/lit/ - Literature

Sequel to Deal or no deal.

>The Unbearable Melancholy of Mr Blobby

As I sip at my fourth vodka gimlet overlooking the London skyline, I find myself yet again holding back the tears. Tonight marks the 27th anniversary of Mr Blobby, moronic mascot to the masses. And I miss it. I miss it so badly if I saw Noel again right now my tongue would dart so quickly up his arsehole trying to get him to cut me a break I’d be tasting his beard at the other end.

The cliches are all true. I am a trained Shakespearean actor. Well, I was I suppose you should say. “Barry Killerby, formerly Mr Blobby, commands the stage with dazzling erudition and forlorn dignity in this remarkable production of King Lear” - aye, I made my own bed and now I must sit in it. I haven’t had acting work since 2012.

The internet is a Pandora’s box. Back when the media intelligentsia had me as a poster child for their sneering hatred of all things plebeian, at least I could laugh it off as tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. Not anymore. I Google and those awful gibes immediately greet me, a reminder that even at my most successful I was a fraud and a failure. So what does that make me now?

The suit. I still have the suit. It’s stuffed in the hall cupboard below the boiler. Tonight when I get home I will try it on, as I do every anniversary, and relive my time as Mr Blobby. I will jump around the flat drunkenly dancing to my hit single on repeat. I will scream Blobby Blobby Blobby until the neighbours bang on the ceiling. Then I will wake up on the floor in the suit, the stench of sweat inside like stinking feet and burnt bacon, the material sticking to my skin; just like when I was in the spotlight again.

Suddenly I notice a handsome woman, must be early 40s, standing in front of me in her elegant black cocktail dress. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you - but don’t I know you from somewhere?”.

I knock back the dregs of my vodka gimlet and ask if she would like to join me for a drink.

>>13831588
Amusing little story, you kept a good balancing act of things going on, also Fernando’s advice isn’t worth dismissing.

>>13819064
I wrote another for you. :)

>The Unbearable Melancholy of Mr Blobby

As I sip at my fourth vodka gimlet overlooking the London skyline, I find myself yet again holding back the tears. Tonight marks the 27th anniversary Mr Blobby, moronic mascot to the masses. And I miss it. I miss it so badly if I saw Noel again right now my tongue would dart so quickly up his arsehole trying to get him to cut me a break I’d be tasting his beard at the other end.

The cliches are all true. I am a trained Shakespearean actor. Well, I was I suppose you should say. “Barry Killerby, formerly Mr Blobby, commands the stage with dazzling erudition and forlorn dignity in this remarkable production of King Lear” - aye, I made my own bed and now I must sit in it. I haven’t had acting work since 2012.

The internet is a Pandora’s box. Back when the media intelligentsia had me as a poster child for their sneering hatred of all things plebeian, at least I could laugh it off as tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. Not anymore. I Google and those awful gibes immediately greet me, a reminder that even at my most successful I was a fraud and a failure. So what does that make me now?

The suit. I still have the suit. It’s stuffed in the hall cupboard below the boiler. Tonight when I get home I will try it on, as I do every anniversary, and relive my time as Mr Blobby. I will jump around the flat drunkenly dancing to my hit single on repeat. I will scream Blobby Blobby Blobby until the neighbours bang on the ceiling. Then I will wake up on the floor in the suit, the stench of sweat inside like stinking feet and burnt bacon, the material sticking to my skin; just like when I was in the spotlight again.

Suddenly I notice a handsome woman, must be early 40s, standing in front of me in her elegant black cocktail dress. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you - but don’t I know you from somewhere?”.

I knock back the dregs of my vodka gimlet and somehow find the courage to ask her if she would like to join me for a drink.