Anonymous askedYou’re you everywhere; not just on Yahoo Messenger. Even on stage. That’s what the magistrate told me after I concussed Bruce Forsyth with an armchair on Strictly Come Dancing.
While climbing to the top of Ben Nevis in pursuit of superior mobile-phone signal, knife betwixt my teeth and the body of a salty sea dawg swinging violently from my marine mitts o’er an ocean of mountain stalactites, I couldn’t help but turn my mind to university lodging…and the potential riches therein.
I’ve watched countless of you Oirish students flock to the British mainland mere days before university begins anew. And I’ve watched you waste valuable days and picoseconds.
See those domestic British students? The ones that live near the university, I mean. The ones that fancy a few days extra kip in bed…and don’t return to university lodging until the day before term starts anew.
Now take a look at their unoccupied lodgings. There’s a profit to be made, there. Lease it out to feral people, maybe. Or people in need of a base to conduct shady operations.
I’ve dropped the captain and his scalp seems to be contending kind of badly with the rocky mountain outcrops and wolves. So I’m going to stop talking now.
Peter the Thieving Bastard - Episode 001 - The Blog Cast
Total Running Time: 13 minutes
Featuring:
Cast for Episode 001:
Dear Dr. Peter,
With Mother’s Day on the horizon and me…well…all recessioned out, I was wondering if you could give me some good ideas for a cheap gift so I can show me ma I “love her.” But…you know—not too much. Thanks, pal.
Dr. Peter throws a white cape over the operating table and flexes his magic fingers, before responding:
Having, myself, been synthetically engineered from the skin-peelings of erstwhile Aryan athletes and intelligent Algerian flora, I have never known a mother nor the strife of Mother’s Day. And the only time I’ve given a present to someone’s mum was when I paid a stout Alabaman housewife to punch Boo Boo Stewart in the face.
But that phD in lurve that I leave hanging in the garden tool-shed isn’t just for show, you know. I am qualified to advise on all avenues of lurve, not just impromptu pick-up lines and shady cosmetics with which to disguise your insidious phizog. So sit up straight; tuck your shirt tightly into your underpants; and stay perfectly still. I can only make this incision once:
• Accompany a parent on their weekly shop; and when their back is turned, chuck a tin of sweeties into the trolley. The floor of the vehicle must be carpeted with other intended purchases so that it’s hidden from view.
• When all the aisles have been scoured, offer to pack the bags while said parent reads a newspaper, or something. You can’t let them notice the sweetie-tin—and certainly not that they’re paying for it.
• Call them back—this point is crucial—when payment is required. If the price is higher than they expected, look really angry and blame it on inflation.
• Eat the receipt. For heaven’s sake: eat the damn thing.
• When you load the bags into the car boot, swipe the tin of sweeties and hide it until Mother’s Day, at which time you present it alongside a bouquet of posies you harvested from common-land.
Doctor’s Prognosis: Finding that present need not be a bother; keep it cheap and easy, just like your mother.
Nb. And you might want to get that “recessioned” checked out. That sounds like a particularly stringent strain of oral herpes.
Sorry for the delay on new posts. On my way back from my wakeboarding holiday in Somalia I decided to pop in and visit an old friend. Will be back with more penny pinching past-times ASAP.
Busy layin’ the smack-down on Kayne West. Will return to scoring my new rap E.P. my palace in Munich soon.
Busy wake-boarding in a business-suit in Somalia.
Will return to egg-laying regular wisdom nuggets soon.
As I reclined in my armchair on sunday afternoon, browsing through a copy of the Daily Mail (which my parents paid for), a thought struck me. I thought to myself “by jimminy crickets beard! It’s nearly Xmas! subscribers to my blog need me to help them save money!”. Quickly casting aside my pages of right wing (i.e high quality) press, I started to think about what people need to save money on more than anything. Petrol!
Heres a quick tip. Pull up to the pump, fill up to the amount you want, but then go about 1-5p over that (if you’re really adventurous, or the shop is run by an old biddy, 9-10p at the outside). Then, when you go into pay, simply round it down to the nearest pound. If it’s a busy day in the petrol station they’ll never notice and you save valuable pennies during the course of the year.
Drive a diesel car and want a more daring way to save money? No problem! Simply fill up your car with home heating oil instead. She’ll run a bit rich, but you’re nay charged any duty cos it’s not official vehicle fuel! If that’s too daring for you then simply drop by any farm along the border (ideally one with a sign outside saying “Are ye’ lookin’ diesel?”) and pop in for a fill up. You’d be surprised at the drop down prices with surprisingly few repercussions.
Save money this Xmas. Dump BP and go GP, the Gilliland Petroleum way!
By now you all know of my status as the Marquess of Niggardliness, but what you didn’t know is this even extends to simple walking. Peeved at the astronomical prices of entry to a National Trust property? Or, worse yet, annual membership? Simply park outside the grounds and sneak in unnoticed.
If you stick to cover such as hedges and trees, theres no way you’ll get caught. Too cautious for that caper? No problem, all you have to do is counterfeit a membership card using microsoft word. Given most of the national trust properties are staffed by elderly aul biddies they’ll never even notice the poor craftsmanship on your forged pass.
If worst comes to worst and you are caught, simply respond maturely and sensibly by dropping your trousers and leaving a steaming piece of “heritage” on the ground, that’ll teach ‘em for charging so much! They’ll be so shocked by this display of vulgarity that you can make a quick getaway.
Bingo, bango, bongo, National Trust sussed!
Good day to you all fine sirs and ladies, I be Peter Gilliland, Sir Stinginess himself, the Prince of Parsimony. I decided to start this blog (for free might I add) to educate you all on the wonderful practice of hoarding money at all costs, forgive the pun. I'll be advising you on how to get out of paying for everything from pints of beer to pieces of fine art, from carry outs to cars and so on.
