Is There a Bus Due?

A few days ago I received and Email which began: ‘As a Jewish celebrity you know the importance of keeping in touch with your family.’

“That is correct,” I thought and clicked on the link to the telephone operators who were offering me discounted rates to the Middle East. Only then did it hit me: I am neither Jewish or a celebrity (well there is some Jew in my family but you’ve got to go back a bit to find it.) My family are mostly hard drinking Yorkshire folk with a hint of Irish, Scots and Welsh.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind being called Jewish, in fact over the years I’ve been mistaken for a red sea pedestrian on a number of occasions and each time have happily accepted that assumption.  Frankly I’m proud to be associated with such a rich cultural heritage, rather than the bland one I have inherited.  If I were a fantasist I could quite easily see myself donning the yarmulke and sneaking into synagogues. However as a realist I know that my atheism would be an insuperable barrier, as would my inability to look good in even the smallest of hats.

However let me address the celebrity bit. How in the name of Grimsby’s arse could anyone suggest that I am a celebrity. I’m a nobody! In fact when I glance in the mirror, I have to remind myself who I am. Sometimes I startle myself and think that my house is haunted by a dishevelled, baggy eyed, stupid haired, beardy ghost. Then I Google my name and a picture pops up identifying the apparition and I call off the exorcists and take a shit through my pile infested anus. To further illustrate the extent of my anonymity: even my parents have to see a birth certificate before they’ll let me into their houses.

So I decided to reply to the Email which resulted in my consternation and here it is:

Dear Allen,

Thank you for the kind offer of cheap calls to Israel and I am very interested in purchasing your telephonic facilities. However I do have a few questions to ask before I part with my money:

Does my gentile status prevent me from enjoying these cheap overseas calls? If so, will I have to convert to Judaism before applying? I am only asking because my fear of circumcision is considerable and the idea of my bare glans bobbing about and rubbing against my underwear is intolerable to me.

There is also the issue of my lack of celebrity and I am concerned that this will impact upon your advertised prices. If this is the case, I can probably arrange to sleep with Wayne Rooney or Katie Price. However I would need to be full of Rohypnol and Viagra which may lead to a psychotic episode or liver damage. Would my being mental or broken affect this offer?

Do you provide broadband?

Yours Sincerely.

Martin Wolfenden

Well that was three days ago and I am yet to hear back from them. Perhaps the mistake was so great that they’ve taken their own lives or even worse, they simply don’t care. Either way, my days as a Jewish celebrity are numbered and I should start getting used to life out of the spotlight and the synagogue.  It will be tough but I can do it, because after all, I’m a star.

Martin Wolfenden

Back in the early days of this Century, I made some money by saying the odd funny thing in public. On one of these occasions a fellow funny talker told me that I should write a blog (because that was the sort of thing funny talking people did back then.) Now, I’m not the sort of person who does things the easy way, so I rejected all the ready made blogging platforms and started my own website. Since then it’s become a repository for whatever stuff is bubbling out of my brains and a directory of various podcasts and videos that I’ve made with my friends and is completely unnecessary.

One thought on “Is There a Bus Due?

  • Oy! Martin!

    Fucking Hell, all I get are telephone messages to say I’ve won a two weeks’ time share in Indonesia. I’ve never been credited with so much as a crumb of celebrity; it’s always been the luck of some draw.

    As for being anything but a mad blend of the King’s Road in Chelsea and Burnley … Nowt else is pinned on me.

    I’d love to phone Israel on a weekend. Hell, I’d love to phone Mexico, or Bermuda, or Bhutan, or Pickering at a pinch. I’ll convert to anything (granted, circumcision must not enter into the bargain, or eating meat).

    I’d worry, Martin, that these kindly Israeli telephone merchants are actually in West Africa, and they want your bank details. Your sex-tapes with Katie and Wayne will probably pop up on the Internet.

    And when the information kit and set-up package arrives it will be two tin cans and a length of string. Just long enough to reach Cohen’s Bagel Bakery.

    I hope Allen appreciates your splendid reply. He should be smiling, not out smacking his forehead on a wailing wall.

    Shalom, Martin!


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