Jesus and Moses were playing catch at the beach. They had a pretty good rally going, when Jesus tried to show off and do a long throw, as Rory Delap doth do at the Britannia, and accidentally hurled the ball far out to sea.
Moses looked upon Jesus and said unto him, ‘What the fuck was that all about? I just bought that yesterday.’
But Jesus did look upon Moses kindly and smile, and say, ‘Dude, take a chill pill.’ And with that, he strode to the water’s edge and walked upon the surface of the water, to fetch Moses’ ball. And how the bikini beach babes did rejoice and say things like, ‘Oh Jesus, you da man.’
Moses though, was filled with jealousy, and in a fit of anger he did part the seas, sending Jesus crashing to the ocean floor. And O how the scribes, Pharisees and bikini babes did piss themselves laughing, and Ezekiel said unto Jeremiah, ‘Did you get that? Send it to Jeremy Beadle and that’s 250 quid there, mate.’
Alas, the lifeguards did ban Moses and Jesus from the beach for disobeying the Beach Code, rule 13; ‘no miracles,’ and God did look down from the heavens and say, ‘Pack it in you two. Can’t you see I’m trying to get a pool table into Jesus’ old bedroom?’
There was to be more ill fortune for Jesus later that day, when he was badly bitten by a guide-dog, who was unemployed after Jesus had cured most of the blind of Galilee. But Jesus did forgive the poor hound, and managed to change one tin of ASDA’s own dog chow into five thousand tins of Pedigree Chum, and all were happy.
Amen.
Thursday 27 November 2008
Wednesday 12 November 2008
I'm a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here! - The Contestants
Yes, it's that time of year again, when Big Brother is naught but a distant memory and Celebrity Big Brother is one glorious month away, I mean of course, the beginning of ITV's I'm a Celebrity!
Of course, with the advent of such a momentous occasion, there is always speculation about who is going into the jungle, so far names as disparate as the Queen, Condoleezza Rice, and Brad Pitt have been bandied around, but now, Buzzards can proudly reveal the confirmed list of entrants!
Of course, with the advent of such a momentous occasion, there is always speculation about who is going into the jungle, so far names as disparate as the Queen, Condoleezza Rice, and Brad Pitt have been bandied around, but now, Buzzards can proudly reveal the confirmed list of entrants!
- Frederick de Bono - Former lead singer of 80s chart toppers, Freddy D and the Conscientious Objectors, he has spent the years since the band split practicing as a chiropractor. He is hoping to get to do it for real one day. He says he is entering I'm a Celebrity to please his legions of fans, and to 'make more money so I can buy some proper blow.' When we informed him that we don't do 'off the record', he denied having ever said it and pretended to be Alan Titchmarsh.
- Diane Bennett - Incredibly dull former athlete, who won an Olympic bronze in the hurdles or some bollocks ages ago. We were going to ask her why she decided to go on the show, but then decided we couldn't give one.
- Lord Armitage Shanks - Disgraced former peer who hit the front pages back in 1992 when allegations about his sexual peccadilloes came to light. When asked why he was going on the show, the 75 year old replied, 'Well, I just wanted the public to see that there is nothing strange, or, um, perverted about me. I want to show people that I'm just a normal, everyday, down-to-earth, sound-as-a-pound, bloke, who wouldn't dream of paying Czech rent boys to defecate on his chest.'
- The Ultimate RamRod - Sixteen-time World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion, who left the 'sport' in disgrace after his finisher, 'The Axis of Evil Slam', left an opponent a vegetable for life, and therefore, only slightly more intelligent than the average wrestling fan. Now a born-again Christian, he promises to 'body-slam non-believers' and 'pin Satan for the three count.' In the jungle, he hopes to spread the word of Jesus, and failing that, 'annoy everyone with my boorish, American personality and such.'
- Valerie Burnwick - Popular 80s newsreader, who is probably best remembered for the time she cried on air when the Berlin Wall came down. 'It was such a good wall,' sobbed the bricklayers' daughter into the shoulder of Nick Owen, as the nation looked on. Now, the strait-laced Oxford graduate hopes to show people that she's 'not so strait-laced, and can actually be quite fun.' She continued, 'People look at me and think I'm really strait-laced, but I'm not, I can actually be quite fun. Being a journalist, people will expect me to be strait-laced, but they'll be surprised to find that I'm actually quite fun. When I was at school, my friends would call me 'Funny Val.' Which is because I'm a fun person, not strait-laced, that's why they called me that.'
- Slimer - Probably the biggest celeb on the show this year, the former Ghostbusters associate is set to make his British TV debut. 'I'm so excited to be here in the UK,' said the friendly ghost at a press conference. 'And it's really swell that I'm gonna get to go to Australia to take part in this show, it's really the most exciting thing.' When he was informed he was the bookies favourite to win, he blushed and said, 'Aw shucks, you guys! I don't know about that, and gambling is immoral, but I'd sure be tickled pink to be crowned king of the jungle.' His happy smile then broke and he was heard to mutter something about finally taking his revenge on Dan Ackroyd.
- Stacey Bryce - Useless waste of fucking skin who is now as famous for getting her ridiculous breasts out as she is for complaining that she wishes her disabled son was six feet under. The tabloids are rejoicing at the chance of some 'proper totty' in the jungle, whereas Buzzards cannot get past her dead, dead eyes.
- Ahmed al-Rashed - Famous 'cleric of hate', who promises to bring chastity, purity, and circus juggling to the jungle. 'I learned to juggle when I was at cleric of hate school in Pakistan,' the 57 year old cleric of hate told us. 'The other clerics of hate would tease me about it, but I told them to lighten up. I won them round in the end, and they loved it when I juggled grenades, you just ask that Abu Hamza, the old bastard.' When asked how he would fit in with the other celebs, he remarked, 'I am good at chopping wood and hunting, and I like to think I would entertain the others with my juggling. That said, I wish swift death upon them all.'
- Quinton Alvecote - Ryder - Veteran pantomime dame who gained his hyphen during the economic boom of the 50s. A regular fixture on the panto circuit at Christmas, he has played Widow Twanky no less that 45 times, including once during a poorly-received production of Hamlet, starring Barry Chuckle as the Prince of Denmark. He said he wants to bring some 'glitter and glamour' to the jungle, and later remarked after a snowball that he wouldn't urinate on a particular contestant if he/she were on fire. The only way we will find out who that is, is if any immolation takes place. Here's hoping.
- Loretta Young - Founding member of the New Supremes, along with the third-cousin of Mary Wilson, Loretta travels the world singing classic Motown hits to confused yokels, and has agreed to come to the jungle, 'just to get away from the grind of singing You Can't Hurry bastard Love to dickheads in Working Men's Clubs.' When a cheeky wag questioned her celeb credentials, she did reveal that she once saw Olivia Newton John in Topshop, and said hello.
- Ruth Sanchez - Velasahatanaswad - Shrill feminist writer who has promised to 'bring true equality to the jungle.' When questioned as to why a credible journalist is wasting her time on a lowest-common-denominator reality TV series, Sanchez - Velasa... accused me of being a 'fascist beanbag', and then muttered something about paying for legal bills for a lawsuit brought about because she keeps calling people fascist beanbags.
- Kevin Dalston - And the final contestant, 80s funnyman, Kevin Dalston! Dalston wowed audiences at the Comedy Store with his biting satirical routines about the Thatcher government, even drawing praise from noted socialist Timmy Mallett. These days, Dalston is a Tory councillor who isn't averse to making the odd racial slur when the occasion calls for it. When asked if he was selling out his ideals by appearing on this show, he replied, 'What ideals? Shut up, you dago.'
Well, what a collection of personalities! I think this is going to be the best I'm a Celeb ever! So tune into ITV to watch it. Can you think of a better way to distract yourself from your inevitable death?
Tuesday 11 November 2008
Monday 10 November 2008
How Tourette's Can Ruin Your...Autopsy
PATHOLOGIST: There is a high amount of dopamines in the blood, but probably not enough to cause death. There are also some lesions on the scalp and neck. I'm going to refer this case to the coroner to get his opinion, and in the meantime...
CORPSE: Ballbags!
CORPSE: Ballbags!
Buzzards Celebrity Blog Number Five: Roy 'Chubby' Brown
YOU FAT BASTARD! YOU FAT BASTARD! YOU FAT BASTARD! Hahaha, I'm only joking, he's good because he says what we're all thinking.
Saturday 8 November 2008
Extract from a political thriller I'm writing...
ANNOUNCER: And now, to read his award-winning essay, 'The Importance of Democracy in Britain', Tarvis Boon!
TARVIS: (seems angry but determined) Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of Parliament, but I would like to read a different essay, if I may.
ANNOUNCER: No.
TARVIS: (seems angry but determined) Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of Parliament, but I would like to read a different essay, if I may.
ANNOUNCER: No.
Jokes that just don't work in stand up. Part Five
I've been thinking what I'd name my kids, and looking at celebrity baby names. Courtney Cox from Friends named her daughter Coco; she took the first two letters from her first name and the first two from her second name.
I've been thinking of doing that, but then I realised that it would be, Ben Davids: Beda (pronounced bidet, proper funny, innit?)
And I tell you someone else who shouldn't use that method to name their kid; Pete Doherty.
What normally followed was a short silence while the audience figured the joke out, followed by an even longer silence when they realised it was shit.
I've been thinking of doing that, but then I realised that it would be, Ben Davids: Beda (pronounced bidet, proper funny, innit?)
And I tell you someone else who shouldn't use that method to name their kid; Pete Doherty.
What normally followed was a short silence while the audience figured the joke out, followed by an even longer silence when they realised it was shit.
Friday 31 October 2008
How Tourette's Can Ruin Your...Wedding Day
VICAR: If anyone knows any reason why these two people may not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Ballbags!
Check back for more insights into the disability Vogue called, 'hilarious.'
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Ballbags!
Check back for more insights into the disability Vogue called, 'hilarious.'
Most Haunted transcript...
YVETTE: Are there any spirits present? Tap the table if there are.
Nothing happens for a very long time.
YVETTE: Did you hear that?
Nothing happens for a very long time.
YVETTE: Did you hear that?
Wednesday 29 October 2008
Monday 27 October 2008
A sample...
...of my music news writing. I have just taken a position at 'SkumDisko' magazine as a news writer, and was given this whopper of a story as my first assignment:
A promising young indie band were killed last night after their tourbus skidded off a mountain and into the open mouth of a hungry, hungry Hippo.
The Gnomic Bonobos, an octet from the Isle of Sheppy, garnered considerable hype from the music press earlier this year, with the release of their debut album, 'Pictures of Fanny'; the NME describing it as 'a beast of a record. Like the Clash taking a dump on Brian Wilson whilst fellating Aphex Twin who is lending a Public Enemy record to the jitterbugging corpse of the Dave Clark Five who have been at an all-night cottaging party with the Clash. Wicked.'
The band's manager, Tony McShyster said their deaths were, 'a tragedy,' but conceded that the way they died was 'quite humourous.' Meanwhile, fans have been leaving heartfelt tributes of the band's myspace page, one even commenting that, 'the Gnomic Bonobos were my life.'
They tour from Monday.
A promising young indie band were killed last night after their tourbus skidded off a mountain and into the open mouth of a hungry, hungry Hippo.
The Gnomic Bonobos, an octet from the Isle of Sheppy, garnered considerable hype from the music press earlier this year, with the release of their debut album, 'Pictures of Fanny'; the NME describing it as 'a beast of a record. Like the Clash taking a dump on Brian Wilson whilst fellating Aphex Twin who is lending a Public Enemy record to the jitterbugging corpse of the Dave Clark Five who have been at an all-night cottaging party with the Clash. Wicked.'
The band's manager, Tony McShyster said their deaths were, 'a tragedy,' but conceded that the way they died was 'quite humourous.' Meanwhile, fans have been leaving heartfelt tributes of the band's myspace page, one even commenting that, 'the Gnomic Bonobos were my life.'
They tour from Monday.
Friday 24 October 2008
A protest song I've been working on...
Feel the rhythm,
Feel the beat,
Get on the dance floor and move your feet,
Put your hands in the air like you just don't care.
Free the Birmingham Six.
Feel the beat,
Get on the dance floor and move your feet,
Put your hands in the air like you just don't care.
Free the Birmingham Six.
Thursday 23 October 2008
A guitar solo I've been working on...
Wow, wow, wa, wa ,wah, waaaaaaoooww... diddly diddly diddly waaaaaoow, da, da ,da ,daaaoooowwwww, blaaahhhhhhh, eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Rocking!
Rocking!
Jokes that just don't work in stand-up. Part Four.
When I was a young boy, I didn't want to be a footballer, or a rockstar, or even a fireman; I was different. I wanted to be the Pope. Strange you might say, but the thing that made me want to be the Pope in the first place was when I saw a picture of him meeting U2, and I thought, 'Wow, cool! Bono can kiss my ring as well.'
Tuesday 21 October 2008
Talking Points
1. OBAMA
BIDEN
2. OBAMAS
BI DEN
3. OBAMSA
BI DEN
4. OBASMA
BI ADEN
5. OBSAMA
BI LADEN
6. OSAMA
BIN LADEN
See? Only six steps away from the Axis of Evil.
Jokes that just don't work in stand-up. Part Three.
The Catholic Church is modernising these days. The other day I saw a newspaper advert from them, offering contraceptive advice... I say it's an advert, it was actually more of a pullout.
A pullout?
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Get off the stage! This is a Bar Mitzvah!
A pullout?
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Get off the stage! This is a Bar Mitzvah!
Jokes that just don't work in stand-up. Part Two.
I believe it was Forrest Gump that said, 'Life is like a box of chocolates.' I think this is fraudulent. Because to me, life is more like a kick in the nuts; quick, painful, and afterwards you need to lie down for a good while.
Monday 20 October 2008
Jokes that just don't work in stand-up. Part One.
As you may be aware, from time to time I am wont to take to the stage and say words that, in a certain order, will elicit shrieks of recognition from the assembled gawkers. Part of this strange vocation is testing out new material, and sadly, there are some "jokes" that never, or at least very rarely, elicit the aforementioned shrieks, no matter how loud I scream them at people from a stage, or a moving bus.
This series of blog posts will be dedicated to these nuggets of brilliance that, much like the works of Vincent van Gogh, will only be appreciated after my death, which will presumably come as a result of being savagely beaten by an exasperated audience. I hope this will give you a window into my creative process, and serve as a kind of 'Deleted Scenes" for my hackneyed and, let's face it, cack, stand-up routine.
Q. Why did Margaret Thatcher get bedsores?
A. Because this lady's not for turning!
Eh? Eh? Yeah, you love it.
This series of blog posts will be dedicated to these nuggets of brilliance that, much like the works of Vincent van Gogh, will only be appreciated after my death, which will presumably come as a result of being savagely beaten by an exasperated audience. I hope this will give you a window into my creative process, and serve as a kind of 'Deleted Scenes" for my hackneyed and, let's face it, cack, stand-up routine.
Q. Why did Margaret Thatcher get bedsores?
A. Because this lady's not for turning!
Eh? Eh? Yeah, you love it.
Tuesday 14 October 2008
CRUNCH!
I'm poor! So desperate am I, that I decided to rob a bank. I'm now in half a billion's worth of debt. I need a bailout!
This takes me back to my days as a bailiff, where I would visit the homes of people who hadn't paid back their student loans to repossess any knowledge they may have gained during their degree. 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be" said some bloke out of Hamlet. Wise words.
This takes me back to my days as a bailiff, where I would visit the homes of people who hadn't paid back their student loans to repossess any knowledge they may have gained during their degree. 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be" said some bloke out of Hamlet. Wise words.
Monday 15 September 2008
Amnesties don't solve everything, so stop saying they do, because they don't.
To combat knife crime in my area, the police announced a knife amnesty. After a month, stabbing related deaths were down 40%, but choking on whole carrot related deaths shot up a whopping 1800%.
Evidently they haven't learned their lesson, because they've just announced a clampdown on drug use, which will entail a spoon amnesty. Now I have to move house so I can use a full set of cutlery without fear of imprisonment. Hell in a handcart.
Evidently they haven't learned their lesson, because they've just announced a clampdown on drug use, which will entail a spoon amnesty. Now I have to move house so I can use a full set of cutlery without fear of imprisonment. Hell in a handcart.
Thursday 11 September 2008
Buzzards Celebrity Blog Number 4: Hannibal Lecter
I love him. He says, 'I ate his liver with a fine chianti, ufufufufufufuff.' I can't do it, but you know.Tuesday 9 September 2008
I'm tired...
...because I was up late last night attending the National Hack Comedians Banquet, celebrating the start of the "Special Olympics." Honestly, I haven't been this excited since our daytime TV/insurance adverts symposium back in February. It was great, we'd watch Claims Direct ads and all shout "What the fuuuuuck?" in unison afterwards.
Stoke!
I was recently having lunch with my writer friend, Rudy Dingle, who was telling me a little about his creative process. Apparently, he lies on a couch and dictates his novels to a French-speaking bonobo with an electric typewriter. It's a mystery as to why he has yet to be published.
Anyway, he went on for a good while about his work and I eventually lost my rag and told him to shut it. He didn't take too kindly to this and proceeded to punch me in the mouth at the dinner table. Thank God he was wearing boxing gloves at the time.
After I had asked for the bill, and he had agreed to pay for his meal because he had hit me and everything, he regaled me with a story about a recent visit to the delightful city of Stoke-on-Trent, which I will relate to you here;
"Stoke-on-Trent: the last refuge of all the scoundrels, drifters and hobos in the North Staffordshire area. Sure, you might think it's all fun and games, with its Alton Towers and its Potteries and such, but underneath, theres a seamy underbelly of corruption and crime.
I was visiting Stoke one afternoon to buy a new roof for my house, when I became stuck in a nasty traffic jam. I didn't know what the hold-up was at the time, but I later discovered that a Tate & Lyle lorry had overturned, leaving the road "too sweet" to be driven on safely.
After about five minutes, I saw a man looking at me from the pavement. I pretended like I didn't see him, but he just kept staring at me. He was a well-dressed gentleman, resplendent in a tweed suit and hat, and carrying a cane with a brass knob, so I thought he couldn't be that bad. Then, after I made eye contact, he walked over to my car and rapped on the window with his cane.
He looked at me and smiled, he had a sweet, old face so I wound the window down for him, I figured he needed directions or something. I noticed that he kept one hand behind his back as he leaned forward.
"Hello there," I said.
He looked at me, never losing his smile, and smashed me in the face with some pottery before running away, laughing.
Temporarily blinded, I grasped around the car, looking for a handkerchief or something, when the traffic in front started to move away. Soon, noticing my lack of forward momentum, the cars behind me began to beep and rev, and soon I had a line-up of motorists waiting to smash me in the face with pottery.
Needless to say, I didn't get to buy a new roof, and now I must go home and sit on my couch, being soaked by this damnable rain. But even though Stoke is the only place I can buy one, I will go without rather than visit that hellhole again. The horror. The horror."
He finished this story and waited for my response. I did nothing for a few minutes and told him that it all sounded a bit far fetched. I was expecting him to punch me again, but instead he calmly thanked me for my time and then left. The next day, I was sent a bomb through the post that singed my eyebrows beyond all recognition. I don't know, that's what you get when you're friends with these artsy types.
Anyway, he went on for a good while about his work and I eventually lost my rag and told him to shut it. He didn't take too kindly to this and proceeded to punch me in the mouth at the dinner table. Thank God he was wearing boxing gloves at the time.
After I had asked for the bill, and he had agreed to pay for his meal because he had hit me and everything, he regaled me with a story about a recent visit to the delightful city of Stoke-on-Trent, which I will relate to you here;
"Stoke-on-Trent: the last refuge of all the scoundrels, drifters and hobos in the North Staffordshire area. Sure, you might think it's all fun and games, with its Alton Towers and its Potteries and such, but underneath, theres a seamy underbelly of corruption and crime.
I was visiting Stoke one afternoon to buy a new roof for my house, when I became stuck in a nasty traffic jam. I didn't know what the hold-up was at the time, but I later discovered that a Tate & Lyle lorry had overturned, leaving the road "too sweet" to be driven on safely.
After about five minutes, I saw a man looking at me from the pavement. I pretended like I didn't see him, but he just kept staring at me. He was a well-dressed gentleman, resplendent in a tweed suit and hat, and carrying a cane with a brass knob, so I thought he couldn't be that bad. Then, after I made eye contact, he walked over to my car and rapped on the window with his cane.
He looked at me and smiled, he had a sweet, old face so I wound the window down for him, I figured he needed directions or something. I noticed that he kept one hand behind his back as he leaned forward.
"Hello there," I said.
He looked at me, never losing his smile, and smashed me in the face with some pottery before running away, laughing.
Temporarily blinded, I grasped around the car, looking for a handkerchief or something, when the traffic in front started to move away. Soon, noticing my lack of forward momentum, the cars behind me began to beep and rev, and soon I had a line-up of motorists waiting to smash me in the face with pottery.
Needless to say, I didn't get to buy a new roof, and now I must go home and sit on my couch, being soaked by this damnable rain. But even though Stoke is the only place I can buy one, I will go without rather than visit that hellhole again. The horror. The horror."
He finished this story and waited for my response. I did nothing for a few minutes and told him that it all sounded a bit far fetched. I was expecting him to punch me again, but instead he calmly thanked me for my time and then left. The next day, I was sent a bomb through the post that singed my eyebrows beyond all recognition. I don't know, that's what you get when you're friends with these artsy types.
Friday 5 September 2008
The Generation Game
A lot of older people say that kids these days don't know they're born. They might think that they're using metaphors to describe the relatively privileged young people of today, but actually, in the case of my cousin, Horshack, they're being more literal than they think.
You see, since he was born, his parents have kept Horshack in a large moist sack and fed him through a tube.
They're very nervous people, my aunt and uncle. Once, when one of their pet goldfish drowned, my uncle contemplated gassing himself in his car, until he remembered how expensive petrol is these days. In the end, he remembered his lactose intolerance and took a near-fatal overdose of Dairylea Dunkers.
There was a point to all this, but I've forgotten it. The TV's on in the background and one of those Halifax adverts both distracted me and filled me with a homicidal rage only a good round of EST can quench.
You see, since he was born, his parents have kept Horshack in a large moist sack and fed him through a tube.
They're very nervous people, my aunt and uncle. Once, when one of their pet goldfish drowned, my uncle contemplated gassing himself in his car, until he remembered how expensive petrol is these days. In the end, he remembered his lactose intolerance and took a near-fatal overdose of Dairylea Dunkers.
There was a point to all this, but I've forgotten it. The TV's on in the background and one of those Halifax adverts both distracted me and filled me with a homicidal rage only a good round of EST can quench.
Thursday 4 September 2008
The God Delusion
PREACHER: And on the seventh day, He created man.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: No He didn't!
PREACHER: You don't believe that God created the Universe?
VOICE FROM THE BACK: No I don't.
PREACHER: Well then, if He didn't, who did?
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Charles Darwin.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: No He didn't!
PREACHER: You don't believe that God created the Universe?
VOICE FROM THE BACK: No I don't.
PREACHER: Well then, if He didn't, who did?
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Charles Darwin.
Wednesday 3 September 2008
Stray conversation fragments heard whilst walking through town
"A tramp just fingered my sandwich."
"You mean, you pretended you could speak Burmese just to get me into bed?"
"Don't you dare shoot that fucking vole."
"I never asked to be your weighbridge clerk."
"I know your urologist hates me, I can see it in his eyes."
"Have you ever noticed that a lot of ginger blokes are called Luke?"
"Help! I've been stabbed! Someone get a sponge!"
"Must you italicise everything?"
"Shut up a minute, I'm bowling."
"...and the thing is, he's not even a real Colonel. He just wears military regalia and eats raw popcorn."
"This soup is itchy."
"...what I can't comprehend though, is why you insisted on talking like Frank Bruno for the entire evening."
"You could have a Jubilee party under that sombrero, Carol."
"Stop touching his warts! They bite!"
"I wish you'd turn them pikelets over, they'll burn."
"He's got wood stuck in his teeth! Tickle him!"
"You mean, you pretended you could speak Burmese just to get me into bed?"
"Don't you dare shoot that fucking vole."
"I never asked to be your weighbridge clerk."
"I know your urologist hates me, I can see it in his eyes."
"Have you ever noticed that a lot of ginger blokes are called Luke?"
"Help! I've been stabbed! Someone get a sponge!"
"Must you italicise everything?"
"Shut up a minute, I'm bowling."
"...and the thing is, he's not even a real Colonel. He just wears military regalia and eats raw popcorn."
"This soup is itchy."
"...what I can't comprehend though, is why you insisted on talking like Frank Bruno for the entire evening."
"You could have a Jubilee party under that sombrero, Carol."
"Stop touching his warts! They bite!"
"I wish you'd turn them pikelets over, they'll burn."
"He's got wood stuck in his teeth! Tickle him!"
Tuesday 2 September 2008
My debut album...
...will be released both digitally, and in physical formats (CD, USB, LP, Cassette, Braille) on 30th September 2008.
Pineapple "Turner" Zeitgeist is a collection of songs written on the road, more specifically, the Amington Main Road in Tamworth, that will touch your soul and redefine what it is to be human in the 21st Century.
The tracklist is as follows:
1. The Revolution Is Giving Me Faceache
2. Rock Me Like Merlin
3. No Need To Get Emulsional
4. Pork!
5. You Broke My Heart And Messed With My Radio Stations
6. Sssh! I Can Hear Popping
7. The City is a Parasite (Lichfield Blues)
8. The Boy With The Golden Galoshes
9. That's Leprosy!
10. Donde Esta Mi Pan de Muertos? (Where is my dead bread?)
11. Give Iceland Back To The Irish
12. Return Nelson Mandela To Prison
13. Don't Come Too Close, I'm Spasming
14. I Asked You To Dance, You Asked Me To Defenestrate
15. spmalgdnarG, yltfoS eM oT tI oD (Or 'Do it to me softly, Grandglamps' spelled backwards. The entire song is performed backwards, and an advanced copy was recognised by the Welsh Language Music Association for its contribution to the advancement of Welsh language in music. See, even they can't tell the difference.)
Pineapple "Turner" Zeitgeist is a collection of songs written on the road, more specifically, the Amington Main Road in Tamworth, that will touch your soul and redefine what it is to be human in the 21st Century.
The tracklist is as follows:
1. The Revolution Is Giving Me Faceache
2. Rock Me Like Merlin
3. No Need To Get Emulsional
4. Pork!
5. You Broke My Heart And Messed With My Radio Stations
6. Sssh! I Can Hear Popping
7. The City is a Parasite (Lichfield Blues)
8. The Boy With The Golden Galoshes
9. That's Leprosy!
10. Donde Esta Mi Pan de Muertos? (Where is my dead bread?)
11. Give Iceland Back To The Irish
12. Return Nelson Mandela To Prison
13. Don't Come Too Close, I'm Spasming
14. I Asked You To Dance, You Asked Me To Defenestrate
15. spmalgdnarG, yltfoS eM oT tI oD (Or 'Do it to me softly, Grandglamps' spelled backwards. The entire song is performed backwards, and an advanced copy was recognised by the Welsh Language Music Association for its contribution to the advancement of Welsh language in music. See, even they can't tell the difference.)
A scene of domestic bliss...
A middle aged couple sit in comfortable armchairs in a comfortable suburban living room, watching a comfortable TV set, which is standing in a comfortable corner, which is part of the comfortable house that they live their comfortable lives in. Comfortable.
NEWSREADER ON TV: The Chancellor has warned today that the UK faces its worst economic crisis for over sixty years. Despite some encouraging indications from the Bank of England, the credit crunch is now worse than ever.
MAN IN COMFORTABLE ARMCHAIR: Well then. I might as well just go and kill myself.
WOMAN IN COMFORTABLE ARMCHAIR: Hmm.
NEWSREADER ON TV: The Chancellor has warned today that the UK faces its worst economic crisis for over sixty years. Despite some encouraging indications from the Bank of England, the credit crunch is now worse than ever.
MAN IN COMFORTABLE ARMCHAIR: Well then. I might as well just go and kill myself.
WOMAN IN COMFORTABLE ARMCHAIR: Hmm.
Monday 1 September 2008
Diary of a Serial Killer Part 2
Now, the entry you've all been waiting for, Diary of a Serial Killer, Part 2!
13/4
Nightmare day! After lunch (turkey goulash, v.v. stodgy) I was called to the office, to find my solicitor and a group of other men sitting around a desk. Apparently, I'm being fingered for some crimes I may or may not have committed whilst travelling around America in the 80s. Shudder! They want to extradite me apparently, but they're waiting to see if they can get authorisation.
14/4
Still waiting to hear about the extradition. Received a letter from K, apparently his latest play, A Stitch in Time Saves No-one is opening at the Crucible. Seized with a fit of jealous rage, I sent him back a bag of my toenail clippings. Then I sent off a cheque for £400 to the Argos catalogue, because I wanted one of those George Foreman sub-machine guns.
15/4
I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because I have a horrible feeling that I sent the toenails to Argos and the cheque to K. V.frustrated at not being able to kill him, I stapled a picture of him to the back to my cellmate's head before I beat him unconscious with a table leg.
16/4
I love solitary. It gives me time to think. Trouble is, I don't want to think now because I found out today that the extradition is going ahead. One of the guards has brought me a portable TV in; he owes me because I recommended a good Cabernet Sauvignon, but all it would pick up was The Benny Hill Show. Not only did the TV have a poor signal, it was thirty years slow and has questionable attitudes towards women and milkmen.
25/9
Well, I've never been so shocked! I've been given the death sentence. Just for chopping up two fat truckers and feeding them to two fatter truckers! I've said it before and I'll say it again, the law is an ass.
I decided that my lawyer was a buffoon, so I decided to act as my own defence. Admittedly, I probably didn't help matters by beginning, 'Fat piggy people and bottomfeeding hillbillies of the jury.' And now, I am to be killed. So be it. There are worse things that can happen to a fellow in Texas. Like visiting a waffle house.
05/1
The eve of my execution. I was refused my request for a last meal. Apparently, they couldn't source the liver of a sixteen year old virgin in time, so I was given something called a "Big Mack", which I used to grease up the bars of my cell and escape.
Regrettably, the police picked me up about a mile away, trying to get a good table at a gourmet steakhouse, despite the fact that I hadn't made reservations.
06/1
Given the electric chair. V.painful!
10/01
Cremated. Feeling a bit low at the moment.
13/4
Nightmare day! After lunch (turkey goulash, v.v. stodgy) I was called to the office, to find my solicitor and a group of other men sitting around a desk. Apparently, I'm being fingered for some crimes I may or may not have committed whilst travelling around America in the 80s. Shudder! They want to extradite me apparently, but they're waiting to see if they can get authorisation.
14/4
Still waiting to hear about the extradition. Received a letter from K, apparently his latest play, A Stitch in Time Saves No-one is opening at the Crucible. Seized with a fit of jealous rage, I sent him back a bag of my toenail clippings. Then I sent off a cheque for £400 to the Argos catalogue, because I wanted one of those George Foreman sub-machine guns.
15/4
I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because I have a horrible feeling that I sent the toenails to Argos and the cheque to K. V.frustrated at not being able to kill him, I stapled a picture of him to the back to my cellmate's head before I beat him unconscious with a table leg.
16/4
I love solitary. It gives me time to think. Trouble is, I don't want to think now because I found out today that the extradition is going ahead. One of the guards has brought me a portable TV in; he owes me because I recommended a good Cabernet Sauvignon, but all it would pick up was The Benny Hill Show. Not only did the TV have a poor signal, it was thirty years slow and has questionable attitudes towards women and milkmen.
25/9
Well, I've never been so shocked! I've been given the death sentence. Just for chopping up two fat truckers and feeding them to two fatter truckers! I've said it before and I'll say it again, the law is an ass.
I decided that my lawyer was a buffoon, so I decided to act as my own defence. Admittedly, I probably didn't help matters by beginning, 'Fat piggy people and bottomfeeding hillbillies of the jury.' And now, I am to be killed. So be it. There are worse things that can happen to a fellow in Texas. Like visiting a waffle house.
05/1
The eve of my execution. I was refused my request for a last meal. Apparently, they couldn't source the liver of a sixteen year old virgin in time, so I was given something called a "Big Mack", which I used to grease up the bars of my cell and escape.
Regrettably, the police picked me up about a mile away, trying to get a good table at a gourmet steakhouse, despite the fact that I hadn't made reservations.
06/1
Given the electric chair. V.painful!
10/01
Cremated. Feeling a bit low at the moment.
Oh Mein Papa
I'm rather perturbed this week because my father has accidentally joined Al Qaeda. He saw a picture of an Islamic fundamentalist carrying a sign saying, 'Death to the West', and, being a die-hard Birmingham City fan, assumed that the word 'Bromwich' was written on the back.
Now he has to go all the way down to the bank to cancel his standing order. Oh crime! What sacrifices must be made in thy name?!
Now he has to go all the way down to the bank to cancel his standing order. Oh crime! What sacrifices must be made in thy name?!
My letter to the editor...
Dere (sic) Sir,
I reesuntlee (sic) visitid (sic) the locul (sic) VD klinik (sic) for sum (sic) treetmunt (sic). I wuz (sic) absulootly (sic) disgustid (sic) with the condishuns (sic) their (sic).
Seein (sic) the durt (sic) and grime clingin (sic) to the wallz (sic) maid (sic) me feal (sic) fizzically (sic) sic (sic) (sic) (sic) (sic) (sic) (sic)
Yors (sic)
Ben (sic) Davids (sic)
I reesuntlee (sic) visitid (sic) the locul (sic) VD klinik (sic) for sum (sic) treetmunt (sic). I wuz (sic) absulootly (sic) disgustid (sic) with the condishuns (sic) their (sic).
Seein (sic) the durt (sic) and grime clingin (sic) to the wallz (sic) maid (sic) me feal (sic) fizzically (sic) sic (sic) (sic) (sic) (sic) (sic) (sic)
Yors (sic)
Ben (sic) Davids (sic)
Sunday 31 August 2008
Diary of a Serial Killer Part 1
The following is an exclusive extract from the diaries of Basford Harper, the notorious 'Shropshire Ripper.' The full diaries are available from all good retailers from £0.10p.
15/7
Had lunch with J - grilled salmon was v.nice, cheesecake was fine, but raspberry coulis was a bit too tart. J complained that his bread and butter pudding was soggy. Fussy sod!
16/7
Killed J.
17/7
Went for a walk in the woods, saw a deer. How cute! Dumped two hooker torsos. Drank tea from my new Thermos.
20/7
Haven't written for a few days. Been v.busy with all the killings and that. Tiring stuff. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
21/7
M phoned and asked if I wanted to go to a party at his house. Trouble is, I know H will be there, and I don't really want to see her, especially after our run-in last month. I don't want to let M down, but then I don't want to cause a scene, what am I to do?
22/7
Burned M's house down.
24/7
Went to a talk on Larkin with R. I argued that while Larkin's misogynistic tendencies are undoubtedly unpleasant, it is possible to appreciate his poetry by its own merits. R argued that such a humanistic reading was glib and blinkered. We debated for a while, and blah, blah, blah I've only just finished disposing of the body.
25/7
I'm beginning to worry that I will have killed my entire alphabet of acquaintances by the end of the year. Must slow down or I'll have have nothing to do over the party season.
05/1
Haven't written in a long time. The day after my last entry I was arrested for multiple murders. I knew I shouldn't have published this diary online.
Yesterday I was sentenced to ninety consecutive life-terms. Needless to say I was so perturbed I couldn't even manage my second helping of foie gras.
15/7
Had lunch with J - grilled salmon was v.nice, cheesecake was fine, but raspberry coulis was a bit too tart. J complained that his bread and butter pudding was soggy. Fussy sod!
16/7
Killed J.
17/7
Went for a walk in the woods, saw a deer. How cute! Dumped two hooker torsos. Drank tea from my new Thermos.
20/7
Haven't written for a few days. Been v.busy with all the killings and that. Tiring stuff. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
21/7
M phoned and asked if I wanted to go to a party at his house. Trouble is, I know H will be there, and I don't really want to see her, especially after our run-in last month. I don't want to let M down, but then I don't want to cause a scene, what am I to do?
22/7
Burned M's house down.
24/7
Went to a talk on Larkin with R. I argued that while Larkin's misogynistic tendencies are undoubtedly unpleasant, it is possible to appreciate his poetry by its own merits. R argued that such a humanistic reading was glib and blinkered. We debated for a while, and blah, blah, blah I've only just finished disposing of the body.
25/7
I'm beginning to worry that I will have killed my entire alphabet of acquaintances by the end of the year. Must slow down or I'll have have nothing to do over the party season.
05/1
Haven't written in a long time. The day after my last entry I was arrested for multiple murders. I knew I shouldn't have published this diary online.
Yesterday I was sentenced to ninety consecutive life-terms. Needless to say I was so perturbed I couldn't even manage my second helping of foie gras.
Thursday 28 August 2008
A taster of my latest project...
...an apocalyptic disaster movie in the vein of Armageddon, starring Freegan Morman as the President of the United States, Oback Barama. The scene I am about to exclusively preview is the emotional climax of the picture; the President has to inform the world's press that a meteor the size of a small dog, but the weight of Jersey is heading to Earth, where it will surely wipe out all life on the planet, or at the very least ruin a few barbecues and summer fetes.
While he has to remain calm, he is gripped by inner turmoil, because his maid has rejected his amorous advances and refused to smell his new chloroform collection.
Now, with the President behind the podium, the world waits with baited breath...
BARAMA: Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it is my regrettable duty as President of the United States, to inform you that we as a species are on the verge of extinction. Presently, a meteor is travelling towards Earth at a fantastic speed, and it will make impact.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Speak up!
BARAMA: (LOUDER) There is a deadly meteor heading for the Earth!
VOICE FROM THE BACK: OK, that's better. Now do it again, but make it more convincing.
While he has to remain calm, he is gripped by inner turmoil, because his maid has rejected his amorous advances and refused to smell his new chloroform collection.
Now, with the President behind the podium, the world waits with baited breath...
BARAMA: Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it is my regrettable duty as President of the United States, to inform you that we as a species are on the verge of extinction. Presently, a meteor is travelling towards Earth at a fantastic speed, and it will make impact.
VOICE FROM THE BACK: Speak up!
BARAMA: (LOUDER) There is a deadly meteor heading for the Earth!
VOICE FROM THE BACK: OK, that's better. Now do it again, but make it more convincing.
Tuesday 26 August 2008
Buzzards Celebrity Blog Number 3: Vincent Van Gogh
He's the one that chopped his ear off isn't he? Eh? What a nutter.Monday 25 August 2008
The Cosmos and other inconveniences
Have you ever looked at the skies and felt small and insignificant? I know I have, but then I feel like that most of the time, anyway.
When you stand in a field or atop the shoulders of the one you love, and look up at that infinite void, you can't help but wonder if there are other beings out there, who share our affinity for star-gazing and hamburgers.
Seeking solace, I joined my local paranormal group expecting to find kindred spirits, but what I actually found were four elderly men, gathered around a small, grainy photo of a 'UFO', which upon closer inspection, turned out to be a lamp.
When you stand in a field or atop the shoulders of the one you love, and look up at that infinite void, you can't help but wonder if there are other beings out there, who share our affinity for star-gazing and hamburgers.
Seeking solace, I joined my local paranormal group expecting to find kindred spirits, but what I actually found were four elderly men, gathered around a small, grainy photo of a 'UFO', which upon closer inspection, turned out to be a lamp.
Sunday 24 August 2008
A world without humans...
...may be a cleaner, more idyllic planet, but where would one get a kebab after 9PM?
First Act...
...of a play I've been working on. It is tentatively titled, The Croissant of Enderby and already has Dave Benson-Phillips attached. Not to play a part in it you understand, I went downstairs one morning to find him affixed to the first draft.
ACT ONE
Two men sit on a sofa. One of the men, who bears more than a passing resemblance to my cousin, Quango, reads a newspaper. The other is heavily bearded and has the air of a man who showers every day but never towel-dries his hair. After a lengthy silence (10-15 mins) MAN 1 speaks.
MAN 1: I had a full English this morning.
MAN 2: Breakfast?
MAN 1: Yep. Full English. The full Monty.
MAN 2: Bet that was nice.
MAN 1: Was. Eggs. Fried. Sausage. Bacon. Beans. Toast. Fried Bread. Fried Tomatoes. Hash Browns. Cup of tea. Sausage. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Not the rind. I left that. Sausage... (While he continues naming breakfast ingredients, MAN 2 begins talking)
MAN 2: Betsy left today. And she took the children. I'm all alone now. Except for you. Just me and you...
MAN 1: Beans. Beans. Fried bread. Beans. Optional extra toast.
MAN 2: And that depresses me more than words can describe. I put my head in the oven today but the gas has been cut off, so all I got was a greasy nose. I'm going to drive my car off Beachy Head tonight. Of course, I'll have to find out where that is, but as soon as I do, I'm driving off it...
MAN 1: Black pudding. Did I mention bacon? Bacon. Sausage. There was a vegetarian option but I didn't have that. I'm not a gayer.
MAN 2: (Picks up phone and dials.) Yes, information. Could you tell me where Beachy Head is, please? Really? That's quite far, I don't think I can afford that much petrol. OK, thanks. (Puts phone down) Well, it looks like I can't go there, so I'll just do it here. Goodbye friend. Your companionship has kept me going these past ten minutes...
MAN 1: Two cups of tea I got. They only charged me for one, mind. Score. Eggs. Fried and scrambled. Two sausage. Bacon. Beans. Tomatoes. Toast. Toast. Beans. Toast.
MAN 2: Goodbye, cruel world. (Pulls out a gun and shoots himself in the head, leaving MAN 1 covered in a fine gumbo of blood, brains and skull fragments)
MAN 1: Black pudding. Bacon. Sausage. And a glass of orange juice, with or without bits. I asked for bits but didn't get any, so I didn't tip. Sausage...
(Music fades in gradually. It begins as a low hum but builds and builds until it establishes itself in the ears of the audience, who quickly realise that it is Achy Breaky Heart, and flee the theatre in droves.)
ACT ONE
Two men sit on a sofa. One of the men, who bears more than a passing resemblance to my cousin, Quango, reads a newspaper. The other is heavily bearded and has the air of a man who showers every day but never towel-dries his hair. After a lengthy silence (10-15 mins) MAN 1 speaks.
MAN 1: I had a full English this morning.
MAN 2: Breakfast?
MAN 1: Yep. Full English. The full Monty.
MAN 2: Bet that was nice.
MAN 1: Was. Eggs. Fried. Sausage. Bacon. Beans. Toast. Fried Bread. Fried Tomatoes. Hash Browns. Cup of tea. Sausage. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Not the rind. I left that. Sausage... (While he continues naming breakfast ingredients, MAN 2 begins talking)
MAN 2: Betsy left today. And she took the children. I'm all alone now. Except for you. Just me and you...
MAN 1: Beans. Beans. Fried bread. Beans. Optional extra toast.
MAN 2: And that depresses me more than words can describe. I put my head in the oven today but the gas has been cut off, so all I got was a greasy nose. I'm going to drive my car off Beachy Head tonight. Of course, I'll have to find out where that is, but as soon as I do, I'm driving off it...
MAN 1: Black pudding. Did I mention bacon? Bacon. Sausage. There was a vegetarian option but I didn't have that. I'm not a gayer.
MAN 2: (Picks up phone and dials.) Yes, information. Could you tell me where Beachy Head is, please? Really? That's quite far, I don't think I can afford that much petrol. OK, thanks. (Puts phone down) Well, it looks like I can't go there, so I'll just do it here. Goodbye friend. Your companionship has kept me going these past ten minutes...
MAN 1: Two cups of tea I got. They only charged me for one, mind. Score. Eggs. Fried and scrambled. Two sausage. Bacon. Beans. Tomatoes. Toast. Toast. Beans. Toast.
MAN 2: Goodbye, cruel world. (Pulls out a gun and shoots himself in the head, leaving MAN 1 covered in a fine gumbo of blood, brains and skull fragments)
MAN 1: Black pudding. Bacon. Sausage. And a glass of orange juice, with or without bits. I asked for bits but didn't get any, so I didn't tip. Sausage...
(Music fades in gradually. It begins as a low hum but builds and builds until it establishes itself in the ears of the audience, who quickly realise that it is Achy Breaky Heart, and flee the theatre in droves.)
A Question of Sport
Watching the Olympics these past few weeks has filled me with a mixture of pride and pain. I wasn't necessarily proud of the achievements of Team GB, but rather my great-great uncle, Lord Armitage Shanks, who took home a silver from the Antwerp Games in 1920. His event? Freestyle incest.
But the sight of competitive sports on the TV always stirs up bad memories in me; I was always very poor at games in school - during the cross country race, I somehow got lost and wandered onto a horse-racing track. I was doing well until I fell at the final furlong and was nearly euthanised.
Because of my sporting ineptitude, I was horribly bullied by the other boys. The chief bully, one Kenwood Sparks, would play cruel practical jokes on me. I lost count of the amount of times he tied my shoelaces together and then punched me in the face, and put cling film over my toilet and then punched me in the face, and ordered 25 pizzas to be delivered to my house and then punched me in the face.
Eventually I grew weary of the constant punishment, and got a transfer to the elite Johann Hari School for Liberal Young People, where the other boys would steal my dinner money and donate half to Amnesty International.
But the sight of competitive sports on the TV always stirs up bad memories in me; I was always very poor at games in school - during the cross country race, I somehow got lost and wandered onto a horse-racing track. I was doing well until I fell at the final furlong and was nearly euthanised.
Because of my sporting ineptitude, I was horribly bullied by the other boys. The chief bully, one Kenwood Sparks, would play cruel practical jokes on me. I lost count of the amount of times he tied my shoelaces together and then punched me in the face, and put cling film over my toilet and then punched me in the face, and ordered 25 pizzas to be delivered to my house and then punched me in the face.
Eventually I grew weary of the constant punishment, and got a transfer to the elite Johann Hari School for Liberal Young People, where the other boys would steal my dinner money and donate half to Amnesty International.
Friday 18 July 2008
Tuesday 15 July 2008
Upon hearing an intelligent debate about reality TV
MAN 1: What do you think of that Big Brother, eh?
MAN 2: Shit, innit?
MAN 1: Yeah.
MAN 2: Shit, innit?
MAN 1: Yeah.
Idea for a play...
Act One sees two well dressed men debating the virtues of the European Union Fisheries Commission. As the scene progresses, the debate becomes more heated and the two men can only resolve their differences with a sword(fish) fight. The sceptical man wins, but his victory is a Pyrrhic one because he is dying of bovine tuberculosis.
The curtain comes down for an interval, during which the audience can only buy heavily-salted snacks and no beverages.
Act Two is like Act One but funnier.
The curtain comes down for an interval, during which the audience can only buy heavily-salted snacks and no beverages.
Act Two is like Act One but funnier.
Feathers 'n' tackle
The national symbol of the United States of America is the Bald Eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) because it is imposing, majestic, soaring, and has a brain the size of a pea. All joking aside, I think 'President' Bush gets off too easily with the whole 'stupid' routine. Because he's not stupid. He's just evil.
Some commentators (derived from the Latin word commentatrium, meaning idiot) believe that the Iraq War was a big misunderstanding, and that Vice-President Cheney merely misheard the President, who didn't say, 'I gotta drop a bomb on Iraq,' but rather said, 'I gotta drop my mom at Tie Rack.'
So remember, athough he may be chimp-like in appearance and unable to pronounce simple words like 'nuclear', George Bush is actually a very fierce intellect, and is a world expert in areas as diverse as American History, Spanish vintage wines, and cowardice in times of war.
Some commentators (derived from the Latin word commentatrium, meaning idiot) believe that the Iraq War was a big misunderstanding, and that Vice-President Cheney merely misheard the President, who didn't say, 'I gotta drop a bomb on Iraq,' but rather said, 'I gotta drop my mom at Tie Rack.'
So remember, athough he may be chimp-like in appearance and unable to pronounce simple words like 'nuclear', George Bush is actually a very fierce intellect, and is a world expert in areas as diverse as American History, Spanish vintage wines, and cowardice in times of war.
Libraries gave us power...
When I'm not chasing ostriches in my lie as a nightwatchman at a flightless bird farm (we also have some chickens that have been de-winged pre-mortem) I work in a university library.
This job invites a myriad of questions from users, as rich and varied as, 'Where is the Mills and Boon?', 'Will this air-horn disturb others?' and 'What are you doing here, I thought you'd been sacked?'
Naturally, such a demanding occupation comes with its own stresses and strains, and any kind of crossover from my other hobbies would create unneccessary friction. That's why I was somewhat perturbed when one of my colleagues found out I did stand-up comedy. Word soon spread and eventually I was jostled down to the lecture theatre to give an impromptu performance. Expectations were high and I was rather nervous, which reflected in the quality of my set. It was the first time I'd ever been shushed off stage.
Incidentally, many people ask me if it is true that the library can deny graduation to students who have failed to pay their fines, and previously I have refused to comment, on one occasion even resorting to climbing into a postbox to escape my inquisitors, but now, as I approach the end of my tenure at the library, I will address this issue once and for all.
The library does not prevent students from graduating; rather, it lulls them into a false sense of security for a few months, and then sends some guys round to their house to repossess any knowledge they may have gained during their degree.
This job invites a myriad of questions from users, as rich and varied as, 'Where is the Mills and Boon?', 'Will this air-horn disturb others?' and 'What are you doing here, I thought you'd been sacked?'
Naturally, such a demanding occupation comes with its own stresses and strains, and any kind of crossover from my other hobbies would create unneccessary friction. That's why I was somewhat perturbed when one of my colleagues found out I did stand-up comedy. Word soon spread and eventually I was jostled down to the lecture theatre to give an impromptu performance. Expectations were high and I was rather nervous, which reflected in the quality of my set. It was the first time I'd ever been shushed off stage.
Incidentally, many people ask me if it is true that the library can deny graduation to students who have failed to pay their fines, and previously I have refused to comment, on one occasion even resorting to climbing into a postbox to escape my inquisitors, but now, as I approach the end of my tenure at the library, I will address this issue once and for all.
The library does not prevent students from graduating; rather, it lulls them into a false sense of security for a few months, and then sends some guys round to their house to repossess any knowledge they may have gained during their degree.
Saturday 21 June 2008
ADHD
I get bored easily. Last week I bought myself a pet blowfish. Three days later, it still hadn't blown. I tried everything to antagonise it; poking it, shaking its tank, reading it extracts from Richard Littlejohn's column in the Daily Mail, but nothing ever got to it, it was just too laid back.
Eventually, I grew tired of waiting and flushed it down the toilet, only for it to reappear the next day, alive and well, in the bowl of Simon Cowell. Enraptured by the blowfish's rousing rendition of Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring, Cowell offered it a five-album deal on his record label, as well as a tour with Leon, a rosy barb he rescued from a sewer.
Eventually, I grew tired of waiting and flushed it down the toilet, only for it to reappear the next day, alive and well, in the bowl of Simon Cowell. Enraptured by the blowfish's rousing rendition of Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring, Cowell offered it a five-album deal on his record label, as well as a tour with Leon, a rosy barb he rescued from a sewer.
Monday 26 May 2008
Idea for a fable...
Enthusiastic but untalented guitarist has pioneering surgery to attach an extra finger to his fretting hand. When the bandages are removed and he is given the all-clear to play, he can suddenly only play the riff from Smoke on the Water. Despondent, he falls to his knees before the village elders and vows never to cry wolf again. They remind him that he is referring to a different fable and then proceed to beat him about the head.
Sunday 27 April 2008
My Top Ten!
1. Stepladders
2. John Suchet
3. Lesbians and/or blackcurrant jam
4. The Franco-Prussian War
5. Pet Sounds
6. Bacon rind
7. Crocodile Shoes
8. That bit in Kashmir where it goes 'daa da daaa da da da daaa da daaa daaa do do do'
9. Number nine
10. Pitt the Elder
2. John Suchet
3. Lesbians and/or blackcurrant jam
4. The Franco-Prussian War
5. Pet Sounds
6. Bacon rind
7. Crocodile Shoes
8. That bit in Kashmir where it goes 'daa da daaa da da da daaa da daaa daaa do do do'
9. Number nine
10. Pitt the Elder
Through Rose Tinted Wrap-Around Shades...
When I was a young girl, I used to think that whenever anyone talked about 'the taxpayer', they were actually referring to a professional wrestler, you know, like The Undertaker.
Incidentally, the Undertaker got his pseudonym because of his fondness for cutting people up...using the inside lane.
Thankyou very much.
Incidentally, the Undertaker got his pseudonym because of his fondness for cutting people up...using the inside lane.
Thankyou very much.
Philosophy
They say that if you put a thousand monkeys in a room with a thousand typewriters for all eternity, they will produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Unfortunately, my budget could only stretch to two typewriters and an arthritic Cocker Spaniel. I reckon I should have The Da Vinci Code rustled up by next Wednesday.
Wednesday 9 April 2008
Decisions
Every time I need to make a tough decision I flip a coin. That way, if anything goes wrong I can do as I always do and blame the Royal Mint.
Monday 24 March 2008
My First Foray Into Comedy Promotion
‘Oooh Lordy, troubles so hard,’ wailed some old blues singer to a backdrop of ambient electronica. ‘Oooh Lordy, troubles so hard.’ I was listening to the greatest hits of grave-robbing dance-shill Moby on the pub jukebox just before the inaugural, ‘Chuckling Stoat Comedy Club’ at the Dog and Biscuit in Mancetter. Looking back, I know exactly how she felt.
I’d decided to put on my own night of comedy a few weeks ago, when I attended a Jongleurs for a friend’s birthday. ‘Jesus,’ I thought. ‘This is awful. I should start my own club. Anything would be better than this cack.’
The next day I set about putting my event together. When I realised I had no money, or clout within the comedy industry for that matter, I decided to do a gong show. ‘The people of Mancetter will love me for it,’ I said as I rubbed my hands together gleefully. ‘As will the world of comedy.’
The reaction to my call for acts on popular comedy forum, Bortle, surprised me to say the least. ‘You’re a puny little scrotum,’ said one poster. ‘I’ve never met you,’ another began, ‘but I bet you smell and are ugly.’
I couldn’t fathom why the comedy literati were so outraged by my idea, so I personally contacted one of the offended parties to ask him to elaborate on his comments. He responded with a nine-page tirade, which I will partially reproduce below,
‘What you are doing is comparable to what Hitler was doing in Nuremberg in the 30’s. Ripping paying punters off with these, these open spots should be a crime punishable by death... Open spots are the reason the earth is heating up irreversibly, you asinine twit. If you are telling people they’re getting the real thing, and instead giving them open spots you are guilty of false advertising... Attila the Hun? Open spot. Goebbels? Open spot. Spot the dog? Open spot...That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the Open Spot-light, losing my religion. My religion. Open spots made me lose my religion. Now, no-one from the church will talk to me. Ohhhh God how I loathe open spots. My mother was killed by an open spot who was drink-driving. The time of redemption is at hand- death to open spots.’
While I must confess that the way he referred to people as being a unit of time within a comedy club troubled me slightly, I pressed on with my idea anyway, and soon I was inundated with requests for an open spot at the Chuckling Stoat. Ploughing through all my e-mails took a while, but eventually I had whittled my list down to twenty-five acts, including a mini-bus full from the north, who were all going to come down and rock Mancetter like it had never been rocked before.
I was looking forward to it, and after some heavy promotion, I managed to almost guarantee at least fifty punters in on the night. Even letter bombs from the so-called ‘Open-Spot Killer,’ wouldn’t deter me. But then, the first problem emerged. The van full of northerners couldn’t make it, apparently their vehicle had been torched by a mysterious stranger. It was a big blow as they made up over half the acts, and I didn’t have much time to replace them. I posted again on Bortle for more acts, and managed to partially replenish my line-up, but it wasn’t the same.
The night came, and I nervously waited in the back room of the Dog and Biscuit as the acts began to arrive. I noticed with a grimace, that they looked more nervous than me, so I put on a CD to calm them down. It was an album of Satanic chants that when reversed, played the greatest hits of Wings. I could see that they weren’t appreciating it, so I put in a Moby CD I found wedged down the back of a chair.
We sat, nervously waiting for the fifty-plus punters to arrive. They didn’t. After about fifteen minutes, some audience arrived in small clusters, but by the time they were all seated, there couldn’t have been any more than eighteen.
‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen!’ I said as I stepped onto the stage (NB: when I say ‘stage’, I actually mean ‘old pool table.’) ‘A funny thing happened to me on the way here (NB: It didn’t) a man came up to me and said, “You sir are a terrible comedian, just awful,” and I said, “Dad, really?”’
It got nothing. That was one of my golden gags. Normally, the old abusive-man-who-turns-out-to-be-your-dad switcheroo ensured guaranteed hilarity, but this time it earned barely a titter. I knew this was going to be a tricky night. I looked over at the acts. One of them was so terrified, his hair was on fire. I quickly brought the first act on and got out of there. He didn’t fare much better, something about the nature of his act (NB: mostly jokes about children being molested and/or murdered) suggested that he wasn’t entirely original (NB: he read his act from his mobile phone) Luckily for him though, I had forgotten to hand the cards out and he made it through to the final.
After the cards had been distributed, the next act took to the stage. He stood there motionless for a few seconds, with nothing coming out of his mouth but pitiful whimpers. At about the two minute mark, he urinated himself and was sent packing by the judges.
By the end of the first section, only three acts had progressed to the final, they were, as well as the fellow with the text message jokes, a woman who talked about ice-cream, tampons and men being pigs, and a man who raised the roof with a routine about how he can often get a seat to himself on public transport thanks to his ethnic background. Which was odd because he’s an albino called Colin.
As for me, I had given up on compering and just shouted the names of the acts from the other end of the room.
The second half was possibly even worse than the first, with all of the first four acts doing jokes about Yoda masturbating and/or their girlfriend’s ‘vadge.’ They were all dismissed by an audience who by this point, were so tired, some of them had slipped into comas.
The final act of the evening was really the icing on the cake; he hobbled onto the stage, mumbled something about his penis, and then proceeded to call a woman on the front row, ‘a focking minge.’ When I saw him being brutally beaten in the car park afterwards, I must confess a smile spread across my face.
With the night drawing to a close, and suicide not far from anyone’s mind, the six remaining audience members crowned the woman the champion, who was so delighted that she ‘treated’ us to a ten minute routine about how shoes are better than men.
After a lengthy round of excuses to the despondent acts (NB: my favourite one was, ‘it wasn’t your material, they were just distracted by those people trying to play pool on the stage.’) I trudged home, feeling like a failure. ‘That’s it,’ I thought, ‘I’m leaving the promoting to the experts.’ Then suddenly, someone called me back from the pub. I turned around and a man stood there, beckoning me back.
‘Yes?’ I said.
He looked at me intently for a few moments before opening his mouth to speak, ‘That was shit,’ he said. ‘Truly awful, probably the worst night’s entertainment I have ever witnessed.’
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘Really?’
Ha, comedy gold.
I’d decided to put on my own night of comedy a few weeks ago, when I attended a Jongleurs for a friend’s birthday. ‘Jesus,’ I thought. ‘This is awful. I should start my own club. Anything would be better than this cack.’
The next day I set about putting my event together. When I realised I had no money, or clout within the comedy industry for that matter, I decided to do a gong show. ‘The people of Mancetter will love me for it,’ I said as I rubbed my hands together gleefully. ‘As will the world of comedy.’
The reaction to my call for acts on popular comedy forum, Bortle, surprised me to say the least. ‘You’re a puny little scrotum,’ said one poster. ‘I’ve never met you,’ another began, ‘but I bet you smell and are ugly.’
I couldn’t fathom why the comedy literati were so outraged by my idea, so I personally contacted one of the offended parties to ask him to elaborate on his comments. He responded with a nine-page tirade, which I will partially reproduce below,
‘What you are doing is comparable to what Hitler was doing in Nuremberg in the 30’s. Ripping paying punters off with these, these open spots should be a crime punishable by death... Open spots are the reason the earth is heating up irreversibly, you asinine twit. If you are telling people they’re getting the real thing, and instead giving them open spots you are guilty of false advertising... Attila the Hun? Open spot. Goebbels? Open spot. Spot the dog? Open spot...That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the Open Spot-light, losing my religion. My religion. Open spots made me lose my religion. Now, no-one from the church will talk to me. Ohhhh God how I loathe open spots. My mother was killed by an open spot who was drink-driving. The time of redemption is at hand- death to open spots.’
While I must confess that the way he referred to people as being a unit of time within a comedy club troubled me slightly, I pressed on with my idea anyway, and soon I was inundated with requests for an open spot at the Chuckling Stoat. Ploughing through all my e-mails took a while, but eventually I had whittled my list down to twenty-five acts, including a mini-bus full from the north, who were all going to come down and rock Mancetter like it had never been rocked before.
I was looking forward to it, and after some heavy promotion, I managed to almost guarantee at least fifty punters in on the night. Even letter bombs from the so-called ‘Open-Spot Killer,’ wouldn’t deter me. But then, the first problem emerged. The van full of northerners couldn’t make it, apparently their vehicle had been torched by a mysterious stranger. It was a big blow as they made up over half the acts, and I didn’t have much time to replace them. I posted again on Bortle for more acts, and managed to partially replenish my line-up, but it wasn’t the same.
The night came, and I nervously waited in the back room of the Dog and Biscuit as the acts began to arrive. I noticed with a grimace, that they looked more nervous than me, so I put on a CD to calm them down. It was an album of Satanic chants that when reversed, played the greatest hits of Wings. I could see that they weren’t appreciating it, so I put in a Moby CD I found wedged down the back of a chair.
We sat, nervously waiting for the fifty-plus punters to arrive. They didn’t. After about fifteen minutes, some audience arrived in small clusters, but by the time they were all seated, there couldn’t have been any more than eighteen.
‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen!’ I said as I stepped onto the stage (NB: when I say ‘stage’, I actually mean ‘old pool table.’) ‘A funny thing happened to me on the way here (NB: It didn’t) a man came up to me and said, “You sir are a terrible comedian, just awful,” and I said, “Dad, really?”’
It got nothing. That was one of my golden gags. Normally, the old abusive-man-who-turns-out-to-be-your-dad switcheroo ensured guaranteed hilarity, but this time it earned barely a titter. I knew this was going to be a tricky night. I looked over at the acts. One of them was so terrified, his hair was on fire. I quickly brought the first act on and got out of there. He didn’t fare much better, something about the nature of his act (NB: mostly jokes about children being molested and/or murdered) suggested that he wasn’t entirely original (NB: he read his act from his mobile phone) Luckily for him though, I had forgotten to hand the cards out and he made it through to the final.
After the cards had been distributed, the next act took to the stage. He stood there motionless for a few seconds, with nothing coming out of his mouth but pitiful whimpers. At about the two minute mark, he urinated himself and was sent packing by the judges.
By the end of the first section, only three acts had progressed to the final, they were, as well as the fellow with the text message jokes, a woman who talked about ice-cream, tampons and men being pigs, and a man who raised the roof with a routine about how he can often get a seat to himself on public transport thanks to his ethnic background. Which was odd because he’s an albino called Colin.
As for me, I had given up on compering and just shouted the names of the acts from the other end of the room.
The second half was possibly even worse than the first, with all of the first four acts doing jokes about Yoda masturbating and/or their girlfriend’s ‘vadge.’ They were all dismissed by an audience who by this point, were so tired, some of them had slipped into comas.
The final act of the evening was really the icing on the cake; he hobbled onto the stage, mumbled something about his penis, and then proceeded to call a woman on the front row, ‘a focking minge.’ When I saw him being brutally beaten in the car park afterwards, I must confess a smile spread across my face.
With the night drawing to a close, and suicide not far from anyone’s mind, the six remaining audience members crowned the woman the champion, who was so delighted that she ‘treated’ us to a ten minute routine about how shoes are better than men.
After a lengthy round of excuses to the despondent acts (NB: my favourite one was, ‘it wasn’t your material, they were just distracted by those people trying to play pool on the stage.’) I trudged home, feeling like a failure. ‘That’s it,’ I thought, ‘I’m leaving the promoting to the experts.’ Then suddenly, someone called me back from the pub. I turned around and a man stood there, beckoning me back.
‘Yes?’ I said.
He looked at me intently for a few moments before opening his mouth to speak, ‘That was shit,’ he said. ‘Truly awful, probably the worst night’s entertainment I have ever witnessed.’
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘Really?’
Ha, comedy gold.
Eleven Reasons Why Radiohead Are The Best Band In The World
1. They have three guitarists. This means that if one them nips off for a crap or a coffee, they still have just as much firepower as most other bands.
2. The bassist looks a bit like Christopher Walken.
3. They refused to play their biggest hit for years.
4. They released their latest album themselves.
5. They have a reputation for being miserable, which is good because that means they can put cling film over the toilet bowl and no-one would suspect them.
6. They haven’t murdered Mark Ronson yet, despite what he did to Just. They have more self-control then I would in their situation.
7. They don’t go on T4.
8. In tour-documentary, Meeting People Is Easy, they managed to make playing to thousands of adoring fans in the best cities in the world, look like a right ball-ache.
9. They shun those charlatans, Coldplay.
10. They have three guitarists. This means that if one of them decides to fiddle with a xylophone in the corner, the other two can hold down the fort respectfully.
11. The bassist really does look like Christopher Walken, doesn’t he?
2. The bassist looks a bit like Christopher Walken.
3. They refused to play their biggest hit for years.
4. They released their latest album themselves.
5. They have a reputation for being miserable, which is good because that means they can put cling film over the toilet bowl and no-one would suspect them.
6. They haven’t murdered Mark Ronson yet, despite what he did to Just. They have more self-control then I would in their situation.
7. They don’t go on T4.
8. In tour-documentary, Meeting People Is Easy, they managed to make playing to thousands of adoring fans in the best cities in the world, look like a right ball-ache.
9. They shun those charlatans, Coldplay.
10. They have three guitarists. This means that if one of them decides to fiddle with a xylophone in the corner, the other two can hold down the fort respectfully.
11. The bassist really does look like Christopher Walken, doesn’t he?
Conversations with a Security Guard.
ME: I'm here to see Mr Swannie in 15c.
GUARD: What section of room 15 is he in?
ME: 15c.
GUARD: Yes I see, but you still haven't told me what section he's in.
ME: C!
GUARD: Yes, I told you, I do see, but where is he?
ME: C!
GUARD: Sea? There's no sea around here, not for miles.
ME: He is in 15c! 15c! Room 15c! What is the matter with you?
GUARD: I miss vaudeville.
GUARD: What section of room 15 is he in?
ME: 15c.
GUARD: Yes I see, but you still haven't told me what section he's in.
ME: C!
GUARD: Yes, I told you, I do see, but where is he?
ME: C!
GUARD: Sea? There's no sea around here, not for miles.
ME: He is in 15c! 15c! Room 15c! What is the matter with you?
GUARD: I miss vaudeville.
Friday 14 March 2008
Flitting through cyberspace
The internet is one of the most momentous inventions in the history of mankind. That is indisputable, a taxi driver told me so. The fact that you can sit on a computer in central London and connect with someone in the wilds of the Amazon (provided they have a modem and BT landline) in seconds is nothing short of staggering.
This incredible marriage of technology and vision has created something like a 'global village' and the potential for spreading love, peace and understanding is more promising that it has ever been.
But what do we actually use it for?
To tell each other to fuck off.
I recently started an online forum for fans of 'flitting', a game invented by me, which entails standing knee deep in vinegar and being shot at with a pellet gun. Within five minutes of my first post, I had ten replies, all of them containing some variation on the phrase, 'flitting is shit.' The very idea that someone would take time out of their day just to poke fun at my hobby is frankly quite disturbing.
I'd like to say the genuine 'flitters' are any better, but they're not. All of the posts feature snarky comments about other people's flitting abilities, even from flitters who've only played the game a handful of times.
To be perfectly frank, I'm tempted to close the whole enterprise down, move into a cave and become a hermit. Like Herman. There's a kiiiiiind of huuuuush, all over the wooooorllld...
This incredible marriage of technology and vision has created something like a 'global village' and the potential for spreading love, peace and understanding is more promising that it has ever been.
But what do we actually use it for?
To tell each other to fuck off.
I recently started an online forum for fans of 'flitting', a game invented by me, which entails standing knee deep in vinegar and being shot at with a pellet gun. Within five minutes of my first post, I had ten replies, all of them containing some variation on the phrase, 'flitting is shit.' The very idea that someone would take time out of their day just to poke fun at my hobby is frankly quite disturbing.
I'd like to say the genuine 'flitters' are any better, but they're not. All of the posts feature snarky comments about other people's flitting abilities, even from flitters who've only played the game a handful of times.
To be perfectly frank, I'm tempted to close the whole enterprise down, move into a cave and become a hermit. Like Herman. There's a kiiiiiind of huuuuush, all over the wooooorllld...
Saturday 8 March 2008
Upon hearing erudite banter in a gentleman's club
MAN 1: Where does Gary Glitter keep his receipts?
MAN 2: Dunno.
MAN 1: In a paedo-filing cabinet.
MAN 2: Cunt.
MAN 2: Dunno.
MAN 1: In a paedo-filing cabinet.
MAN 2: Cunt.
Sunday 2 March 2008
Confessions of a Serial Guerilla Compere
I have a recurring problem in which I try to compere events that don’t call for it. I once jumped up during a funeral at a crematorium and started doing a bit of schtick with the mourners. It was only when I cracked wise about the last act being ‘on fire right now’, that I was escorted off the premises.
For that matter, I have a theory about these so-called ‘crematoriums’; I don’t believe that they actually burn those coffins. I think they bung the stiff in the oven and then take the coffins home to use as storage spaces or makeshift kayaks.
For that matter, I have a theory about these so-called ‘crematoriums’; I don’t believe that they actually burn those coffins. I think they bung the stiff in the oven and then take the coffins home to use as storage spaces or makeshift kayaks.
Saturday 23 February 2008
I am bad at job interviews
As I mentioned in my previous post, my Achilles heel, if you will, is an inability to perform well in job interviews. I appreciate that we all have our strengths and weaknesses; a friend of mine is so poor at arithmetic that he once sold his house for what turned out to be a teabag, but my weakness is particularly debilitating.
Once, at an interview for the job of Junior Basket Weaver at the Wicker Institute, I became so flustered when the interviewer asked me if I would like a drink, that I shrieked for a full ten minutes. I just need to control my nerves.
Another problem is that I'm caught out easily. Once, an interviewer at the Cat Lover's Almanac asked me the question;
Once, at an interview for the job of Junior Basket Weaver at the Wicker Institute, I became so flustered when the interviewer asked me if I would like a drink, that I shrieked for a full ten minutes. I just need to control my nerves.
Another problem is that I'm caught out easily. Once, an interviewer at the Cat Lover's Almanac asked me the question;
'If you were an animal, which animal would you be?'
To which I replied,
'Dogs, 'cause I fucking hate cats.'
I'm also rather accident-prone; at an interview in the Quality Assurance department at the House of VeryExpensive China, I fell out of a window.
I'm beginning to think that the 'lucky' tri-corner hat I wear to my interviews is not as good a talisman as the hobo who sold it to me had me believe.
Monday 18 February 2008
Netsam
It seems like a long time since I've written anything on here. I've not given up on it, I've just had an incredibly bad week. Pet deaths, failed job interviews, the smashing of a mobile phone; if I believed in God I would say something like, 'Oi, God, ease up will ya?' But I don't.
My bad luck was compounded last night when I stood outside a stage door in the intense cold for over six hours waiting to meet Stan Boardman, only to find out that I had him confused with Jimmy Tarbuck. Whoever said life was easy?
My bad luck was compounded last night when I stood outside a stage door in the intense cold for over six hours waiting to meet Stan Boardman, only to find out that I had him confused with Jimmy Tarbuck. Whoever said life was easy?
Friday 8 February 2008
Sunday 3 February 2008
Man 'shocked' by film
A man has told of how he was ‘shocked’ at the denouement of popular horror film The Sixth Sense.
Tom Hitchens told reporters how he ‘just didn’t see it coming’ and that the revelation of Bruce Willis’ character being a ghost ‘totally took [him] by surprise’, before adding, ‘how do they come up with it? Eh? Amazing.’
Tom Hitchens told reporters how he ‘just didn’t see it coming’ and that the revelation of Bruce Willis’ character being a ghost ‘totally took [him] by surprise’, before adding, ‘how do they come up with it? Eh? Amazing.’
Buzzards Celebrity Blog Number 1: Stephen Hawking
Look at him, he's all paralysed and everything. And he talks like a robot. Brilliant.Saturday 2 February 2008
Who do I think I am?
After partaking in a spot of genealogy this week, I discovered that my great-great-great-step uncle, thirteen times removed, is one Henrith Wilhelm-Smyth-Wilhelm Wilhelm; the inventor of the exclamation mark.
Apparently, he came upon the idea whilst reading the newspaper standing on his head, as was his wont. He noticed how the letter 'i' invoked strong feelings within him when he observed it in an inverted fashion.
His discovery took the world by storm, and is still popular today. In fact, top social networking site, Bebo, has reported that 97% of all the characters entered on its members pages are exclamation marks, the other three per cent being made up of lolz, fit and yeah?
Unfortunately, my uncle Henrith never got to bask in the glory of his discovery, as when he began to put it at the end of every sentence, even when attending funerals and 'black tie' cocktail parties, his family had him committed to a workhouse, where he died of chronic diarrhoea, a sock puppet his only companion.
It is an honour to come from such a noble lineage.
Apparently, he came upon the idea whilst reading the newspaper standing on his head, as was his wont. He noticed how the letter 'i' invoked strong feelings within him when he observed it in an inverted fashion.
His discovery took the world by storm, and is still popular today. In fact, top social networking site, Bebo, has reported that 97% of all the characters entered on its members pages are exclamation marks, the other three per cent being made up of lolz, fit and yeah?
Unfortunately, my uncle Henrith never got to bask in the glory of his discovery, as when he began to put it at the end of every sentence, even when attending funerals and 'black tie' cocktail parties, his family had him committed to a workhouse, where he died of chronic diarrhoea, a sock puppet his only companion.
It is an honour to come from such a noble lineage.
Wednesday 30 January 2008
I wonder...
...whether since the passing of the 2005 law that Tom Baker must narrate everything, that he has amassed enough money to buy his own country. Bakerland, he'd call it.
Also, I wonder if, when he was a boy, the postman would stifle a chuckle when he saw a letter addressed to 'Master Baker'? I wager he would.
Also, I wonder if, when he was a boy, the postman would stifle a chuckle when he saw a letter addressed to 'Master Baker'? I wager he would.
Monday 28 January 2008
A question for Mr Jung
If, as you have said, we are all connected by our 'collective unconscious', or 'a reservoir of the experiences of our species', then why do I find buying lunch at Subway such a baffling ordeal?
Saturday 26 January 2008
Money
I often look at the large, spacious houses in the countryside with a degree of envy. Sure, my shed is roomy enough for me and my collection of Ric Flair memorabilia, but I wouldn't mind a bit of luxury every now and again.
I saw one house on the market for five million pounds once. That's a lot of ka-blingey no matter which way you slice it. I deduced that to afford that house on my current wages, I would have to save up for about four hundred and fifty years, by which time I'd probably only want a bungalow anyway.
I saw one house on the market for five million pounds once. That's a lot of ka-blingey no matter which way you slice it. I deduced that to afford that house on my current wages, I would have to save up for about four hundred and fifty years, by which time I'd probably only want a bungalow anyway.
Upon hearing intelligent conversation at the urinal trough
MAN 1: Hey. You've got a small knob haven't you?
MAN 2: Huh, well, your mom wasn't complaining last night. When I was doing her, like.
MAN 1: Oi! My mom's dead.
MAN 2: Yeah, exactly.
MAN 2: Huh, well, your mom wasn't complaining last night. When I was doing her, like.
MAN 1: Oi! My mom's dead.
MAN 2: Yeah, exactly.
Words I could stand to use more often
Imbibe.
Discotheque (pronounced phonetically)
Monocle (as above)
Mellifluous.
Hyphen.
Fats.
Discotheque (pronounced phonetically)
Monocle (as above)
Mellifluous.
Hyphen.
Fats.
Friday 25 January 2008
Why darts should never become an Olympic sport
MAN 1: Alright mate. I see you've got a gold medal there.
MAN 2: Yep, and so have you it seems.
MAN 1: Yes, yes. So, what's your event?
MAN 2: The decathlon. Running, swimming, cycling. And that. Very taxing stuff. What's yours?
MAN 1: What?
MAN 2: Your event. What is it?
MAN 1: (mumbles)
MAN 2: What?
MAN 1: Darts. It's darts. My event is darts.
MAN 2: You twat.
MAN 2: Yep, and so have you it seems.
MAN 1: Yes, yes. So, what's your event?
MAN 2: The decathlon. Running, swimming, cycling. And that. Very taxing stuff. What's yours?
MAN 1: What?
MAN 2: Your event. What is it?
MAN 1: (mumbles)
MAN 2: What?
MAN 1: Darts. It's darts. My event is darts.
MAN 2: You twat.
Monday 21 January 2008
Idea for a short story...
Man takes out his own eyes in an effort to look at his own face and is blinded as a result. Dedicates the rest of his life to running a sweet shop without sweets. His greatest pleasure is enticing children inside and then punching them in the face.
Thursday 17 January 2008
Work In Progress
What follows is an excerpt from my forthcoming bildungsroman novel about a boy becoming a man becoming a boy again before deciding the wages were better as a man and becoming a man again,
I was sitting in the study working on my calculus papers,
when my father burst into the room, a letter in his hand.'Son!' he cried, 'This is a letter from the King; it says
you are to go and fight in the Great War!''Oh my God!' I replied, 'Father; you're on fire!' He
surveyed me with a look of both sadness and pity, but I was right. He was on
fire.
Watch this space for further tantalising glimpses into the creative process of the writer top literary agents have deemed, 'unpublishable and of questionable morals.'
Wednesday 16 January 2008
Rules for surviving in the United Kingdom
As the Daily Mail is often telling us, more new people are coming to the UK every year. While some may see this as a bad thing, I'm not so convinced. Why just last week, a Swiss man saved me from being mauled to death by a Yorkshire Terrier.
What many 'commentators' seem to forget, is that relocating to a completely different country is an incredibly difficult and perilous thing to undertake. In an effort to make the transition that little bit easier, I have compiled a list of rules, aimed at helping the immigrant to become accustomed to the British way of life, and even more importantly, survive.
1. Always carry an umbrella. If it rains you will look prepared and people will respect you for it. If it doesn't, you will look like an ass, but at least you'll have an umbrella to defend yourself with.
2. If you are stopped by a policeman, never ever ask if he keeps his bribes under his hat, they don't like that.
3. If you are stopped by a policeman in a train station, never run away, no matter how late you are for work.
4. Never, under any circumstances, pronounce the second 'w' in a place name. Calling it Smeth Wick will only earn you the disgust and resentment of your co-workers.
5. If a person uses the word, 'great', they are probably being sarcastic. The best thing to do if it crops up is either to laugh, congratulate the person on being such an erudite wit, or simply walk into another room.
6. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you are required to be nude in the presence of other men, always keep your eyes above 'sea level', and never congratulate a man on the majesty of his 'babymaker'. If you are a woman however, positive remarks, hugging and some fondling is always advisable.
7. If an associate or co-worker presents you with a stack of post-it notes and asks you to eat them for their amusement, you should always do it. If you don't, they won't do it again, but they'll never respect you.
8. Terrorise terrorists before they terrorise you.
9. Rape rapists before they rape you.
10. Murder murderers before they murder you.
11. Badger badgers before they badger you.
12. Hector Hector before Hector hectors you.
13. Burgle the Hamburgler before the Hamburgler burgles your burgers.
14. If you are ever invited to a glitzy, showbiz party, never look Cilla Black in the eye, she will kill you.
15. Hibernate during the months Big Brother is on.
I hope these guidelines will set you up for a long and happy stay with us here in Britain. Also, if you really like it here, then why not show your appreciation by making an anonymous donation to one of our hard-working politicians? If you give twenty grand to Alistair Darling now, you'll receive a free pair of comedy eyebrows!*
*While stocks last. Offer is conditional on donor shutting the fuck up about their generosity. Offer not open to any relatives, friends or co-workers of Mr Darling, nor anyone with a conscience for that matter.
What many 'commentators' seem to forget, is that relocating to a completely different country is an incredibly difficult and perilous thing to undertake. In an effort to make the transition that little bit easier, I have compiled a list of rules, aimed at helping the immigrant to become accustomed to the British way of life, and even more importantly, survive.
1. Always carry an umbrella. If it rains you will look prepared and people will respect you for it. If it doesn't, you will look like an ass, but at least you'll have an umbrella to defend yourself with.
2. If you are stopped by a policeman, never ever ask if he keeps his bribes under his hat, they don't like that.
3. If you are stopped by a policeman in a train station, never run away, no matter how late you are for work.
4. Never, under any circumstances, pronounce the second 'w' in a place name. Calling it Smeth Wick will only earn you the disgust and resentment of your co-workers.
5. If a person uses the word, 'great', they are probably being sarcastic. The best thing to do if it crops up is either to laugh, congratulate the person on being such an erudite wit, or simply walk into another room.
6. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you are required to be nude in the presence of other men, always keep your eyes above 'sea level', and never congratulate a man on the majesty of his 'babymaker'. If you are a woman however, positive remarks, hugging and some fondling is always advisable.
7. If an associate or co-worker presents you with a stack of post-it notes and asks you to eat them for their amusement, you should always do it. If you don't, they won't do it again, but they'll never respect you.
8. Terrorise terrorists before they terrorise you.
9. Rape rapists before they rape you.
10. Murder murderers before they murder you.
11. Badger badgers before they badger you.
12. Hector Hector before Hector hectors you.
13. Burgle the Hamburgler before the Hamburgler burgles your burgers.
14. If you are ever invited to a glitzy, showbiz party, never look Cilla Black in the eye, she will kill you.
15. Hibernate during the months Big Brother is on.
I hope these guidelines will set you up for a long and happy stay with us here in Britain. Also, if you really like it here, then why not show your appreciation by making an anonymous donation to one of our hard-working politicians? If you give twenty grand to Alistair Darling now, you'll receive a free pair of comedy eyebrows!*
*While stocks last. Offer is conditional on donor shutting the fuck up about their generosity. Offer not open to any relatives, friends or co-workers of Mr Darling, nor anyone with a conscience for that matter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
