Ginger Is A State Of Mind
Warhol. One word. One man.
“Ginger Wigs”.
A collection of Ginger Wigs. Wigs that are Ginger.
So brave. So challenging. So daring. So-da Stream.
Posts Tagged ‘Wigs’
The Ginger Warhol! Again……
Posted in Art, Canada, Funny, Humor, Humour, Satire, tagged 1960's, Andy Warhol, Art, Banksy, Damian Hirst, England, Funny, Ginger Hair, Guff, Humor, Humour, Images, Modern Art, Painting, Photography, Red Hair, Satire, Tracy Emin, UK, USA, Wigs on July 28, 2014| 4 Comments »
Strictly Come Dancing Final – Bruce Forsyth’s Wig To Win!
Posted in Show Business, UK, tagged BBC, Bruce Forsyth, Dance, Humour, Nigella Lawson, Show Business, Strictly Come Dancing, TV, Wigs on December 21, 2013| 12 Comments »
Gingerfightback is tipping Brucie’s syrup to lift the old glitter ball this evening.
As the picture shows the fast moving toupe is set to wow the judges and the public with its nifty footwork and rise and fall to the Latin beat. As Gfb’s dance correspondent Kimberley Knee-Cap said, “That wig is the finest exponent of dance I have ever seen. I drink to excess, have a Class A habit and recently sought solace from life’s miseries through Scientology, but rest assured I know what I am talking about. Hic.”
Rumours that domestic goddess Nigella Lawson will appear in next year’s series were met with snorts of derision by BBC insiders.
How To Eat A Full English And Help End Famine – By Bob On The Pot
Posted in Food, Funny, Humor, Humour, UK, tagged Africa, Diet, England, Food, Fried Food, Funny, Humor, Humour, Men, Satire, Starvation, Toilets, Wigs on November 8, 2013| 26 Comments »
Hello,
As much as I appreciate my lovely wife Shirley’s attempts to prolong my life via roughage, there are times when a man needs a fry up. And if he still has the energy, a spot of self abuse afterwards. But never during.
So I nipped into the Corner Cafe and ordered three eggs, three sausages, four rashers, beans, tomatoes, fried slice, fried potatoes, chips, black pudding, white pudding, kidneys. liver, chicken burger, beans, mushrooms, burger, fish fingers, toast. And broccoli. Oh and a mug of tea.
In the Cafe was an old friend, Pete “The Bastard” who was ramming a raw black pudding up a poor fella’s nostril.
This bloke had laughed at Pete “The Bastard’s” wig. I always stifle a giggle when I see it. It is made of corduroy and is laminated. But Pete “The Bastard” thinks it makes him look like Bob Marley. He’s not a man to argue with.
“Awright Bob?” he said as the last piece of black pudding filled the poor victim’s nasal cavity.
“Alright The Bastard?”
That was our conversation.
I needed the facilities and enjoyed the smell of frying bacon as I performed me business. I also read about the growing food shortage in the world and how mass starvation was years away.
I remembered my mum telling me to think about the starving children in Africa.
I cancelled the toast. I like to do my bit.
Laters.
Bob
Pointless Ginger Wig Adaptations #54 Mount Everest
Posted in Art, Funny, Humor, tagged Comedy, Funny, Ginger, Humor, Humour, Images, Mount Everest, Mountains, Nature, Red Hair, The Himalayas, Wigs on October 16, 2013| 29 Comments »
Pointless Ginger Wig Adaptations Involving A Chinstrap #1 Steve McQueen In The Great Escape
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Films, Funny, Humor, Icons, Motorbikes, Movies, Red Hair, Steve McQueen, War Movies, Wigs, World War 2 on October 8, 2012| 14 Comments »
The Sunburn Diaries – Part 1 Why It Pays To Be Sensible
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Comedy, Germany, Gingers, Greek Myths, Health, Holidays, Humor, Stories, Travel, Wigs on September 20, 2012| 18 Comments »
‘Taint No Fun Burning in Der Sun
Every year Gfb leaves The Crib for a few days for the Sun. Every year, “Be careful. Cover up. Factor 50 minimum.” Every year rogue rays pierce my Maginot Line like defences and turn my dermis into pork scratchings.
Jesus it was hot. My brains were melting and dribbling out of my ears.
Gingers and the Sun? No!
Bastard Sun. Bastard Heat.
Under a parasol, thirty seven feet in diameter, dressed in a Burkha and propped up in a lead lined coffin for extra protection.
Burn Baby Burn
Still copped it though. Top of the thighs. Right ear. Left ankle and Neckline.
“Ooooh, ooooh, aaaaah, aaaaah,” goes the song at night as I turn in bed. Cotton sheets cling to me like a rejected lover just to inflict further rubbed ignominy.
Bastard Mosquitoes too. Like Drones in Helmand they were. Despite the copious application of Agent Orange (the stuff strips skin in a fashion Hannibal the Cannibal would have been proud of) they kept on a coming. Strafed and chaffed for hours until they sated themselves on my olive oil enriched blood cells.
Mediterranean diet me arse.
“I didn’t get bitten!” Ma Fightback chirped. That’s alright then.
Day 2. To the beach. Prop my coffin under the 78 feet diameter parasol. He’s there.
6′ 3″. 16 Stone. Early 60’s? Very tight trunks. Extremely tight trunks.
Stands in the Sun, hands on hips, legs slightly akimbo. He’s the man he’s telling the beach. I hear him speak.
German.
“Ich bein ein bein einstein knacke der Ooompah Band,” or some such he says to his wife who is on a lounger looking at pictures of Princess Kate’s breasts.
“Ja,” she replies. He stands over her. His foot on the edge of the lounger. He’s proud of his trunks. His very tight trunks. He plays with his hair. Flicks it. Shapes it. Teases it. He has mullet memories.
Beads of sweat form inside my Burkha.
“Wasser for dippen,” he says.
“Ja.”
He changes trunks. Yes I know. The tight, very tight trunks are removed with the aid of a block and tackle rig and support of a passing sunglass peddler.
Budgie smugglers now adorn his crotch.
He stands by the water’s edge. Hands on hips. Legs slightly akimbo. He wades into the water and then dives in. He is under for a few seconds and then Kraken like, he resurfaces. Without his hair. Worse still, the hair has been replaced by some used toilet roll.
He reminds me of a boiled egg. A Big Tuetonic Boiled Egg.
“Meinen syrup has kaput in der wasser. Scheissen schellotapen.”
“Ja,” mutters wifey now looking at pictures of Prince Harry’s testes.
He looks around in embarrassed fashion. No-one is laughing. A coffin shakes slightly though.
Eventually I spot it floating rather listlessly towards Crete. Is this is how the legend of The Golden Fleece was born millennia ago? The Golden Wig – now there would be a Greek Myth to spice the imagination.
Or maybe not.
“Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly. Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.”
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