GOOD AFTERNOON regular readers. Hello new subscribers. Bit of an update for you today, my husband Lee did return from Cannes, (Why was he in Cannes? Nobody knows, but read this for context) if alive, then not exactly what you could reasonably call ‘well’…
He put on a brave face, valiantly taking the child to early morning rugby practice, and attempting to stay awake until at least 8pm for family movie night, but by the end of the weekend it was clear that he probably was actually a bit ill. Like ‘it’s just a cold, I think’ ill. Desperately trying not to be ill, ill. The kind of ill you get from being on a germy plane, probably. After a three day bender. In Cannes. *eyes to the heavens
What was he actually doing in Cannes? I genuinely still have no real idea. Pretty much the only communication I had from him while he was there, partying in a penthouse harbour-side apartment/forty million pound yacht, was just the one photograph he texted me. No explanation. Just the picture. I’m going to describe this photograph, rather than just simply include it in the newsletter, for reasons which will become apparent.
Imagine, if you will, that the penthouse apartment in which Lee and his mate are staying also has a massive rooftop garden. This garden overlooks not just Cannes harbour, but also, five floors down, a three lane highway, busy with all the constant traffic you would expect in such a vibrant buzzing city.
Let’s also imagine, for one second that perhaps you are a French commuter, sitting in your car on this three lane highway, thinking your idle thoughts as you head to the casino for the morning or whatever people do in Cannes on the regular. You’re waiting for the lights to change. You glance upwards at the glorious belle epoque architecture momentarily. You spot something, high, high up on the roof. It looks....it looks a bit like... a man. A large man. He’s standing, silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky, arms outstretched to the heavens, legs planted in a power stance. It reminds you, somehow, of the shape of that scrawled stick man on the cover of pearl jam album, you know the one, the one every grebby teenager owned some time in the mid-nineties. Anyway, that’s what the man looks like, high up there surveying the traffic below. Arms wide, head upturned. It’s possible he is roaring at the sky with pure unbridled joy. He looks statuesque. He looks majestic! He looks euphoric!
He also looks absolutely, completely, stark bollock naked.
Which is how it came to pass that Lee brought three lanes of French traffic to an absolute standstill last week. Honking. Shouting. Pointing. Confusion. Possible arrest warrants issued. (I imagine)
Who took the photo? I don’t know. Why was he naked on a roof? I also do not know, and suspect, deep down in my soul that it’s probably better this way.
Anyway, that is the sum total of information I have at my disposal of Lee’s three days in Cannes. Where did he go? Who did he meet? Did any work get done? Not a clue. Just this one, damning photograph. Fun times for all!
In direct contrast, I had my own glamorous jaunt away too this weekend, except mine was hiking. In the lake district. In the rain. Funner times!!!
Actually, it was bloody brilliant because I went with the best group of girls and we laughed until we all (probably) pissed ourselves at absolutely everything and nothing. Like when we dropped in on another friend for a cup of tea to break the four hour journey up there, and her daughter politely enquired if we had all been to a funeral:
I mean, we didn’t plan to look like the witches of Eastwick, but that’s just the way it all went down. Black is SO FLATTERING. Also amusing that day, shortly after all receiving news notifications that the chancellor Kwasi Kwarteng had just resigned, was learning that this same little girl had spent the day meeting Rishi Sunak, who was visiting her tiny, northern village primary school, minutes from where we were sitting. Weird coincidences. (A week is a long time in politics, so by the time you read this that girl may well also be the next prime minister too for all I know)
Combine that with an eleven mile walk in hysterical thunder hail and lightning, being accosted by a pub waiter absolutely hell bent on telling us every last thing about his biltong side hustle (including amazon sales stats, distribution strategy and bafflingly, a rambling departure into the history of apartheid and subsequent impact on South African dried meat products) and the kind of jolly pissed shit that four women get up to, the whole weekend was an absolute blast. For the avoidance of doubt, my idea of ‘jolly pissed up shit’ is more ‘hysterically measuring who has the skinniest thighs with a tiny phone cable’ than ‘halting the traffic with public nudity’ but I guess there’s always room for personal growth. INVITE ME TO CANNES!! WHO KNOWS WHAT COULD HAPPEN!!
Anyway, that’s all for this week. I’m off to put myself forward for the role of Prime Minister, reckon even I could do a better job than this shower of arseholes, and I say this as someone who did an actual degree in PHILOSOPHY. Come on now.
IS your child texting about BILTONG??
brb - Biltong, right bitches?!
smh – scrap meat, hey?!
tbh – toasted buffalo hide
stfu- strange tableservice, feels uncomfortable
tfw – the fucking waiter
rofl – really obsessed: farm-animal leather
idc – I dry carcasses
btw – bit too weird
What’s on the jolly-radar this week?
Many huge thanks to everyone who felt the need to recommend this newsletter to a friend, which has resulted in another nice flurry of new subscribers. If there’s someone you think would enjoy my rambling ramblings, then please do recommend me, ideally to your celebrity friends with enormous social reach so I can amass an army of subscribers and somehow get paid for writing this. Here’s what I have been enjoying this week:
Huge thanks to follower Elaine, who this week sent me this wonderful follow up to a link I posted a few letters back. (Fun fact: Subscriber Elaine is also an incredibly talented artist!)
Did you see this story doing the rounds about the kind of weapons-grade prank me and my schoolfriends could only aspire to? It’s a long read, but great.
I don’t know why this made me laugh so much but I watched it on repeat for at least five minutes longer than was warranted
Er, did I talk about Cunk on Earth in previous newsletters? I think I must have done, but just in case YOU SHOULD WATCH IT.
This isn’t funny, (well, not deliberately) but this week I finally got round to editing the last of the videos I made about that time I walked 200miles across England on the coast to coast walk. If you’re interested, you can watch my take on the whole journey here, or just the glorious last day here…
Lastly, this is a very vague idea at this stage, but would be interested to know if you would consider listening if I made some audio around this newsletter? Reply to this like a normal email and let me know what you’d want to hear about if so! Behind the scenes content? The backstories? More rambling? I don’t know. Think there might be something here worth talking about. You can already listen to these posts as audio files if you really can’t be arsed to read, just click the link to view it on the web and hopefully by then I will have uploaded the read-through. I haven’t done it yet for this one, but I will. I promise.
See you next time dickheadz!
About me
I’m Lindsay Butcher and I write words down for a living. I’ll write for you too if you like? Commission me to be hilarious on your behalf…
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Want to read more? Check out previous newsletter editions here, or feast your brain on my blog AndOtherIdiots.
I don’t get paid to write this, but you can show your appreciation and buy me a coffee and/or just invite me to a fuckin massive party on your superyacht in Cannes or whatever. Thanks.
Ooh! Witchy alcoholic walking! Can I come next time? 😁 And I’m voting for you for prime minister.