A Load of Pap

Hi folks, Coyote here.

I know it's unusual for me to do the wordy bits (I'm usually busy pondering what bird is on packets of Stork), but I thought I'd tell you about what happened recently.  Roadrunner would tell you herself, but she can't muster up the courage to recall the events.

For some reason, her photographic career briefly veered off in an unusual direction.  A bit like when we see a BOFmobile; there's no telling where we'll end up in our clamour to escape.  You see; she usually takes photographs of landscapes, seagulls and dinosaurs in hedges.  However, recently she wandered into the realms of the paparazzi. 

'Ooh, glamorous!' you're probably thinking.  Er...no.  You see, she seemed to only photograph Welsh celebrities.  She wasn't at all interested in those plastic-types you see on TV these days; nor those puffed-up singers that invade our charts with soporific crap.

Just the other day, for instance, she was lurking outside a big marquee when HRH The Queen staggered out, drunk off her skull on gin.  Her Madge then proceeded to pick a fight with a nearby pigeon, loudly blaming it for her crown not fitting while throwing her shoes at it.  Was Roadrunner delighted to be presented with such a golden opportunity for shutterbugging?  No.  She was looking the other way and snapped...

Jamie Owen.  For those of you who don't know who he is, he's a Welsh newsreader, radio host and author.  He actually writes books about Wales, now I come to think of it.  Maybe we should introduce him to Wynford Vaughan-Thomas.

I thought it was just a blip.  She was, after all, a novice when it came to the cut-throat world of competitive photography.  Sadly, it happened again.

This weekend we were out and about stalking BOFs with our new sprout-launcher when we happened upon a large crowd.  We wrestled our way in to see what all the fuss was about...and found Alan Sugar and Simon Cowell playing naked tiddlywinks while Katie Price served drinks that were balanced on her exceedingly large bosom.  Not only that, but Boy George was riding about on a unicycle wearing a sombrero and singing Army drinking songs.  I turned, expecting to see Roadrunner snapping away with  glittering pound signs in her eyes...but no.  She was on the other side of the street photographing...

Derek Brockway.  As I understand that we have a worldwide audience, I appreciate that many of you won't know who this is.  Derek is a well-loved Welsh weatherman who makes forecasting look like ballet while wearing interesting ties.

Perhaps Roadrunner was just distracted by his fluffy microphone.  She does rather like fluffy things - like kittens and Brian May's hair.  I was willing to put it down to that; believing that she would get the hang of it eventually.  

I was wrong.

We popped into town yesterday to buy the newspapers.  We don't read them - good god no - they just make cheap fire lighters.  Especially The Daily Mail; and that's probably because of the high volume of methane emitted from the bullshit on the pages.  But I digress.

As we walked up to the newsagents, we heard a loud, blood-curdling scream on the other side of the road.  An elderly lady was beating someone over the head with her handbag, shouting obscenities while onlookers egged her on.  Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the lady was thrashing ten shades of poop out of David Cameron.  He cowered at her feet, rambling something about being 'only economical with the truth' while she called him things that not even Samuel and Sybil would repeat.  Where was Roadrunner...?  She was facing in the opposite direction capturing...

Louise Elliott.  Another Welsh radio host, journalist and bunion expert.  I was going to tell Roadrunner that I thought she should give up the paparazzi lark, but just as I opened my mouth I noticed the expression on Ms Elliott's face.  Then I noticed that she was striding towards Roadrunner.

As I legged it faster than you can say 'cheese', I don't quite know what happened.  When I returned, Roadrunner was lying on the floor with her camera wrapped around her neck, croaking something about satsumas being 'surprisingly painful'. 

Since then, she hasn't taken a photograph of anyone else.  She hasn't taken a photo of anything, actually.  In fact, when I moved her camera from the kitchen table and went to hand it to her, her eyes widened and she paced backwards, twitching and crying.

I think, in time, she'll get back to photography.  I just don't think she'll be pointing her lens at any Welsh public figures any time soon.

Lord knows what Louise Elliott did, but Roadrunner now faints every time she sees a satsuma.