GoFundMe Replaces The Bank Of Mum And Dad

When Mum and Dad said no to buying that expensive pair of trainers ‘everyone at school’ had, one young man took matters into his own hands.

“I was really surprised when my eldest started buying the local paper, I didn’t even know he could read, to be honest.” His mum told us.

“I was relieved at first, stopped him bleedin’ naggin’ me for stuff all the time, his head was always in a paper of some kind.”

Terry, 17, from Kent, was the first in the family to show any real initiative. He scoured the news items and obituaries for credible sources, enabling him to set up fundraising pages with countless sob stories.

“I saw on my Facebook feed that someone was asking for money cos someone couldn’t pay for the funeral of their dog. I couldn’t believe how many people clicked on the sad face and started giving money.”

Terry began to make up stories to go with the things he read in the news. He would say they were friends or relatives, and the money started flooding in.

“I had to set up loads of new accounts, at one point I think I had about 30.”

When we asked him if he felt bad about tricking people like this, he told us;

“Nah. They give what they can afford innit. I learned about it in school, it’s Communism.”

Terry’s parents are so proud of his entrepreneurial skills, and are thrilled with the caravan he bought them in Leysdown-on-Sea.

His mum’s final words? “ If there were more kids like Terry the world would be a better place. I have ten more like him to pay their own way from now on.”


Lisa Ives for Pf Magazine


Dog Blog

Charlie The Rescue ~ Blog

When my owner (not calling her mum) said she was going to start blogging as me, all I could do was bark. Sadly she told me to stop barking and hit the computer keys. I’m a dog, I can’t type and I certainly can’t communicate much more than, ‘I need a shit’ and ‘feed me’. Yes, there are times she thinks I’m ‘asking’ for a cuddle, but really I need an itch scratching I can’t reach, or I have a bit of dry poop stuck to the fur around my back bottom.

You know when your dog closes its eyes while you stroke it and talk in a silly voice saying ‘what a good doggy you are’ – and you’re like, ‘oh look, she’s loving it’. Truth is we’re closing our eyes and taking ourselves to a safe place, drowning out that silly high pitched baby voice that is making our ears bleed.

My owner came at me with a bandana once, what!? I’m not a cowboy, I’m a dog. I have concerns that now the weather is getting a bit cooler she might start dressing me up in silly coats. I know she likes tartan but everyone already thinks I’m a boy. Doesn’t help my cause that I cock my leg to pee. I have a dodgy back knee, don’t judge me.

I get praised for my ability to stand nicely on my lead while waiting for the humans to stop chatting. It’s always nice to get praise but to be honest I’m usually just bored stiff, literally. The drivel they come out with. It’s worse when we meet people with dogs, we just circle each other and sniff bums, and she tells the same story over and over again. Each time it gets that little bit longer and more embellished. When she says she rescued me the reaction is equivalent to suggesting she ran into a burning building and pulled me out.  She didn’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my new home, she’s a complete pushover. I’d go as far as saying she’s a bleeding heart liberal, aka snowflake. There’s a bloke I quite like who turns up almost every day, sometimes I have sleepovers with him as well. He likes to train me ‘properly’. I let him have his ‘moments’, why not, it’s fun to look like I’m attempting to get it right; I know he’s so stubborn he’ll keep going until I do, more treats for me!





TV & Film

Goodbye Friends ~ Million Dollar Listing: New York


As a nation, we’re no strangers to binge-watching telly shows. You know, sat there until 2 in the morning on a school night, cramming your senses with the latest must-see tv, so when Joan from accounts asks you if you have seen the latest season of ‘Rich Hamsters of L.A’ and you say..’no’, she doesn’t look at you as if you have just farted on her weight watchers chicken wrap.

So, prepare to have your eyes dehydrated, your mind boggled, and your waistline expanded. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you;

Million Dollar Listing: New York

Two and a half, larger than life American people who are realtors – estate agents to you and me – bitch, backstab and fight their way to the top of the New-York-property-so-expensive-it-will-make-you-angry tree.

It has all the classic reality TV ingredients. We have an abundance of talking heads, subtitles for people who don’t understand American, and beautifully edited/orchestrated ‘real’ conversations. It’s so stunningly put together, you will laugh your nipples off.

It also has touching moments of their real lives to prove they’re not actors. Swoon as one of them shuts down Times Square to propose to his girlfriend. Gasp as one of them asks his best friend to be an egg donor for the child he and his husband so desperately want, and cry as one of them breaks down under the pressure and turns to his life coach for guidance.

You don’t even need an attention span, or a brain at all, as at the beginning of every episode you get a complete recap in under 30 seconds. Those with an attention span of a Rivita slice can now rejoice.

Set against the stunning backdrop of New York City, our brokers negotiate astronomical deals and represent some of the most onerous characters to ever breathe air. Some of them are so hateful and wedged up their own posteriors that they demand that you swear at your television and scare your dog in the process.

So, who are your new friends? Well, let me tell you.

Ryan Serhant

An American poster boy. Blonde, cocky and with teeth whiter than dandruff. This guy is the best of the best, and he ain’t coy in telling you this, again, and again and again. This chap has as much charm as a Tory backbencher and even less likability. But this is panto in the purest form, and we all like a bastard.

Fredrick Eklund

This strapping Swede is all show. He’s loud, opinionated, over-confident and beyond annoying. This man is very much Marmite, there is no middle ground. He’s a condescending, arrogant, selfish twit and then some. He’s also more camp than a night out in Soho.

Luis Ortiz

This pint-sized Puerto Rican is an all- grinning, effervescent bundle of positivity and he will make you want to vom. He’s very much playing catch up with the other two as he handles what you might consider the lower end of the market (10 million townhouse anyone?). His slicked back hair is almost as smooth as his lines, but he remains distant with the ladies and comes across as someone rooted somewhere between straight and gay. This is fine, as the man is about as appealing as a cheese toasty washed down with sick.

So, these are our champions of big, brash American real estate nonsense. You will love them, you will hate them, and you will thank me for it.

You’re welcome.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee *


*Watch the show and this becomes painfully apparent. I mean, painfully.

Jason Moody for Pf Magazine


Comedy Monologues

The Monologues of Clementine Close~Verity



Here, take a look at these handcuffs, I’ve just bought them from that military shop up Camden way. They’re stronger than the ones I’ve been using; reinforced steel. The others were starting to bend slightly from where Anton had tried to pull the chain out of the wall.

I did tell him that there was no point trying to break-free, see that wall back in the house is made from Iranian Concrete, I researched it specially, it’s the strongest in the world; quartz infused it is.

I’ve got to be honest, he hasn’t taken to being cooped up indoors, which has really surprised me, cus I thought he’d enjoy being out of the public gaze for a bit. Kicked up a right fuss he has.

Course, I hadn’t intended to gag him, well it’s a bit unpleasant, isn’t it? But he was screaming like a banshee, so I had no choice really; granted the basement has no windows but you can never be too careful.

Leaving him to go off to work is always a bit of wrench. He pleads, in his own unique muffled fashion and I like to think it’s because he doesn’t really want me to go, which is nice. But as I told him, ‘needs must, cus the bills won’t pay themselves, will they?’

Besides, I know they’d only try and contact me from the office if I didn’t turn up and I can’t really take the chance of drawing attention to myself. They’re keeping their eyes on all of us see, since he disappeared I mean.

It’s all been a tad traumatic cus we were all interviewed, but thankfully they didn’t seem too interested in me.

In his more sedate moments I like to remove the gag, it gives us a chance to have a proper chat, although to be fair, it’s me that does most of the talking.

He has tried to get me to untie him as well, but as I tried to explain, it’s not that I’m not trusting, in fact, I’d say that’s one of my failings, it’s just I’m not sure I’m ready to give him that freedom just yet – there’s things that need seeing to first.

I wouldn’t dream of leaving him hungry though, so I did him a lovely Lasagne before I left for work today, put it on the tray next to the bed with the pot of Jelly and the bottled water.

I felt a bit guilty about the plastic spoon cus it’s not the easiest of utensils to crack through my cheesy topping and I’ve become extremely conscious of my plastic use, since that program on the TV, but I was a bit concerned he might hurt himself with a metal one.

It must be nigh on five years I’ve been working for the TV station now. Straight out of university it was. I know working on reception isn’t what I’d hoped for, especially as I got a first in media studies and really wanted to be involved in production, but it’s a foot in the door as they say.

Anton was particularly friendly from the off. One of the girls who works on reception with me, Jane, said she thought he had his eye on me right from the start.

Oh, I know the tabloids will have you believe that he’s one for the ladies, but there was definitely a spark between us, holding my gaze just that little bit longer when I handed over his lanyard, that sort of thing.

He once told me that I had eyes like Sophia Loren and that my smile brightened up his day and he never said that to Jane.

Occasionally, as part of my job, I get asked to ferry the stars over to the studio. There’s a company car parked out back and Jane and I take it in turns.

I used to love those intimate moments Anton and I had. Do you know, it got to the point where he started calling me by my name, even asking for me in particular. He used to tell me about his posh dinners out with people from the show. I loved hearing all about it. He even started divulging more intimate stuff about his family and said what a god-send I was when the press dug out those shots of his wife and her new lover, naked and tied to a combine harvester by a disgruntled farmer who found them frolicking amongst his sweetcorn. We’d become really close.

When he broke down in tears and asked me to pull over in that layby on the country road to that shindig he was going to, I could tell how distraught he was. He cried into my hair. He was beside himself with grief and it took me an age to calm him down by rubbing his temples and massaging his neck. I’d been on a course whilst I was at Uni and I think I’d got the knack because he seemed to relax his body into mine and I could hear his breathing settle.

I wasn’t sure what to do when he put his hand on my knee cus at first, I didn’t know if it had just flopped there in his relaxed state, but then when he began to run his fingers along my thigh, hiking up my skirt I started to feel all unnecessary.

This was Anton Delaney, Day-time TV Anton Delaney. The same Anton Delaney that had interviewed Barack Obama by satellite and had his back waxed with one of the Hairy Bikers on live TV.   

I tried to stop him subtly at first, laugh it off if you know what I mean, but he was resolute, aggressive even as I tried to push him off and ask him to stop. He seemed determined he was going to add me to his list of misdemeanours and I could do little to stop him.

It all happened so quickly, so quickly in fact, that I lost my scrunchy, then he thanked me for being so understanding.

He asked for Jane to ferry him about after that.

I probably wouldn’t have had a chance to speak to him again properly if it hadn’t been for that spike strip I bought online. It punctured the tyres on his Merc really efficiently as he drove out on the same road where he’d…

I knew he was driving himself out that way because Jane came down with that weird food poisoning. Everyone thought I had it too cus I took the same day off.

It wasn’t so easy to get the chloroform. Nor was it easy to sneak in the back of his car whilst he got out to check what had happened, but I managed. He struggled a bit at first but the ethyl-alcohol worked much quicker than I’d imagined.

Getting him into the boot of my Mondeo, wasn’t without some difficulty but I popped him in a shopping trolley when I got to mum and dad’s old cottage, which made the short journey to the basement fairly straight-forward.

His room was all prepared, with his favourite magazines and the original handcuffs with the reinforced chain. I’d even put a tv in there so he could watch the ‘stand-in’ they used on his show, although to be fair, the reception wasn’t up to much.

Three days, Dan Sergeant has been presenting Anton’s show now. He’s fit in a treat. Course Anton didn’t seem too happy when I told him, but you have to have a thick skin in this game.

Talking of thick skin, I think he’ll appreciate these new handcuffs cus they’re a bit smoother on the wrist. They’ve got like a padded weave on the inner side, for comfort. I’ve got him a new memory-foam pillow as well cus he says the other one is giving him neck-ache. I don’t know how much use he’ll get out of it mind. What’s more, I can’t imagine what he’ll think when he sees this new chainsaw. It says here, it will cut through branches up to an inch in girth. It wasn’t the most expensive but I’m on a bit of a budget. Still, it should be more than ample to saw through what I’ve got in mind.   

Jules Garvey Welch for Pf Magazine


Comedy Monologues

The Monologues of Clementine Close ~ Jean


I was at the doctors earlier today. I’ve had to wait nearly three weeks for an appointment. If it wasn’t for the fact that the receptionist is only in her early thirties, I’d have sworn she used to be one of the guards in ‘Tenko’.

She was going on about me being a few minutes late for my appointment but I wasn’t having any of her nonsense so I gave her a piece of my mind. I think she muttered something under her breath but I didn’t wait to find out what it was, there weren’t many seats left in the waiting area and I wanted one near to the facilities, just in case the doctor was running late. My bowels can’t face a backlog.

Ooh, don’t get me started on the trouble I’ve been having downstairs, I haven’t had any ‘movement’ for weeks and the pain in my back, well you’d think I was giving birth.

My friend Cynthia said it was wind but I told her, there’s nothing coming out; solid, liquid or gas. It’s all blocked up. I’ve tried everything, syrup of figs, liquid paraffin, I even tried to get it moving with a warm sponge but it wasn’t budging.

It’s all a bit embarrassing really. I’m a proud woman, always have been. There are bits that can go on show and others which I’d rather keep hidden, even as a woman of my age and experiences.

I’ve always advocated that what goes on behind closed doors is no one’s business but your own, but in public, you need to exercise a modicum of decency. ‘Paddling in your stockings, wearing gloves to match your hat and controlling the noises which are trying to escape your nether regions.’

All I can say is, it’s a good job the Doctor and I are well-acquainted. He’s been my physician for years, there’s nothing he hasn’t seen already.

Nursed me through my fibroids and the gallbladder incident – he used to call in for a slice of Jamaican Ginger cake and a bit of light refreshment back in the day, only in-between his visits – he never shirked his responsibilities. Sometimes, he even popped in, in the evenings if his wife was away.

I had a smashing place back then. A lovely big Georgian house on the outskirts of town – it was a perfect spot for my business.

It had six rooms upstairs, all en-suite (and that was before it became fashionable) and there were a further two rooms downstairs, plus all the usual: kitchen, lounge etc. Oh, we had some lovely times in that house – me and the girls.

The place was always busy. And I like to think that’s because we provided such a good service. I only employed the best well-mannered staff you see, with impeccable cleanliness and good breeding. It’s important in the ‘hospitality’ industry, you need to set the tone if you are going to run a respectable establishment. And I took great pride in my work and demanded the same from my girls.

All the big shot judges from the Crown court used to visit, whilst they were presiding over one of their long cases – they’d stop for months sometimes.

Course, many of my suites were themed back then. I had one done out in fawn buckskin leather, cost me a fortune it did, headboard, chairs, wall panels, there was even a full buck throw on the bed. People said it had quite a unique aroma; it’s the leather see.

As I recall, it was one of the most popular rooms, although that may have had more to do with the special cabinet I kept in there. You wouldn’t believe the gadgets I stored in it, some dating back to the Jacobean period.

It was a favourite of old Stan’s from the nursing home – he used to teach Modern History at the grammar school before his dementia set in. He was always partial to a bit of James l erotic memorabilia as I recall. His wife was chairwoman of the WI, had a look of Hattie Jacques about her, although unfortunately for him, she didn’t share any of his unique interests.  

One fella stayed with us for almost a year; cost him a fortune poor love. Mind you, he wasn’t short of a penny or two – had one leg shorter than the other and a hump on his back. Big in artificial ceilings, if I remember right. We didn’t know it at the time, but it turned out he had a large house which is now owned by the National Trust. The obituary in the paper said it sold for over two million. I’ve always said, money doesn’t always bring you happiness.

We all went to his funeral, I even shut the house down for the afternoon – the girls had become very fond of him see. That’s the thing people didn’t get about my business. It was more than just a room for the night, it was a place to relax; a space to get away from the hustle and bustle. Me and the girls did our best to make our guests feel contented and relieve their tensions and I made sure all their appetites were seen to.

I took great pride in the service we offered and I’d never let any of the girls feel ashamed of what they were doing. We were a respectable house. Whatever people thought about what we did, I know that the service we provided was of a very high standard and I would not hear otherwise.

All the regulars were devastated when we had to close-down due to the misunderstanding with the Ash Smacker and thigh restraints. Some low-life newspaper reporter from one of the red tops, claiming he hadn’t signed the disclaimer.

I knew he was lying. Elsie was pedantic about that sort of thing, but it turned out he’d purposefully smudged his signature with grape butt plug lubricant so that you couldn’t make out the lettering.

When the two-page spread appeared in the paper the next day, it was enough to get us closed down. I heard that he’s an MP now, up in the Midlands.

A couple of the regulars put themselves out on a limb and tried to block it, but it’s a funny old business. Most folk like to keep quiet about their sexual preferences. I lost everything. The house was repossessed and I had to sell all the furnishings to keep my head above water. I made sure the girls were all alright though.

Fortunately, Mike from the council owed me a few favours and managed to wangle me a place in the new assisted living block down by the canal. I don’t know how he did it.

He pops in from time to time and we have a good old chat about the old days; he fills me in about what everyone’s up to whilst I rub cream on his cracked heels – he says I’ve always been good with my hands.

I’m off to meet him now, he’s been rummaging through his old photos and found a few from that party we had just before we closed. He reckons he has one of the gob-shite MP who wrote the story, wearing a ladies Basque and stilettos, by all accounts. Course he’s bound to have aged since then, but Mike reckons, you can still tell that it’s him.

He thought it would make a great poster for the forthcoming elections.

Jules Garvey Welch for Pf Magazine