...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.
Monday, 27 October 2008
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.
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