirty protest. We can’t figure out why she eats so much chocolate because it just seems to piss her off. 
Full on menstrual – Still wearing slippers, a big jumper and eating chocolate but now has made a feral nest on the settee out of cushions, hot water bottles and chocolate wrappers and watching endless Danish detective series. Any similarity with the Alien from the Aliens films is purely unavoidable. It is usually at this point that she makes less sense than the plot of Prometheus. However. We find it best not to point this out as her response is invariably to react like the Alien face hugger and impregnate your face with hate. 
Post menstrual – Here she comes off the chocolate by going cold turkey….usually by eating vast amounts of cold turkey. 
Perfectly fine and rational – this usually happens for seven minutes at about a quarter past three on the last Thursday in June. 
This was none of those categories. This was something new. 
ME: You OK?
CINDY: Yes, I’m fine.
ME: I’m sensing an undertone of moral indignation. Have you been reading the Daily Mail again? 
CINDY: You had a phone call.
ME: Right, well, that’s unusual I’ll admit. 
CINDY: From a woman. 
ME: Bloody hell, my library books are only a day overdue, honestly this is turning into police state.
CINDY: She said you left your cardigan behind when you rushed off. 
Hah ! Now who’s a sad bastard for writing his name and phone number on his clothes labels! Practical precautions for just such an occurrence. 
ME: Brilliant! I thought I’d lost that for good. It all happened so quickly, we met, I had to rush off – god, I don’t even know her name.
CINDY: I thought you were different!  
ME: What? Oh, no, it was nothing like that, you see she thought I was dribbling cum and – 
It was at this point Cindy made a peculiar squawking noise and threw a piece of paper at me. She stomped into the living room, came back, glared at me, opened the kitchen door, slammed it shut, glared at me again and stomped back into the living room – which does not have a door. 
Definitely a new category.
930am – It turned out that the piece of paper contained a phone number and a barely legible message – call Delia.
ME: Hello, is that Delia?
DELIA: I’m called Delia.
ME: Yes. Hello Delia. Delia. I love that name.
DELIA: My name is Cordelia. 
ME: …..I love that name also. Cordelia. It’s got all the…..loveliness of Delia, with extra….letters.
(COR)DELIA: Sorry, who is this? 
ME: Tom, Tom Stamp. 
CORDELIA: Oh, cum face! I have your cardigan. 
ME: No, it was special sauce – 
It was at this point she laughed. Such a girly, melodic laugh. I wanted to wash my hair in a mountain stream wearing a skimpy cotton shift, constantly in danger of splashing water on it and making it go see through so that at any point you could glimpse my nipples – 
CORDELIA: Look, I have a meeting with the minister tomorrow. Shall we meet under the clock at Liverpool street? 

Minister? Liaison at a train station? Oh my god, this is just like Borgen or The Killing ! I’m in a Danish crime drama with my cardigan setting of a sequence of events that lead to brutal murder and sensual politics. 
CORDELIA: I think it’s got cum on it though.
ME: Sorry, what?! 
That lovely laugh again.
CORDELIA: Your cardigan. I think you dribbled special sauce on it.
We agreed to meet next day. Cardigans and special sauce. Yes, this is what international, high power crimes are made of. 
Bloody hell, I really must get out more.
6:30pm – We met as planned. She was wearing my cardigan, explaining that she arrived early and got a bit chilly. My god, she’s gorgeous.  Wearing my cardigan. It’s like I own her, yes, she’s mine ! She suggested coffee. Oh Tom, you smooth, sexy bastard.
It turns out she likes the same things as me – science fiction, political crime drama and stationery. 
She took out her mobile phone. It has a TARDIS case ! 
She’s perfect.
ME: Oh, a TARDIS phone case. 
CORDELIA: Sorry, yes, I’m a bit of a fan I’m afraid. 
ME: Oh, no, really…..I’m quite partial to the whole Who thing myself. 
We shall marry and run our own stationery shop. 
ME: So, what’s your favourite story? 
CORDELIA: Oh, that’s easy. Fear Her. Perfect Who.
I made my excuses and left. 
I may be desperate but I do have some standards. 
I have made a feral nest on the settee out of cushions, hot water bottles and chocolate wrappers and am watching endless Danish detective series.
I hate everything. 
Especially Fear Her. 

Join us on Twitter @realfanz  or visit our website,



7am – Right. Just watched a bit of 300. I’m ready to get out of bed. Screw you cold Monday, I’m a Spartan! I will, however, be wearing two pairs of socks.


9am – Arrived at the office and sat down. Found myself at eye level with the desk. Chair has no vertical lock. Made for an awkward interview.

8:30pm Rewatched Dinosaurs in a Spaceship & Town Called Mercy. Lots of moral ambiguity & tough choices in series 7. Although not as much moral ambiguity and tough choices as we had deciding on choice of pizza. After much discussion, recriminations and accusations, we settled on a plain Magherita. Without the cheese. Or tomato sauce. Democracy in action.

7am – It turns out that Trevor, the pizza delivery guy from last night, told Cindy he is a dream analyser. I wonder what time they’ll get up.

730am – Ooh, Utopia – new series on Channel 4 or More 4 or E4 or something with a bloody 4 in it. Why don’t they get rid of all their sister channels and just put all the good stuff on one channel??? And I’m defining “good stuff” as “things that I like”. Talking of which where are the drama series set in the cut and thrust of a small town library? The danger! The excitement! The misplaced books! Anyway, Utopia. Must tell Cindy it starts tonight. Assuming she and Trevor are out of bed by then.

330pm – So Trevor, Cindy’s new dream analyst boyfriend, asked about my dreams. I said I dream of Cindy astride a giant cucumber shouting “take me Tom, take me”. He said I am obviously repressing my homosexuality. I’m beginning to suspect he’s not a qualified dream analyser. 

7am – Last night Kris made Trevor watch Dreamscape.

TREVOR: Well that was crap. I hate science fiction. 

KRIS: What do you mean “fiction”? It was a documentary.


KRIS: Do you have erotic dreams Trevor?

TREVOR: What the hell –

KRIS: I’ll prove it was a documentary, only I’d hate to gatecrash your dream in-felatio-de-lick-toe as it were.

TREVOR: …..where’s Tom, I want the normal one.

KRIS: Tom’s dead.


KRIS: What?

Trevor left during the night, screaming. Kris is a master of secret NLP ninja techniques.

2pm – Without HMV, gangs of geeks will be hanging around on street corners assailing grannies with their views about Blu-Ray vs DVD. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT CAMERON?!!?

730pm – This is right. Friends should give each other advice. Especially when they are crying over another wrong ‘un. Which Trevor must have been, since he ran away in the early hours.

TOM: Maybe you should be more selective in the men you date.

CINDY: Trevor was Mr Right !

TOM: Trevor was the Pizza delivery man! You invited him in after 3 minutes on the doorstep.

CINDY: I didn’t want to come across as high maintenance.

TOM: As opposed to “easy to get”.

CINDY: I’m taking relationship advice from the only man in the world who has actually grown a hymen.

TOM: All I’m saying is, it would help if you weren’t such a terrible flirt.

CINDY: Oh thanks, so now I can’t flirt properly. Men ! I’m going to become a lesbian.

TOM: No, I didn’t mean – waitwhat,…..can I watch?

CINDY: Sorry, I meant Nun…….always get those confused…..

TOM: Ah. Right, yeah. Me too. Still, you could give it a go….the lesbian thing.

CINDY: (SMILES SWEETLY): No, because apparently I’m crap at flirting.

I will never give advice to my friends again. Damn, I have images in my head now…..

630am – I open my eyes & can’t help but smile.
Cindy came into my bed last night. A full night of throbbing, gasping, dizzying sexual pleasure that would make Solomon blush! I feel awesome, a man at last with the woman of my……oh bollocks it was a dream. Arse. Thank you Thursday, thank you so much. Not sure if you could screw me over, you decided to piss me off before I even got out of bed. Well you’re forgetting the power of man sized tissues.

ME: Why can’t I get a girlfriend.

CINDY: Tom, trust me – any girl who turns you down is a stupid bitch.

ME: …….(ahem)

CINDY: …..I didn’t think that through, did I.

Man sized tissues never turn you down.

730am This is Kris. Your usual “tweety tweety social likey followy” wittering imbecile is locked in his bedroom. Peoples of the blogsphere please attend carefully, the message that follows is vital to the future of you all – oh shit, he’s out !

530pm Sorry about Kris’ little outburst earlier. I would delete his comment but I think it is important to remember how dangerously unstable he is. He once played an online computer game called “World Domination” – he was SO pissed off when he realised it wasn’t real.

I saw Archie Rival at the bus stop today. Awkward. I won’t bore you with the whys and whatsthatabouthens – but you can hear why it was awkward, listen to this Five Directors of Doom

Out of dishwasher tablets. Again. Where the hell do they go, it’s like someone’s eating them!

KRIS: Got any Finish?

ME: What?

KRIS: Dishwasher tablets, come on, I know you’ve got some. Maybe just an All-In-One. I can pay you next week, you know I’m good for it.

ME: Are you addicted to dishwasher tablets?!

KRIS: ……define “addicted”.

ME: I thought you’d sorted this, I thought you were clean now.

KRIS: Please don’t use the word “clean”, it’s not helping.

ME: How long have we been out of tablets?

KRIS: …..all week.

ME: But the plates, the knives and forks, how did they get cleaned?

KRIS: don’t want to know.

ME: Oh Jesus, you’ve been licking them clean! Haven’t you!

KRIS: I made them spotless, you could eat your dinner off them.

ME: I DID eat my dinner off them!


Thus begins my Saturday. I hope it doesn’t snow before I get to the shops.


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Join us on Twitter @realfanz  or visit our website, 

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