Monday, 10 September 2012


The old door creaked as I pushed it open. Nothing moved inside. Light from the doorway illuminated an old table covered in dust.

'Hello?' I called out.


I stepped inside, making sure the door was propped open. Something about that house creeped me out. I tried to tell myself the stories weren't true, but every tiny bump set my pulse galloping.

'Hello?' I said again.


'Hello?' I peered into the old drawing room, but found it empty.








This short story was taken from my forthcoming book - 'Breaking into Old Houses and saying 'Hello.''

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

A joke for a Wednesday

I have a never-say-die attitude.

Which is probably why I failed GCSE German.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

My Inspirational Ballad

Up until now, my songwriting talents have gone largely unnoticed by the general public. I don't know why this is. Could it be that the great unwashed aren't ready for my Afro-punk-folk-bluegrass jams? Or can the liberal elite not come to terms with my uncompromising racial lyrics? Who knows?

The point is, I can no longer afford to stick to my principles. I've got too many mouths to feed. Seriously, just mouths. I have a family of disembodied mouths living in my house, and they're always hungry. Even though they have no digestive system. What I'm trying to say is, I spend every waking hour cleaning chewed-up food from off my floor.

Anyway, upon watching the Olympic coverage on the BBC, it occurred to me that it might be an idea to record a song that can be played over inspirational montages of athletes winning things in slow motion. A song I could sell to every broadcaster for them to play and play and play, until everyone just wishes they were dead. That's right; I'm going after the elusive Snow Patrol dollar.

So now, in the spirit of Olympic goodwill, I am sharing the lyrics to my brand new inspiration ballad; Winning.

Winning by Jah Mash-up (Ben Davids)

I can see the finish line,
Looming up ahead.
Will I get to it in time,
Or will I end up dead?

It doesn't matter where you're from,
Your colour or your creed.
All that matters is that you can run,
You can run at a decent speed.

We are winning,
You and I,
Forever winning,
Throw your hands in the sky.
The world could stop,
The moon could shrink,
But we're winners.
What do you think?

I've seen you running,
Running around the park.
I think you are stunning,
Now you've run off with my heart.

It doesn't matter if you're a big man,
Or a girly midget.
Because, baby I'm the can,
And you're my plastic widget. (Nothing else rhymes)

We are winning,
You and I,
Forever winning,
Throw your hands in the sky.
The world could stop,
The moon could shrink,
But we're winners.
What do you think?

A soaring orchestral swell, accompanied by a guitar solo that sounds a bit like the one Slash does when he walks out of that church and stands in the middle of the desert with his legs really far apart.

Chorus (In a higher key and accompanied by a gospel choir)
We are winning,
You and I,
Forever winning,
Throw your hands in the sky.
The world could stop,
The moon could shrink,
But we're winners.
What do you think?
We are winning,
You and I,
Forever winning,
Throw your hands in the sky.
The world could stop,
The moon could shrink,
But we're winners,
Just like Nigel Spink.
Just like Nigel Spink.
Just like Nigel Spink.
(Oooooooh, yeah)
Just like Nigel Spink.
(Baby, baby, baby)
Just like Nigel Spink,
(Owwwww fuck!)
Just like Nigel Spink.
We are winning,
What do you think?

Elton bloody John!

Tuesday, 31 July 2012

Scatman John!

Upon perusing the statistics of this blog, I found out that the search query that draws the most traffic is 'Scatman John.' That's right. The musical legend himself.

Now, I want this blog to be a big success, like that one written by a hooker, so I've prepared a series of tags that will draw big numbers. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you again, same Scat time, same Scat channel!

Wednesday, 25 July 2012


Imagine a beautiful sunset over a calm, blue sea. Nice, isn't it?

Now imagine a man who can't find his car because it's gone dark, so he has to get the bus home. But he gets on the wrong bus! And he's too proud to admit his mistake and stays on that bus for the rest of his life! And his children have no inheritance because he spent it all on fares! And they have to turn to crime to make ends meet! And his only son is shot in the spine in a paracetamol deal gone bad! And he grows bitter, lying paralysed on his bed, day after day, so much so that when a nurse comes to change his bedding, he bites her on the nose! And that nurse just happens to be a nose model on the side, and had to cancel a lucrative job that weekend, posing for 'Noses Weekly!' And 'Noses Weekly' can't take the shock and go out of business! And the editor is forced to take a job at a McDonalds drive thru, but gorges himself on too many Big Macs and dies of a heart attack! And he just happens to be driving a bus full of orphans at the time, for some reason!

Not such a beautiful sunset now, is it?

Saturday, 21 July 2012

Lightly jabbing

Dain Ratchett came out of work one afternoon to find a well-dressed man punching his car. When he asked him why, he said, ‘If only more people hit cars.’ Not being satisfied with his logic, Dain got inside and drove off, leaving him to punch a mountain bike chained to a fence.

This little episode put him in a bad frame of mind for the rest of the evening, and completely scuppered his chances of relaxation.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ his wife, Tiffany said from across the dinner table. ‘You’ve barely touched your dinner.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ he said, pushing the plate away and upsetting a vase of lilies.

‘Why?’ she said, chiding him with her big, blue eyes.

‘I don’t know, I’ve just been in this awful mood ever since I caught this man punching my Land Rover this afternoon.’ He stuck his fork in his steak and left it there.

‘What?’ she giggled.

‘There was a man, punching my car.’

‘How very odd,’ she said. ‘What did you do?’

‘What could I do?’ he replied, picking the fork up with the steak still on the end. ‘It was just so odd, I drove off. What is the proper thing to do in that situation?’

‘Well, if you catch him at it again, call the police. You shouldn’t have to put up with that. Did he leave any dents?’

‘Not that I could make out,’ he said. ‘He was jabbing it lightly when I caught him.’

The next day was very much the same, Dain emerged from his office after a long day to find the same man jabbing his car.

‘Hey there!’ he called. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Punching your car,’ he replied nonchalantly. ‘Why, you got a problem with that?’

 Now, Dain was not the sort of person who was accustomed to confrontation. In fact, you might say that he once allowed a family of Gypsies to live on the bridge of his nose for a fortnight, so he looked him squarely in the eyes and said, ‘No, not at all,’ before scampering back into his office and calling the police.

They arrived approximately forty-five minutes later, after a very protracted conversation with a sceptical operator, to find the man long gone and the car without a dent.

‘But he was jabbing it lightly!’ he implored, while the two officers exchanged meaningful ‘crazy’ looks.

Tiffany was sympathetic  but firm.

‘Dain , you just have to stand up for yourself. I know you can do it,’ she said as she took away his untouched supper.

‘I don’t know, Tiff-’ he began.

‘Now come on,’ she cut in. ‘You didn’t get to be head accountant at Moran-Heimenstein by pussy-footing around, now did you?’


‘Well then show him what you’re made of!’

The next day, Dain asked around the office to see if anyone knew about a man who liked to hit cars. People looked at him askance but it didn’t bother him too much, he had a meticulously prepared speech memorised and when he found the car-puncher, he was going to let him have it.

‘Ratchett, can I have a word?’ a voice cut through the hush of an early afternoon Solitaire session. Startled, he looked up and saw a tall man in a lab coat smiling at him, he looked familiar.

‘Certainly,’ said Dain. ‘And you are?’

‘Crispin Unctious,’ he held out his hand. ‘Chief Engineer.’

Dain took his hand and gave him Customary Business Shake No 3 (one large pump)

‘The reason I’m here, Mr Ratchett, is that I’ve heard on the grapevine that you’re having a little car trouble, is that right?’

‘In a way,’ he began. ‘What it is, every day when I leave work, I find a man outside, punching my car.’

‘Punching your car, you say?’ he said, ruminatively caressing his moustache. ‘That is a puzzle. Is he a drunk? Someone with mental difficulties?’

‘Well, he looks perfectly normal; well-dressed, well-groomed. Not the sort of person you’d expect to find assaulting a Land Rover.’

‘Hmm, interesting,’ he mumbled, and then added after a long pause, ‘You know what, Ratchett, I think I can help you.’

‘Electrical currents?’ Tiffany cried after he told her. ‘But that’s crazy!’

‘Oh but it isn’t,’ he replied, as nonchalantly as he could muster. ‘I warned him this afternoon, that if he does it again, he’ll be shot through with five hundred volts.’

‘But what if someone were to just knock it by accident? Would it kill them too?’

‘No no no my dear. Professor Unctious has ensured me that it will only be set off after a light jab. A real, deliberate punch in other words. Besides, I thought you wanted me to stand up to him.’

‘I did, Dain, but there’s a difference between standing up for yourself and having your car booby-trapped,’ she said.

‘I used to think so too,’ he said, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

Dain arrived at work the next day to find that someone had left a pair of boxing gloves on his desk.

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ he said with a healthy dollop of sarcasm, which would have been even more potent if someone had actually been listening.

For the rest of the day, his work colleagues would mutter snarky asides about ‘crazy old Ratchett in Accounts’ and some of the more daring ones would lightly jab his arm as they walked past. But it wasn’t until a gang of ten stood around his desk, punching his PC monitor, that he snapped.

‘I don’t know why you find it so hard to believe that someone has been hitting my car,’ he yelled. ‘How would you like it if it happened to you?’ With that he had stormed out of the office, barking a severe, ‘Follow me,’ to the rest, who did so purely for entertainment purposes.

He led them to his car, which Professor Unctious had just brought back and was standing behind, and pointed at it furiously.


At the back of the pack, someone giggled, and then it spread out until all of them were in hysterics. Even Professor Unctious broke into a chuckle.

‘Oh, you think this is funny?’ he said. ‘You think this is a joke? Some evil man, was standing by my car, my property, and jabbing it! He was lightly jabbing it, like this.’

The Dark Knight Rises - Film Review by Basford Harper

Naturally, I was horrified when my editor, in his infinite wisdom, asked me to review a film that was showing at my local multiplex.

'But, Walter, surely you cannot expect Basford Harper, Bolehall's most influential arts critic, to review such a populist film, especially while the Tibetan Yodelling Symposium is taking place?' I said to him.
'Shut up, you bender,' was his reply. I begged him to reconsider but he grew angry and threw a laminator at my head.

So it was with a heavy heart and a dented cranium that I trooped down to the cavernous multiplex, where I sat amongst the great unwashed as they chomped their "popped corn" and "malted teasers" and wished I was immersing myself in the intoxicating delights of the Tibetan's full-throated yodel (STOP TALKING ABOUT YODELLING YOU BENDER - ED)

The film began with a black screen, with just the name of the film, the number/letter combination 12A and some signatures. Initially, I was puzzled at the meaning of this scene. What was the director, one Christopher Nolan, patriarch of the famous Nolan sisters singing group, trying to say? I felt that the key to unlocking this mystery lay in that complex letter/number code.

After some considerable cogitation on the subject, I painstaking unravelled it. In the Bible, there are the twelve sons of Israel, and in Nathaniel Hawthorne's 'The Scarlett Letter,' heroine Hester Prynne wears the letter A on her nightgown, as a sign that she is an adulteress. Putting these two facts together, I think it is safe to assume that the director wants an extra-marital affair with a dozen Jews.

By the time I'd deciphered this conundrum, the film was almost over, but isn't this revelation the most telling thing you'll ever read about this mainstream fluff, dear reader? Even though I can't see you, I can already sense you nodding your heads in vigorous agreement.

These are some other thoughts I had about the piece:

  • The protagonist is described as a knight, and yet his behaviour is completely unbecoming as one of Her Majesty's knights of the realm. Is he a thinly veiled fictional representation of a real knight? If he is, my money is on Sir Terry Wogan.
  • I found it very hard to believe that a wealthy socialite like Bruce Wayne would hire such a common butler.
  • I've got a feeling that this Bruce Wayne fellow may have been in on this whole Batman thing. I'm not sure why, but there were several subtle hints dotted throughout the film that an uneducated eye wouldn't have noticed.
So, that is that. I hope I never have to review such a base piece of "art" ever again. Next week, this column will resume normal service, with my review of jazz virtuoso Strabek Vaglips's latest opus 'Magna Doodle Dandy,' an album of hard-bop classics played entirely on a stylophone.

Thursday, 19 July 2012

Dyed two Jung

Happiness is...

... skipping through a meadow and laughing so loud that neighbouring farmers are forced to soundproof their barns.

Wednesday, 18 July 2012


The following poem is taken from my forthcoming collection, The Goose Fancier's Almanac, published by Rita's Vanity Press Ltd.


You think you can break me, don't you?
Well get this:

You can't.

You can break my car and break my bike,
You can break my yellow Fisher Price trike,
You can break my paper and break my pens,
You can break my cockerel and break my hens,
You can break my library card and my bus pass,
You can break my commemorative Batman glass,
You can break my apples and break my pears,
You can break my drainpipes and break my flares,
You can break my windows and break my doors,
You can even break my Filipino whores,
You can break my guns and break my coke,
You can break my Imperial Leather bath soak,
You can break my legs and break my nose,
Break my arms and break my toes,
Break my face and break my ribs,
Break my knees, shins, tibs and fibs,
You can break all that, but can't you see,
The one thing you can't break is me.

Although really, if you'd broken my legs, nose, arms, toes, face, ribs, knees, shins, tibs and fibs, that would be me, wouldn't it? Oh well, I sold my delete key to pay for my drug habit, so I can't go changing it now.


Monday, 16 July 2012

My Agony Column

That's right I've started my own Agony Aunt column! Of course, you're probably thinking, 'Who the hell would take advice from that dribbling imbecile?' But you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking you smell of piss. Anyway, on to the first question!

Whenever I write things down, it comes out all slanty. What can I do?
- Slanty Sarah, Dorset

Well Sarah, ask yourself this, do you need to write anything down at all? Think about it. And while you're thinking about it, go and make me a sandwich, you slanty freak. Next question!

Ou est la piscine?
-Claude, Paris

Haha! Sounds like pissing. Next question!

What is the proper way to wear a cummerbund with a waistcoat?
-Patrick Bateman, New York City

Fuck off you fictional character! Next!

Whenever I make love to my wife, I can't reach climax without imitating an owl. How can I stop it?
-Jim Perkins, Appleby de la Zouch

Do you mean hooting or turning your head around so you're facing the other way? Be more specific.

My penis burns when I urinate. I've consulted my GP, but he just keeps telling me not to urinate. Is he even a real doctor?
-Veggy Blinker, Crewe Alexandra

Well, Veggy, there are many ways to tell if your doctor isn't genuine.

  1. He operates out of a caravan.
  2. He answers to the name 'Curly.'
  3. Instead of putting on latex gloves, he simply spits into his hands and says, 'Clean as a whistle.'
  4. He seems overly keen on checking your prostate gland with his erect penis.
  5. His stethoscope is just some grass.

My husband wants me to dress up for him to spice up our sex life. Any ideas what costumes to get?
-Marigold Queef, Splotchley

In the bedroom, the following costumes are acceptable:

  • Sexy nurse
  • Sexy nun
  • Sexy police woman
  • Sexy Chief Environmental Officer for Leicester City Council
  • Sexy nudist
The following are unacceptable:
  • Sexy ghost
  • Sexy dog
  • Sexy child
  • Sexy Hitler
Hope this helps, Marigold and do let me know how you got on. Especially all the filthy stuff. Phwoar.
Anyway, that's all for now, I'll be answering more of your problems on this page in the very near future.

I sometimes wonder...

... why the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had to wear masks. I mean, what were they trying to do, protect their identities? As if there were thousands of other giant, mutant turtles walking around? COME ON! Who are they trying to kid? Am I right, guys?



Monday, 26 March 2012

A Private Dick Story

History is dominated by ‘ifs’. If Archduke Franz Ferdinand had taken a different route home one afternoon, World War One wouldn’t have happened, if Alexander Fleming wasn’t a bit blasé about doing the dishes, there would be no penicillin, and if my mother hadn’t put my best white shirt in with her red slacks, the kids at school wouldn’t have called me ‘Pinky’. Life ain’t nothing but a crap shoot.

It was by chance that one morning that a little twinky by the name of Candy Gable sashayed into my office. She got lost on the way to the store to pick up some smokes.

‘Hello there,’ she said as she leant over my desk. ‘Do you know where a girl could find some cigarettes around here?’

‘You’re not from these parts, are you sugar?’ I said, taking a Camel out of my pocket and holding it up. A cigarette, you understand, not a desert horse.

‘I just moved in this morning,’ she said, gratefully accepting my offer between her full, pink lips. Her mouth, you understand; this ain’t the memoirs of Bill Clinton. I struck a match and lit it, and watched as she inhaled, closing her eyes with pleasure.

‘Thanks,’ she purred. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t ask your name.’

‘That’s alright,’ I said as I filled my pipe.

‘No, I mean what is your name?’

‘John Flagpole, Private Detective.’ I said, accidentally flipping my library card at her before realising my mistake and passing her my real one. ‘And yours?’

‘Candy Gable,’ she said.

‘Candy,’ I said as I burned some sweet Carolina leaves. ‘That’s a pretty name. I had an uncle called Candy, you know.’

‘An uncle?’

‘Yeah, he was a confused man. Real name was Frank. So what brings you to these parts, Uncle Candy?’

‘Well, I lived in L.A. for a while, trying to make it as an actress, that was always my dream, you know-‘

‘Hmm,’ I said, but I wasn’t really listening. Truth be told, I was trying to mentally undress her, which proved to be a difficult task because every time I got to the underwear stage she turned into my father’s brother. ‘Damn you Frank. Damn you and your fan dance,’ I breathed as she continued with her story.

‘What?’ she said.

‘N-nothing,’ I blabbed, losing my cool. ‘Please, continue.’ And with that she gave me her whole life story. It was the usual shtick; bad boyfriends, neglectful father, mother running away with a circus contortionist; I’d heard it a thousand times before from a thousand different broads, but she was unlike the rest. She was different. There was a naughty glint in her eye. Deep down I knew this piece was bad news.

‘So, tell me about yourself Mr Flagpole,’ she said, running her fingers through her tumbling blonde hair.

‘Nothing to tell, toots. Born, went to school, kids gave me an unfortunate nickname, my old man got me a job at the toothpaste factory, you know, the usual.’

‘And what made you decide to become a private dick?’ she breathed, biting her moist bottom lip.

‘Well, some guy at the toothpaste factory kept stealing my turkey sandwich from my locker. I had my suspicions, but couldn’t be too sure, so I asked around, dusted for prints, that kind of thing. In the end I caught him in the act and confronted him.’

‘And what did he do, Mr Flagpole?’ the glint in her eye came back and the blood leaving my heart began packing for the long journey south.

‘He punched me in the face and broke my nose.’ I said.

‘Oh my!’ she gasped.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Thank God he was wearing boxing gloves at the time; otherwise God knows what would have happened. Anyway, as I hit the deck, I knew what I wanted to do. Next day I resigned as Chief Cap Screwer: Tube Division and set up shop here. And the rest as they say, is history.’

‘Just think; if that man hadn’t stolen your sandwich you’d still be at that factory, and we wouldn’t be sitting here having this delightful conversation,’ she smiled, showing the best set of pearly whites I’d seen since Doris Day bit me at the grocery store.

‘I’ll drink to that!’ I said as I poured some cheap Scotch from a bottle I keep in my drawer. ‘You want?’

‘Oh. Oh no. But thanks,’ she said.

‘Come on! Why not? We’re having some fun here!’

‘Well, mainly because it’s ten in the morning, but also because I have to go now,’ she said, taking one last grateful drag of her cigarette.

‘Alright, doll face,’ I said, giving a casual salute as I belted back my drink like a guy who knows how.

‘I’ll see you around,’ she said as she headed for the door. ‘Thanks for the smoke Mr Flagpole.’ And with that she turned and blew me a kiss. I swear to all that is holy, that invisible kiss did more for me than any game of hide the cannoli I’d had in years.

‘Damn,’ I said as I poured another drink. ‘That is one smoking broad.’

The rest of the day went by slow; a nervous looking guy shuffled in at around two telling me he thought his wife was being unfaithful. After about twenty minutes he broke down and confessed that he wasn’t even married and just wanted someone to talk to.

After I’d kicked his sorry ass out, I sat down and lit up again. That dame was still under my skin, so much so that I didn’t notice my hat was on fire. After the fire department had put it out, my phone rang.

‘Flagpole Detective Agency?’ I said, all the while thinking how much I needed a secretary again.

‘Mr Flagpole?’ I recognised that voice.

‘Yes?’ That was the first time I put the ‘s’ on that word since I was in the dock for groping my last secretary.

‘It’s Candy Gable. From earlier?’ she said, laying on that sweet little girl routine so thick you could have bounced dimes off of it.

‘Uh, yeah, I remember you. You’re the actress right?’ I said, laying on that cool private dick routine so thick you could have bounced dimes off of it.

‘I suppose so,’ she giggled, laying on that sweet little girl routine so thick you could have bounced dimes off of it.

‘How may I help you, Miss Gable?’ I said, reaching into my pocket for more dimes to bounce.

‘I was just thinking about how nice you were to me earlier. And- well, it’s not easy making friends in a new town...’ she said, laying on that sweet little girl routine so thick you could have bounced a nickel, a penny and some lint off of it.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘I was just wondering if you wanted to come round my house tonight, for dinner and drinks?’ I picked myself up off the floor just in time to hastily scribble down her address and bid her a civil goodbye, my cool private dick routine laid on so thin, a squirrel’s belch could have broken it.

‘Goodnight nurse,’ I said as I sat back down. I didn’t usually get this giddy over a broad, but this one was a real knockout. She wore that little blouse like most women in this town wear steak bibs.

I left the office early that night and called in at the grocery store. I knew I needed to smell extra fresh so I picked up some mints and some menthol smokes.

‘And throw me in some of that Cologne will ya?’ I said to the square behind the counter.

‘But sir, this is my ear medicine,’ he stuttered.

‘What the hell, kid? Did I ask for your opinion? Just put it in the bag so I can get on my way.’

‘Yes sir.’

I took a bath that night too, which was unusual for me. I normally used my bathtub for storing old editions of Private Dick Weekly. I don’t know why I kept my bath and that particular publication together. Probably because neither of them had me in them. Oh no, but Joey Saccamoni from Yonkers got in just for reuniting a mother with her son. Word on the street is the old dame was so senile she just forgot where he lived.

I threw the stacks of Private Dick into the garbage and climbed into the tub. Afterwards I felt refreshed, but covered in a fine film of ink because I forgot to rinse it out first. I went to my wardrobe; what a sad state of affairs. I took out the suit that was the least threadbare and the hat that had the least fire-damage and looked at myself in my mother’s old antique mirror.

‘You’re one homely son of a bitch, Johnny Flagpole,’ I said to myself as I dabbed some of that kid’s ear medicine on my neck.

Just before I left my house, I strapped a holster onto my leg and put my favourite gun in there. I never go anywhere without a piece. Not anymore. One time, I was investigating the disappearance of a local factory owner, and his daughter, who was, it has to be said, almost as smoking as Candy Gable, invited me to the mansion to look at his receipts. She was giving me the old come-on, so I went light. Needless to say, it was a trap and I was scrabbling across the roof of a mansion in my skivvies before the night was out.

Candy’s place was in the middle of a run-down street in a no-good part of town. ‘Round here, gangs would mob you and fill your hat with tartar sauce for kicks. As a precaution I stopped at a 7-11 and filled my own hat with the best tartar sauce on the shelf.

I knocked on her front door and straightened my threadbare tie.

‘Mr Flagpole! Hello!’ she was in a festive mood already.

‘Miss Gable,’ I said, lifting my hat as a gesture of respect and sending tartar sauce cascading down my face.

‘Please, come in,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s here already.’

‘Wait a minute!’ I said, stopping in my tracks. ‘Everyone?’

‘Yeah, silly, all my new college buddies are here!’

‘Hold on a minute, toots. You go to college?’ I was confused.

‘Yes, I told you, remember?’ she looked at me inquisitively.

‘Uh, yeah. Yeah that’s right.’ My cover was blown for sure. She must have known that I wasn’t listening to her in my office that afternoon, and from that, probably deduced that I was trying to do mental naughties with her, but couldn’t because Uncle Frank kept appearing in his two-piece.

‘I enrolled in performing arts at Colombia; I’m trying to become a better actress.’ As soon as she said it, my guts danced a pas de deux against my ribcage. Performing arts students. I was about to spend an evening with performing arts students. I was about to make my excuses and leave when this little squirt who was probably called Rosebud jumped through the door and pulled me through. Instinctively, I punched him on the nose, knocking him to the floor. Thank God I was wearing boxing gloves at the time, otherwise I could have been writing this from the can.

‘Hey man!’ said a homely girl with a carnation in her hair. ‘What d’ya do that for?’

‘Never jump out at me like that!’ I said, as matter-of-factly as a man with ear medicine on him can. ‘If you jump out I can’t be held responsible for my actions.’

‘Cool,’ said another beatnik standing to the side of me. ‘You’re like a ninja or something, right? That is totally awesome.’ He put his hand on my shoulder.

‘You’d get your hands off of me if you knew what was good for you, Buster,’ I said, holding back a tear at the memory of the Phil Collins movie of the same name.

‘Heeeey, mellow out dude,’ said the guy I had knocked out cold a few moments earlier. ‘Have a smoke.’ I was never one to turn down a free smoke, so I took him up on his offer.

The smoke was sharp, and hit me right at the back of my throat, causing me to hack and cough like my old man whenever someone mentioned Uncle Candy in the house. I looked back at Miss Gable, standing all pert and nubile in the corner; she nodded and smiled in encouragement. I looked back at the smoke and took another drag, and the rest of the night was a blur.

I can only recollect certain parts of the evening, like being shown how she to act like a tree by a girl called Cristal, playing the bongos as accompaniment to Rosebud’s beat poetry, and giving a lusty, tearful rendition of Groovy Kind of Love in the kitchen while we were waiting for the pizza to arrive. I’m not proud of what happened, I’ll come right out and say it, but it was a weird, weird ride.

I woke up the next morning on the breakfast table. Everyone was sitting around, eating. I daren’t move because there was butter, milk and juice balanced on my back.

‘Morning, sunshine!’ shouted Rosebud, the blood now dried to his face.

‘The last guy that called me sunshine is in a wheel chair now, kid.’ I said as menacingly as I could. It’s true; he called me sunshine and then ran out in front of a bus.

‘Uh oh, someone’s cranky!’ he cooed. Instinctively, I jumped up, picked up a chair and smashed it across his back.

‘Where’s Candy?’ I asked, in no mood for games.

‘Ohh maaaan, why you gotta kill our buzz?’ complained a crusty sitting in the sink. Before you could say ‘kick out the jams’, I’d reached into my holster and pulled out my favourite gun.

‘Where’s your buzz now, shortstack?’ I said, pointing it at his greasy head.

‘Dude,’ he began, holding his hands up. ‘She’s upstairs, OK? Jeez. I don’t see why you’ve gotta start threatening people with a banana. It’s just not groovy.’ Holding back a tear at the recollection of Groovy Kind of Love, I realised that some schnook had replaced my prized Colt.45 with some fruit.

‘I’ll be back for the piece!’ I called as I walked up the stairs. At the top I had to step over piles of comatose beatniks, being careful to only tread on the ugly ones.

Just as I was about to launch into a tirade against the youth of today, a bedroom door opened in front of me. There she was. Wearing nothing but a tiny negligee and a smile.

‘C-Candy,’ I stuttered.

‘Mr Flagpole, hello. Did you have a good time last night?’ she said.

‘I’m not gonna lie to you, kid, this kinda thing ain’t my scene.’

‘Oh, I think it could be if you gave it a chance,’ she said with a wink. ‘Anyway, I must get ready; I’ve got classes in an hour. I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ I said, thinking I was going to get some alone time with her.

‘Yes, silly. At the theatre. That thing you said you were going to do for me?’

‘Ah, ah yeah. That thing,’ I was lying worse than when I denied groping my secretary. ‘Sure. I’ll be there.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Be there for seven thirty.’ And with that, she leaned over a guy who was throwing up and gave me the best kiss of my life.

I was in such a good mood that day that the hours just flew by; problem was my mind wasn’t on the job. A guy came in wanting to find out as much info on his ex-wife as possible. I came back to him with as much info on Gary Coleman as possible. Apparently, on many occasions, he had at least an inkling of what it was that Willis was talking about, despite his protestations to the contrary.

That night I went through the same ritual I did the night before, and as I emerged, inky but triumphant from my bath, I thought about the night ahead. I planned to take her to One Eyed Dave’s Kosher Steakhouse for a ‘Shalom Sirloin’ or ‘Rabbi Rib-Eye’ after I met her at the theatre. One Eyed Dave is a great guy; even if his name is slightly misleading (he doesn’t have one eye. He has three.)

I arrived at the theatre stage-door for seven-thirty, having picked up some more mints from the deaf guy at the grocery store. When it got to seven-thirty-five, I thought she was fashionably late, when it got to seven-forty-five, I thought she was pushing it, when it got to eight I was about to turn and leave, that was until the door opened,

‘Mr Flagpole!’ it was Candy, in a spangly jumpsuit cut down to her waist. ‘Where have you been?’

Before I could answer, she pulled me through the door, and I was whisked into a whirlwind of bodies, things were stuck on me, people clasped my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, and I was pushed towards a large curtain.

‘What the-’ I looked around for familiar faces, people I’d never seen before were looking at me expectantly. ‘Candy?’ I called.

‘Here I am, Mr Flagpole,’ she beamed, standing next to a young, football playing type.

‘Who’s this?’ I asked, gesturing feebly.

‘Oh, this is Josh, my boyfriend,’ she said, ‘but there’s no time for introductions now, we’ll chat at the wrap party.’

‘Wrap party?’ This was too much, even for a seasoned tough guy like me.

‘Yeah, now are you ready? Your scene is next.’

‘Scene?’ I felt like a parakeet.

‘Yeah, now remember; you are a swan? OK?’


‘Good luck,’ she whispered and ran away into the wings. The curtains opened and I was blinded by the lights, but not enough to block out the three-hundred people staring back at me. And as I stood centre stage, wearing some kind of sparkly bib and quacking like a duck, this is what I thought:

That’s the last time I’ll hang out with performing arts students.

Monday, 19 March 2012


I would never judge a person by the colour of their skin.

Unless I was on the panel for 'Who's the Bluest?'

Then I'd have to, because it would be my job.


If war is the answer, it must have been a stupid question.

Unless of course the question is "Edwin Starr had a number three hit in 1970 with which song?"

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Saturday, 9 July 2011

Ooooooo! Tales from the crypt! Oooooooo!

The old castle stood on the edge of the mountain, overlooking a deep ravine. I arrived at the door in darkness, where I was greeted by the manservant, Piles.

'Welcome, sir,' he said. 'I'll show you to your quarters.'

'How many quarters are there?' I asked.

'Two,' replied the old man.

'Then that's a half. You're showing me to my half.'

'Very good sir,' he said as he picked up my bag and led the way along the corridor.

There was something unusual about his manner. It may have been the slow, laboured way he walked, or it may have been the way that he tried to diguise his baldness by strapping a side of beef to his head, but something wasn't quite right.

'Your half, sir,' he said as he opened the door.

It was a grand half, I had to give it to him; a grand, ornate fireplace loomed over the opposite wall, with a stuffed owl, its wings spread stared down from above as if to say, 'Look at these wings I've got here.'

'Dinner will be served in the great hall in an hour, my master will wait for you there,' said Piles. 'In the meantime, I shall leave you to relax, sir.'

'Thank you, Piles,' I said, taking about a pound note and stuffing it in his g-string.

As the old man servant shuffled back down the corridor, I took out my correspondence and looked at it again. I still wasn't sure about this.

A month previously I had received a telegram from a Count Pigboot, a wealthy aristocrat living in isolation in a castle deep within the Transylvanian mountains. He had heard of my reputation as an accountant for the rich and powerful of London and was requesting my services. Normally, I wouldn't undertake such a journey for a client, but the Count was offering such a bountiful wage that I couldn't afford not to.

I bid my darling Isabella goodbye and began the journey into Transylvania, the last leg of which was completed in a horse-drawn carriage. When I went to pay the driver at the end of the trip, I noticed that he had hooks for hands and rawl plugs for ears, and I knew from then that this was a dark and disturbing place.

After composing a letter to Isabella I went to the grand hall, where Count Pigboot was already sitting at the head of a large, oak table. He was a most frightful creature; with white hair that sprouted wildly from his temples and long bony hands that sprouted wildly from his sleeves.

'Ah, Mr Rathbone, welcome,' he said with a dastardly smile. 'I trust Piles made you feel comfortable.'

'Quite the opposite,' I said. 'I usually have to sit on a doughnut for weeks.' Always start with a joke.

I sat at the table and looked at Pigboot. He fixed me with a steely glare, his mouth still fixed into a rigid grin.

'Now Mr Rathbone, down to business,' he said. 'I want you to be the lifeblood of my organisation.'

'OK,' I said.

'Because previous employees didn't have enough bite,' he continued.

'OK,' I said.

'In fact, you might say they... sucked,' he said, grinning at me through his sharp teeth.

'Are you a vampire?' I asked.

'Yes,' he replied.

'I don't think I'll bother then,' I said.

'Really?' he replied. 'Why not?'

'Well, you seem like a nice man, but I'd be too busy worrying about whether you were going to bite me or not and you really wouldn't get my best work for that reason,' I explained.

'Fair enough,' he said sounding disappointed. 'Will you stay tonight, before you head back?'

'I'd better not,' I said. 'I'll just go to the Travelodge down the road.' And with that, I left and checked in at said Travelodge. The room was adequate but the staff could have been a bit more friendly. I was also quite disappointed with the breakfast selection, and felt it wasn't worth what I paid. Overall, I'd give it a 3/5.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011


I bet if dinosaurs hadn't been made extinct, people would be much more cavalier about having their heads chewed off.


I bet if your last name was Cist, you wouldn't name your kid Ray. But then, come on, whose last name is Cist? I'm sorry I ever brought it up.

Sunday, 19 June 2011

My new stand-up routine

As I am getting nowhere fast with this one-liner malarkey, I have decided to change my act to make it more attractive to audiences, industry people and the Head of Comedy at Channel 5 (is there one? Someone look into that for me)

Hey guys! Now, I know what you're thinking; he is the bastard lovechild of Julia Somerville who used to read the news, and backbench Tory MP Christopher Pincher. (Pause for laughter and applause)

You know, I'm having some problems in my relationship recently. What it is, is that my partner doesn't want to be with me anymore because of my debilitating coke habit! (Pause for more laughter)

So she threw me out of the house, and I was walking down the road, when a man went past me on a bike, whilst wearing a karate outfit! What could that mean? Do you think he was maybe cycling to karate club, or something a bit more wacky?

"Hey, Bruce Lee!" I yelled at him, but he had already cycled at quite a pace and was out of earshot. See, the thing you should know about me is, I am actually a racist. (Pause for 'Oh my God, I can't believe what I'm hearing' laughter)

Yeah, I am actually a member of the Ku Klux Klan. (Carry on quickly so no wiseguys can point put that we don't have a KKK in this country) And I kind of embarrassed myself! I put my red undies in the wash with my robe! I know, I know! It was so embarrassing! I forgot to separate the whites!

It is at this point that I pause to allow for the MASSIVE laughs this punchline would create in the audience, who are by now so into my performance that they would all marry me. But then, I toy with their affections and play with their expectations of what stand-up comedy should be as I begin to deconstruct the art form.

So yeah, I'm standing here on stage, telling jokes. In my trousers. Telling those jokes in my trousers. Standing on this stage; wearing these trousers telling these jokes. Wearing my joke trousers. That's what I call them, because I wear them whilst telling jokes. And standing on stage. My stage joke trousers. That's what I call them because I wear them whilst standing on stage and telling jokes. In a comedy club. My stage joke comedy club trousers. That's what I call them because I wear them whilst standing on stage, telling jokes in a comedy club.

Now, I can tell that you're all looking at my trousers. Because after all, they are my stage joke comedy club trousers. And some of you are checking that my flies are done up. Which they are. I would never be so careless with my stage joke comedy club trousers. And you're probably thinking it would be funny if for some reason, my genitals were to be exposed. You're probably thinking that in your little brains. Your little brains that bob around in your skulls. In some kind of fluid. That's where you're thinking that.

And I think the fact that you're thinking that, in your tiny little brains that bob around in your skulls, in some kind of fluid, is the reason why most modern comedy is rubbish.

Thank you and good night!

I leave the stage to a standing ovation. Some audience members are openly weeping after all their narrow preconceptions of stand-up comedy were brutally torn asunder by the power of my intellect. I stand at the back of the room, basking in the love of the crowd, when a man comes up to me, gives me his card and tells me to call him. I look down at the card, and it says 'Head of Comedy at Channel 5' on it. This is initially very exciting, but then I turn it over and written on that side it says 'Cleaner at Channel 5', which isn't quite as glamorous. But then, it does come in handy when he springs into action, mopping up all the tears the crowd have shed due to my brilliance. And my trousers. My stage joke comedy club making everyone cry trousers.

Sunday, 12 June 2011


The accordion was my thing. I carried it everywhere I went, and people would often ask me questions about it, like 'Why are you carrying that around, this is a funeral?' And, 'If you're going to carry it with you all the time, how about learning to play something other than the Hokey Cokey?'

But I didn't listen because the accordion was what made me an individual. 'Here comes Accordion Pete,' people would say as they saw me coming. My name isn't Pete but I didn't want to correct them.

One night I was walking down a dark side street with my accordion when a person of ill repute lurched out from the shadows.

'Hands up,' he said, pointing a gun at me.
'Can't,' I replied. 'I'm carrying this accordion.'

With that he shot me and ran away. I braced myself for the searing pain which never came, and I looked down and saw that the bullet had lodged in my accordion, rendering the bellows inoperable. The accordion had saved my life. But what kind of life is it, with no accordion?

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Irony is...

... not being able to order Viagra off the internet because your dongle isn't working.

Monday, 25 April 2011

Deleted Scenes

Given the appalling infrequency of which I update this site, you'll be surprised to learn that I actually write a blog every single day.

'Every single day?' I hear you cry. 'But where are these blogs, where have you hidden them?'

Well, I can answer that question; you see, I am such a perfectionist and my standards are so stringent, that only the very best blogs are ever seen by the public. But now, in the spirit of Easter time sharing and joy, I will publish excerpts from past unseen blogs for the very first time. Enjoy...

I find it very difficult to pickle an onion without thinking about how much easier it would be to just buy a jar of pre-pickled onions from the supermarket. But this is an obstacle I will have to overcome if I am ever to realise my dream of owning my own onion pickling factory.
- from the blog 'Onions' 19/2/2009

Discotheques are all very well and good, but they'll never replace the experience of a full brass section parping in one's face.
- from the blog 'Bad fart jokes' 2/7/2009

If Shakespeare were alive today, there are many questions I would like to ask him, such as 'How did you live to be so old?'
- from the blog 'Shakespeare in Gloves' 29/11/2009

Why can't I get on the telly? Is it because I don't have big hair, skinny jeans and a tendency to talk about 'random' things that happened to me? Or is it because the bigwigs can't deal with the way I constantly speak in patois?
- from the blog 'The rantings of a struggling, bitter comedian' 3/2/2010

I think what sets me out from the crowd is my keen attention to detial.
- from the blog 'My CV' 5/9/2010

The man told me the only show I'd ever be on was Crimewatch. Which turned out to be true, because after he said that I killed him.
- from the blog 'The rantings of a struggling, bitter comedian part two' 2/12/2010

Wednesday, 20 April 2011


Facebook! Shit! It’s the future! Shit!

It has come to my attention recently that I have been ‘de-friended’ by five people on that Facebook. Five people! Now, to someone with 2000 ‘friends’ on there, that doesn’t make much of a dent, but when you have as few as me, you begin to notice, and begin to question what it is that’s causing people to ‘de-friend’ you.

Is it because I comment on everyone’s status updates with ‘lol’, regardless of whether what they were saying was funny?

Is it because I overuse the affectionate nickname ‘Fats’ when commenting on their photos?

Is it because I insist on telling everyone what I’m doing all the time, including toilet visits?

Well, if they don’t like it, they can go to hell. No, I don’t mean that, I miss them. Especially that one. That one whose status updates were 40% complaining about traffic and 60% thinly veiled homoerotic fantasies about John Barrowman. Take me back! Please!

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Me no hablo

I find the British abroad embarrassing. I am personally ashamed that we cannot speak any other languages and expect everyone else to learn ours.

For example, when I was in Spain, this man came up to me and said, 'Hola. Estoy buscando para comprar algunos medicamentos en el área. ¿Sabe usted dónde podría ser capaz de conseguir algo de lo que mi amigo y yo podemos alcanzar un estado químicamente mejorado alucinógenas de la conciencia? Su ayuda en este tema sería muy apreciada ya que todos estamos muy interesados ​​en comprar algunos medicamentos. Tengo sido informóque este es un buen lugar para adquirirlos, pero no estoy seguro del lugar específico a seguir. Además, puede que necesite un cajero automático como tengo algo de dinero en mi poder, pero quizás no lo suficiente para comprar la cantidad de medicamentos que se necesitan. Me han dicho que voy a comprar, ya que es el cumpleaños de mi amigo y será un regalo especial para él. Gracias por su ayuda en este asunto.'

And I had no idea what he was talking about.

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Disappointing Dad

This is a new comic about a Dad who is disappointing.

Monday, 28 March 2011

I bet...

I bet the worst thing about being a dragon is people always asking you for a light. It's like, what am I, your own personal lighter? Use a match. Or better still, give up smoking. God, I'm getting angry just thinking about it.

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Things I saw...

I saw a clown get run over. It really made me ponder the absurdity of life. I called an ambulance afterwards, but it was too late. Time sure does fly when you're a-ponderin'.

I saw a spectacular spring time sunset. If you ask me, there's nothing more beautiful than that. But you didn't ask me so forget I even said anything.

I saw a man trying to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. Man, no wonder he's the cheapest arsonist at the agency.

I saw two guys piling stuff on a donkey, it reminded me of that old board game, the Game of Life. That donkey has lost at the Game of Life.

I saw a dude fall down on the pavement and lie there motionless. 'He must be drunk,' I thought. Later on I walked past again and some ambulance guys were shocking him but he still wasn't moving. I was wrong. He wasn't drunk, he was wasted.

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

My (rejected) Chortle Correspondents piece

I sent an article into Chortle Correspondents but it has yet to be published, so I've decided to publish it exclusively here. See if you can figure out why it was rejected...

Some things I don't like about comedy by Ben 'Pimpmaster 3000' Davids

What I like most about comedy is the laffs. The laffs are what have kept me going during my years as a stand up alternative comic.

But some people like to laff at things that I’m not so keen on.

They are well shit, but some people think they’re funny. How would you like it if Roman Polanski interfered with you in a sexual way? Not very much I fancy.

Roman Polanski

I hate racism in all its forms, but there’s some that take it too far. I did a corker about a Chinese bloke sat in the front row and all of a sudden everyone was calling me a racist! I was like, ‘All you Chinese talk weird!’ And he was saying, ‘I’m not even Chinese, I’m German!’ Political correctness gone mad.

                                                 A Chinese man

I don’t like whimsical comedy very much at all. I saw one bloke going on about fairies and donkey headed people for hours once! I was like, ‘Talk about something we can all relate to, like doing summat on a bus that u wouldn’t normally do on a bus!’ Then they asked me to leave the high school production of a Midsummer Night’s Dream! A JOKE! ALWAYS WORKING!


The Fringe
What is the Fringe, eh? What is it? According to Wikipedia , it’s the world’s largest arts festival and runs for four weeks every August. Well, I suppose that answers that.

Not as funny as they used to be. Too much canned laughter. How do they fit all of it in a can anyway? I reckon you could fit all of the laughter from today’s sitcoms into a proper small can, and then put it at the back of your cupboard until about five years later when you give it to your local primary school for their Harvest festival, and they send it to Africa, and they open it there and some laughter comes out, and they think, ‘Cheeky bastards.’

A small can of laughter

I like some kinds of comedy and don’t like others. If you disagree with me, please write a reply piece. But if you do, so help me God, I will stab you in the ear while you sleep.

Buzzards' 200th Post

200th! Facking hell!

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

I can't pronounce you man and wife

WOMAN:   You should have seen his face; he was high rate.

MAN:          You mean irate.

WOMAN:   That's what I said; high rate.

MAN:          No, it's irate.

WOMAN:   High rate.

MAN:          Irate.

WOMAN:   High rate.

MAN:         Irate.

WOMAN:   Whatever. Harsehole.

Sunday, 2 January 2011


Aaaargh! Anyway, the reason I haven't updated this blog for a while is because I've been busy with things. You know, Christmas, New Year, Hannukah, Kwanzaa. Things like that.

Of course, all these festivities mean that I have to be out a lot, which isn't very fair on my dog, so when I leave, I always put a nice radio station on for him. Unless he's been a bad boy. Then I put Chris Moyles on. Even the dog's intelligence was insulted.

ZING! He's back!

Sunday, 7 November 2010

Six Word Bible Summary.

Jesus got nailed. His mother didn't.

Friday, 24 September 2010

That thing...

You know that thing where you think about someone who's died, and you think they're still alive, but then you remember that they're dead?

And then you laugh to yourself because you know, duh! Thicko! And then someone asks you why you're laughing and you say, 'I just remembered Aunty Beryl's dead.'

That thing, my friend, that thing will get you into all kinds of trouble.