History is dominated by ‘ifs’. If Archduke Franz Ferdinand had taken a different route home one afternoon, World War One wouldn’t have happened, if Alexander Fleming wasn’t a bit blasé about doing the dishes, there would be no penicillin, and if my mother hadn’t put my best white shirt in with her red slacks, the kids at school wouldn’t have called me ‘Pinky’. Life ain’t nothing but a crap shoot.
It was by chance that one morning that a little twinky by the name of Candy Gable sashayed into my office. She got lost on the way to the store to pick up some smokes.
‘Hello there,’ she said as she leant over my desk. ‘Do you know where a girl could find some cigarettes around here?’
‘You’re not from these parts, are you sugar?’ I said, taking a Camel out of my pocket and holding it up. A cigarette, you understand, not a desert horse.
‘I just moved in this morning,’ she said, gratefully accepting my offer between her full, pink lips. Her mouth, you understand; this ain’t the memoirs of Bill Clinton. I struck a match and lit it, and watched as she inhaled, closing her eyes with pleasure.
‘Thanks,’ she purred. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t ask your name.’
‘That’s alright,’ I said as I filled my pipe.
‘No, I mean what is your name?’
‘John Flagpole, Private Detective.’ I said, accidentally flipping my library card at her before realising my mistake and passing her my real one. ‘And yours?’
‘Candy Gable,’ she said.
‘Candy,’ I said as I burned some sweet Carolina leaves. ‘That’s a pretty name. I had an uncle called Candy, you know.’
‘An uncle?’
‘Yeah, he was a confused man. Real name was Frank. So what brings you to these parts, Uncle Candy?’
‘Well, I lived in L.A. for a while, trying to make it as an actress, that was always my dream, you know-‘
‘Hmm,’ I said, but I wasn’t really listening. Truth be told, I was trying to mentally undress her, which proved to be a difficult task because every time I got to the underwear stage she turned into my father’s brother. ‘Damn you Frank. Damn you and your fan dance,’ I breathed as she continued with her story.
‘What?’ she said.
‘N-nothing,’ I blabbed, losing my cool. ‘Please, continue.’ And with that she gave me her whole life story. It was the usual shtick; bad boyfriends, neglectful father, mother running away with a circus contortionist; I’d heard it a thousand times before from a thousand different broads, but she was unlike the rest. She was different. There was a naughty glint in her eye. Deep down I knew this piece was bad news.
‘So, tell me about yourself Mr Flagpole,’ she said, running her fingers through her tumbling blonde hair.
‘Nothing to tell, toots. Born, went to school, kids gave me an unfortunate nickname, my old man got me a job at the toothpaste factory, you know, the usual.’
‘And what made you decide to become a private dick?’ she breathed, biting her moist bottom lip.
‘Well, some guy at the toothpaste factory kept stealing my turkey sandwich from my locker. I had my suspicions, but couldn’t be too sure, so I asked around, dusted for prints, that kind of thing. In the end I caught him in the act and confronted him.’
‘And what did he do, Mr Flagpole?’ the glint in her eye came back and the blood leaving my heart began packing for the long journey south.
‘He punched me in the face and broke my nose.’ I said.
‘Oh my!’ she gasped.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Thank God he was wearing boxing gloves at the time; otherwise God knows what would have happened. Anyway, as I hit the deck, I knew what I wanted to do. Next day I resigned as Chief Cap Screwer: Tube Division and set up shop here. And the rest as they say, is history.’
‘Just think; if that man hadn’t stolen your sandwich you’d still be at that factory, and we wouldn’t be sitting here having this delightful conversation,’ she smiled, showing the best set of pearly whites I’d seen since Doris Day bit me at the grocery store.
‘I’ll drink to that!’ I said as I poured some cheap Scotch from a bottle I keep in my drawer. ‘You want?’
‘Oh. Oh no. But thanks,’ she said.
‘Come on! Why not? We’re having some fun here!’
‘Well, mainly because it’s ten in the morning, but also because I have to go now,’ she said, taking one last grateful drag of her cigarette.
‘Alright, doll face,’ I said, giving a casual salute as I belted back my drink like a guy who knows how.
‘I’ll see you around,’ she said as she headed for the door. ‘Thanks for the smoke Mr Flagpole.’ And with that she turned and blew me a kiss. I swear to all that is holy, that invisible kiss did more for me than any game of hide the cannoli I’d had in years.
‘Damn,’ I said as I poured another drink. ‘That is one smoking broad.’
The rest of the day went by slow; a nervous looking guy shuffled in at around two telling me he thought his wife was being unfaithful. After about twenty minutes he broke down and confessed that he wasn’t even married and just wanted someone to talk to.
After I’d kicked his sorry ass out, I sat down and lit up again. That dame was still under my skin, so much so that I didn’t notice my hat was on fire. After the fire department had put it out, my phone rang.
‘Flagpole Detective Agency?’ I said, all the while thinking how much I needed a secretary again.
‘Mr Flagpole?’ I recognised that voice.
‘Yes?’ That was the first time I put the ‘s’ on that word since I was in the dock for groping my last secretary.
‘It’s Candy Gable. From earlier?’ she said, laying on that sweet little girl routine so thick you could have bounced dimes off of it.
‘Uh, yeah, I remember you. You’re the actress right?’ I said, laying on that cool private dick routine so thick you could have bounced dimes off of it.
‘I suppose so,’ she giggled, laying on that sweet little girl routine so thick you could have bounced dimes off of it.
‘How may I help you, Miss Gable?’ I said, reaching into my pocket for more dimes to bounce.
‘I was just thinking about how nice you were to me earlier. And- well, it’s not easy making friends in a new town...’ she said, laying on that sweet little girl routine so thick you could have bounced a nickel, a penny and some lint off of it.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I was just wondering if you wanted to come round my house tonight, for dinner and drinks?’ I picked myself up off the floor just in time to hastily scribble down her address and bid her a civil goodbye, my cool private dick routine laid on so thin, a squirrel’s belch could have broken it.
‘Goodnight nurse,’ I said as I sat back down. I didn’t usually get this giddy over a broad, but this one was a real knockout. She wore that little blouse like most women in this town wear steak bibs.
I left the office early that night and called in at the grocery store. I knew I needed to smell extra fresh so I picked up some mints and some menthol smokes.
‘And throw me in some of that Cologne will ya?’ I said to the square behind the counter.
‘But sir, this is my ear medicine,’ he stuttered.
‘What the hell, kid? Did I ask for your opinion? Just put it in the bag so I can get on my way.’
‘Yes sir.’
I took a bath that night too, which was unusual for me. I normally used my bathtub for storing old editions of Private Dick Weekly. I don’t know why I kept my bath and that particular publication together. Probably because neither of them had me in them. Oh no, but Joey Saccamoni from Yonkers got in just for reuniting a mother with her son. Word on the street is the old dame was so senile she just forgot where he lived.
I threw the stacks of Private Dick into the garbage and climbed into the tub. Afterwards I felt refreshed, but covered in a fine film of ink because I forgot to rinse it out first. I went to my wardrobe; what a sad state of affairs. I took out the suit that was the least threadbare and the hat that had the least fire-damage and looked at myself in my mother’s old antique mirror.
‘You’re one homely son of a bitch, Johnny Flagpole,’ I said to myself as I dabbed some of that kid’s ear medicine on my neck.
Just before I left my house, I strapped a holster onto my leg and put my favourite gun in there. I never go anywhere without a piece. Not anymore. One time, I was investigating the disappearance of a local factory owner, and his daughter, who was, it has to be said, almost as smoking as Candy Gable, invited me to the mansion to look at his receipts. She was giving me the old come-on, so I went light. Needless to say, it was a trap and I was scrabbling across the roof of a mansion in my skivvies before the night was out.
Candy’s place was in the middle of a run-down street in a no-good part of town. ‘Round here, gangs would mob you and fill your hat with tartar sauce for kicks. As a precaution I stopped at a 7-11 and filled my own hat with the best tartar sauce on the shelf.
I knocked on her front door and straightened my threadbare tie.
‘Mr Flagpole! Hello!’ she was in a festive mood already.
‘Miss Gable,’ I said, lifting my hat as a gesture of respect and sending tartar sauce cascading down my face.
‘Please, come in,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s here already.’
‘Wait a minute!’ I said, stopping in my tracks. ‘Everyone?’
‘Yeah, silly, all my new college buddies are here!’
‘Hold on a minute, toots. You go to college?’ I was confused.
‘Yes, I told you, remember?’ she looked at me inquisitively.
‘Uh, yeah. Yeah that’s right.’ My cover was blown for sure. She must have known that I wasn’t listening to her in my office that afternoon, and from that, probably deduced that I was trying to do mental naughties with her, but couldn’t because Uncle Frank kept appearing in his two-piece.
‘I enrolled in performing arts at Colombia; I’m trying to become a better actress.’ As soon as she said it, my guts danced a pas de deux against my ribcage. Performing arts students. I was about to spend an evening with performing arts students. I was about to make my excuses and leave when this little squirt who was probably called Rosebud jumped through the door and pulled me through. Instinctively, I punched him on the nose, knocking him to the floor. Thank God I was wearing boxing gloves at the time, otherwise I could have been writing this from the can.
‘Hey man!’ said a homely girl with a carnation in her hair. ‘What d’ya do that for?’
‘Never jump out at me like that!’ I said, as matter-of-factly as a man with ear medicine on him can. ‘If you jump out I can’t be held responsible for my actions.’
‘Cool,’ said another beatnik standing to the side of me. ‘You’re like a ninja or something, right? That is totally awesome.’ He put his hand on my shoulder.
‘You’d get your hands off of me if you knew what was good for you, Buster,’ I said, holding back a tear at the memory of the Phil Collins movie of the same name.
‘Heeeey, mellow out dude,’ said the guy I had knocked out cold a few moments earlier. ‘Have a smoke.’ I was never one to turn down a free smoke, so I took him up on his offer.
The smoke was sharp, and hit me right at the back of my throat, causing me to hack and cough like my old man whenever someone mentioned Uncle Candy in the house. I looked back at Miss Gable, standing all pert and nubile in the corner; she nodded and smiled in encouragement. I looked back at the smoke and took another drag, and the rest of the night was a blur.
I can only recollect certain parts of the evening, like being shown how she to act like a tree by a girl called Cristal, playing the bongos as accompaniment to Rosebud’s beat poetry, and giving a lusty, tearful rendition of Groovy Kind of Love in the kitchen while we were waiting for the pizza to arrive. I’m not proud of what happened, I’ll come right out and say it, but it was a weird, weird ride.
I woke up the next morning on the breakfast table. Everyone was sitting around, eating. I daren’t move because there was butter, milk and juice balanced on my back.
‘Morning, sunshine!’ shouted Rosebud, the blood now dried to his face.
‘The last guy that called me sunshine is in a wheel chair now, kid.’ I said as menacingly as I could. It’s true; he called me sunshine and then ran out in front of a bus.
‘Uh oh, someone’s cranky!’ he cooed. Instinctively, I jumped up, picked up a chair and smashed it across his back.
‘Where’s Candy?’ I asked, in no mood for games.
‘Ohh maaaan, why you gotta kill our buzz?’ complained a crusty sitting in the sink. Before you could say ‘kick out the jams’, I’d reached into my holster and pulled out my favourite gun.
‘Where’s your buzz now, shortstack?’ I said, pointing it at his greasy head.
‘Dude,’ he began, holding his hands up. ‘She’s upstairs, OK? Jeez. I don’t see why you’ve gotta start threatening people with a banana. It’s just not groovy.’ Holding back a tear at the recollection of Groovy Kind of Love, I realised that some schnook had replaced my prized Colt.45 with some fruit.
‘I’ll be back for the piece!’ I called as I walked up the stairs. At the top I had to step over piles of comatose beatniks, being careful to only tread on the ugly ones.
Just as I was about to launch into a tirade against the youth of today, a bedroom door opened in front of me. There she was. Wearing nothing but a tiny negligee and a smile.
‘C-Candy,’ I stuttered.
‘Mr Flagpole, hello. Did you have a good time last night?’ she said.
‘I’m not gonna lie to you, kid, this kinda thing ain’t my scene.’
‘Oh, I think it could be if you gave it a chance,’ she said with a wink. ‘Anyway, I must get ready; I’ve got classes in an hour. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ I said, thinking I was going to get some alone time with her.
‘Yes, silly. At the theatre. That thing you said you were going to do for me?’
‘Ah, ah yeah. That thing,’ I was lying worse than when I denied groping my secretary. ‘Sure. I’ll be there.’
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Be there for seven thirty.’ And with that, she leaned over a guy who was throwing up and gave me the best kiss of my life.
I was in such a good mood that day that the hours just flew by; problem was my mind wasn’t on the job. A guy came in wanting to find out as much info on his ex-wife as possible. I came back to him with as much info on Gary Coleman as possible. Apparently, on many occasions, he had at least an inkling of what it was that Willis was talking about, despite his protestations to the contrary.
That night I went through the same ritual I did the night before, and as I emerged, inky but triumphant from my bath, I thought about the night ahead. I planned to take her to One Eyed Dave’s Kosher Steakhouse for a ‘Shalom Sirloin’ or ‘Rabbi Rib-Eye’ after I met her at the theatre. One Eyed Dave is a great guy; even if his name is slightly misleading (he doesn’t have one eye. He has three.)
I arrived at the theatre stage-door for seven-thirty, having picked up some more mints from the deaf guy at the grocery store. When it got to seven-thirty-five, I thought she was fashionably late, when it got to seven-forty-five, I thought she was pushing it, when it got to eight I was about to turn and leave, that was until the door opened,
‘Mr Flagpole!’ it was Candy, in a spangly jumpsuit cut down to her waist. ‘Where have you been?’
Before I could answer, she pulled me through the door, and I was whisked into a whirlwind of bodies, things were stuck on me, people clasped my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, and I was pushed towards a large curtain.
‘What the-’ I looked around for familiar faces, people I’d never seen before were looking at me expectantly. ‘Candy?’ I called.
‘Here I am, Mr Flagpole,’ she beamed, standing next to a young, football playing type.
‘Who’s this?’ I asked, gesturing feebly.
‘Oh, this is Josh, my boyfriend,’ she said, ‘but there’s no time for introductions now, we’ll chat at the wrap party.’
‘Wrap party?’ This was too much, even for a seasoned tough guy like me.
‘Yeah, now are you ready? Your scene is next.’
‘Scene?’ I felt like a parakeet.
‘Yeah, now remember; you are a swan? OK?’
‘Swa-swan?’
‘Good luck,’ she whispered and ran away into the wings. The curtains opened and I was blinded by the lights, but not enough to block out the three-hundred people staring back at me. And as I stood centre stage, wearing some kind of sparkly bib and quacking like a duck, this is what I thought:
That’s the last time I’ll hang out with performing arts students.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Monday, 19 March 2012
Prejudice
I would never judge a person by the colour of their skin.
Unless I was on the panel for 'Who's the Bluest?'
Then I'd have to, because it would be my job.
Unless I was on the panel for 'Who's the Bluest?'
Then I'd have to, because it would be my job.
Philosophy
If war is the answer, it must have been a stupid question.
Unless of course the question is "Edwin Starr had a number three hit in 1970 with which song?"
Unless of course the question is "Edwin Starr had a number three hit in 1970 with which song?"
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Ooooooo! Tales from the crypt! Oooooooo!
The old castle stood on the edge of the mountain, overlooking a deep ravine. I arrived at the door in darkness, where I was greeted by the manservant, Piles.
'Welcome, sir,' he said. 'I'll show you to your quarters.'
'How many quarters are there?' I asked.
'Two,' replied the old man.
'Then that's a half. You're showing me to my half.'
'Very good sir,' he said as he picked up my bag and led the way along the corridor.
There was something unusual about his manner. It may have been the slow, laboured way he walked, or it may have been the way that he tried to diguise his baldness by strapping a side of beef to his head, but something wasn't quite right.
'Your half, sir,' he said as he opened the door.
It was a grand half, I had to give it to him; a grand, ornate fireplace loomed over the opposite wall, with a stuffed owl, its wings spread stared down from above as if to say, 'Look at these wings I've got here.'
'Dinner will be served in the great hall in an hour, my master will wait for you there,' said Piles. 'In the meantime, I shall leave you to relax, sir.'
'Thank you, Piles,' I said, taking about a pound note and stuffing it in his g-string.
As the old man servant shuffled back down the corridor, I took out my correspondence and looked at it again. I still wasn't sure about this.
A month previously I had received a telegram from a Count Pigboot, a wealthy aristocrat living in isolation in a castle deep within the Transylvanian mountains. He had heard of my reputation as an accountant for the rich and powerful of London and was requesting my services. Normally, I wouldn't undertake such a journey for a client, but the Count was offering such a bountiful wage that I couldn't afford not to.
I bid my darling Isabella goodbye and began the journey into Transylvania, the last leg of which was completed in a horse-drawn carriage. When I went to pay the driver at the end of the trip, I noticed that he had hooks for hands and rawl plugs for ears, and I knew from then that this was a dark and disturbing place.
After composing a letter to Isabella I went to the grand hall, where Count Pigboot was already sitting at the head of a large, oak table. He was a most frightful creature; with white hair that sprouted wildly from his temples and long bony hands that sprouted wildly from his sleeves.
'Ah, Mr Rathbone, welcome,' he said with a dastardly smile. 'I trust Piles made you feel comfortable.'
'Quite the opposite,' I said. 'I usually have to sit on a doughnut for weeks.' Always start with a joke.
I sat at the table and looked at Pigboot. He fixed me with a steely glare, his mouth still fixed into a rigid grin.
'Now Mr Rathbone, down to business,' he said. 'I want you to be the lifeblood of my organisation.'
'OK,' I said.
'Because previous employees didn't have enough bite,' he continued.
'OK,' I said.
'In fact, you might say they... sucked,' he said, grinning at me through his sharp teeth.
'Are you a vampire?' I asked.
'Yes,' he replied.
'I don't think I'll bother then,' I said.
'Really?' he replied. 'Why not?'
'Well, you seem like a nice man, but I'd be too busy worrying about whether you were going to bite me or not and you really wouldn't get my best work for that reason,' I explained.
'Fair enough,' he said sounding disappointed. 'Will you stay tonight, before you head back?'
'I'd better not,' I said. 'I'll just go to the Travelodge down the road.' And with that, I left and checked in at said Travelodge. The room was adequate but the staff could have been a bit more friendly. I was also quite disappointed with the breakfast selection, and felt it wasn't worth what I paid. Overall, I'd give it a 3/5.
'Welcome, sir,' he said. 'I'll show you to your quarters.'
'How many quarters are there?' I asked.
'Two,' replied the old man.
'Then that's a half. You're showing me to my half.'
'Very good sir,' he said as he picked up my bag and led the way along the corridor.
There was something unusual about his manner. It may have been the slow, laboured way he walked, or it may have been the way that he tried to diguise his baldness by strapping a side of beef to his head, but something wasn't quite right.
'Your half, sir,' he said as he opened the door.
It was a grand half, I had to give it to him; a grand, ornate fireplace loomed over the opposite wall, with a stuffed owl, its wings spread stared down from above as if to say, 'Look at these wings I've got here.'
'Dinner will be served in the great hall in an hour, my master will wait for you there,' said Piles. 'In the meantime, I shall leave you to relax, sir.'
'Thank you, Piles,' I said, taking about a pound note and stuffing it in his g-string.
As the old man servant shuffled back down the corridor, I took out my correspondence and looked at it again. I still wasn't sure about this.
A month previously I had received a telegram from a Count Pigboot, a wealthy aristocrat living in isolation in a castle deep within the Transylvanian mountains. He had heard of my reputation as an accountant for the rich and powerful of London and was requesting my services. Normally, I wouldn't undertake such a journey for a client, but the Count was offering such a bountiful wage that I couldn't afford not to.
I bid my darling Isabella goodbye and began the journey into Transylvania, the last leg of which was completed in a horse-drawn carriage. When I went to pay the driver at the end of the trip, I noticed that he had hooks for hands and rawl plugs for ears, and I knew from then that this was a dark and disturbing place.
After composing a letter to Isabella I went to the grand hall, where Count Pigboot was already sitting at the head of a large, oak table. He was a most frightful creature; with white hair that sprouted wildly from his temples and long bony hands that sprouted wildly from his sleeves.
'Ah, Mr Rathbone, welcome,' he said with a dastardly smile. 'I trust Piles made you feel comfortable.'
'Quite the opposite,' I said. 'I usually have to sit on a doughnut for weeks.' Always start with a joke.
I sat at the table and looked at Pigboot. He fixed me with a steely glare, his mouth still fixed into a rigid grin.
'Now Mr Rathbone, down to business,' he said. 'I want you to be the lifeblood of my organisation.'
'OK,' I said.
'Because previous employees didn't have enough bite,' he continued.
'OK,' I said.
'In fact, you might say they... sucked,' he said, grinning at me through his sharp teeth.
'Are you a vampire?' I asked.
'Yes,' he replied.
'I don't think I'll bother then,' I said.
'Really?' he replied. 'Why not?'
'Well, you seem like a nice man, but I'd be too busy worrying about whether you were going to bite me or not and you really wouldn't get my best work for that reason,' I explained.
'Fair enough,' he said sounding disappointed. 'Will you stay tonight, before you head back?'
'I'd better not,' I said. 'I'll just go to the Travelodge down the road.' And with that, I left and checked in at said Travelodge. The room was adequate but the staff could have been a bit more friendly. I was also quite disappointed with the breakfast selection, and felt it wasn't worth what I paid. Overall, I'd give it a 3/5.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Dinomania!
I bet if dinosaurs hadn't been made extinct, people would be much more cavalier about having their heads chewed off.
Cist!
I bet if your last name was Cist, you wouldn't name your kid Ray. But then, come on, whose last name is Cist? I'm sorry I ever brought it up.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
My new stand-up routine
As I am getting nowhere fast with this one-liner malarkey, I have decided to change my act to make it more attractive to audiences, industry people and the Head of Comedy at Channel 5 (is there one? Someone look into that for me)
Hey guys! Now, I know what you're thinking; he is the bastard lovechild of Julia Somerville who used to read the news, and backbench Tory MP Christopher Pincher. (Pause for laughter and applause)
You know, I'm having some problems in my relationship recently. What it is, is that my partner doesn't want to be with me anymore because of my debilitating coke habit! (Pause for more laughter)
So she threw me out of the house, and I was walking down the road, when a man went past me on a bike, whilst wearing a karate outfit! What could that mean? Do you think he was maybe cycling to karate club, or something a bit more wacky?
"Hey, Bruce Lee!" I yelled at him, but he had already cycled at quite a pace and was out of earshot. See, the thing you should know about me is, I am actually a racist. (Pause for 'Oh my God, I can't believe what I'm hearing' laughter)
Yeah, I am actually a member of the Ku Klux Klan. (Carry on quickly so no wiseguys can point put that we don't have a KKK in this country) And I kind of embarrassed myself! I put my red undies in the wash with my robe! I know, I know! It was so embarrassing! I forgot to separate the whites!
It is at this point that I pause to allow for the MASSIVE laughs this punchline would create in the audience, who are by now so into my performance that they would all marry me. But then, I toy with their affections and play with their expectations of what stand-up comedy should be as I begin to deconstruct the art form.
So yeah, I'm standing here on stage, telling jokes. In my trousers. Telling those jokes in my trousers. Standing on this stage; wearing these trousers telling these jokes. Wearing my joke trousers. That's what I call them, because I wear them whilst telling jokes. And standing on stage. My stage joke trousers. That's what I call them because I wear them whilst standing on stage and telling jokes. In a comedy club. My stage joke comedy club trousers. That's what I call them because I wear them whilst standing on stage, telling jokes in a comedy club.
Now, I can tell that you're all looking at my trousers. Because after all, they are my stage joke comedy club trousers. And some of you are checking that my flies are done up. Which they are. I would never be so careless with my stage joke comedy club trousers. And you're probably thinking it would be funny if for some reason, my genitals were to be exposed. You're probably thinking that in your little brains. Your little brains that bob around in your skulls. In some kind of fluid. That's where you're thinking that.
And I think the fact that you're thinking that, in your tiny little brains that bob around in your skulls, in some kind of fluid, is the reason why most modern comedy is rubbish.
Thank you and good night!
I leave the stage to a standing ovation. Some audience members are openly weeping after all their narrow preconceptions of stand-up comedy were brutally torn asunder by the power of my intellect. I stand at the back of the room, basking in the love of the crowd, when a man comes up to me, gives me his card and tells me to call him. I look down at the card, and it says 'Head of Comedy at Channel 5' on it. This is initially very exciting, but then I turn it over and written on that side it says 'Cleaner at Channel 5', which isn't quite as glamorous. But then, it does come in handy when he springs into action, mopping up all the tears the crowd have shed due to my brilliance. And my trousers. My stage joke comedy club making everyone cry trousers.
Hey guys! Now, I know what you're thinking; he is the bastard lovechild of Julia Somerville who used to read the news, and backbench Tory MP Christopher Pincher. (Pause for laughter and applause)
You know, I'm having some problems in my relationship recently. What it is, is that my partner doesn't want to be with me anymore because of my debilitating coke habit! (Pause for more laughter)
So she threw me out of the house, and I was walking down the road, when a man went past me on a bike, whilst wearing a karate outfit! What could that mean? Do you think he was maybe cycling to karate club, or something a bit more wacky?
"Hey, Bruce Lee!" I yelled at him, but he had already cycled at quite a pace and was out of earshot. See, the thing you should know about me is, I am actually a racist. (Pause for 'Oh my God, I can't believe what I'm hearing' laughter)
Yeah, I am actually a member of the Ku Klux Klan. (Carry on quickly so no wiseguys can point put that we don't have a KKK in this country) And I kind of embarrassed myself! I put my red undies in the wash with my robe! I know, I know! It was so embarrassing! I forgot to separate the whites!
It is at this point that I pause to allow for the MASSIVE laughs this punchline would create in the audience, who are by now so into my performance that they would all marry me. But then, I toy with their affections and play with their expectations of what stand-up comedy should be as I begin to deconstruct the art form.
So yeah, I'm standing here on stage, telling jokes. In my trousers. Telling those jokes in my trousers. Standing on this stage; wearing these trousers telling these jokes. Wearing my joke trousers. That's what I call them, because I wear them whilst telling jokes. And standing on stage. My stage joke trousers. That's what I call them because I wear them whilst standing on stage and telling jokes. In a comedy club. My stage joke comedy club trousers. That's what I call them because I wear them whilst standing on stage, telling jokes in a comedy club.
Now, I can tell that you're all looking at my trousers. Because after all, they are my stage joke comedy club trousers. And some of you are checking that my flies are done up. Which they are. I would never be so careless with my stage joke comedy club trousers. And you're probably thinking it would be funny if for some reason, my genitals were to be exposed. You're probably thinking that in your little brains. Your little brains that bob around in your skulls. In some kind of fluid. That's where you're thinking that.
And I think the fact that you're thinking that, in your tiny little brains that bob around in your skulls, in some kind of fluid, is the reason why most modern comedy is rubbish.
Thank you and good night!
I leave the stage to a standing ovation. Some audience members are openly weeping after all their narrow preconceptions of stand-up comedy were brutally torn asunder by the power of my intellect. I stand at the back of the room, basking in the love of the crowd, when a man comes up to me, gives me his card and tells me to call him. I look down at the card, and it says 'Head of Comedy at Channel 5' on it. This is initially very exciting, but then I turn it over and written on that side it says 'Cleaner at Channel 5', which isn't quite as glamorous. But then, it does come in handy when he springs into action, mopping up all the tears the crowd have shed due to my brilliance. And my trousers. My stage joke comedy club making everyone cry trousers.
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Accordion
The accordion was my thing. I carried it everywhere I went, and people would often ask me questions about it, like 'Why are you carrying that around, this is a funeral?' And, 'If you're going to carry it with you all the time, how about learning to play something other than the Hokey Cokey?'
But I didn't listen because the accordion was what made me an individual. 'Here comes Accordion Pete,' people would say as they saw me coming. My name isn't Pete but I didn't want to correct them.
One night I was walking down a dark side street with my accordion when a person of ill repute lurched out from the shadows.
'Hands up,' he said, pointing a gun at me.
'Can't,' I replied. 'I'm carrying this accordion.'
With that he shot me and ran away. I braced myself for the searing pain which never came, and I looked down and saw that the bullet had lodged in my accordion, rendering the bellows inoperable. The accordion had saved my life. But what kind of life is it, with no accordion?
But I didn't listen because the accordion was what made me an individual. 'Here comes Accordion Pete,' people would say as they saw me coming. My name isn't Pete but I didn't want to correct them.
One night I was walking down a dark side street with my accordion when a person of ill repute lurched out from the shadows.
'Hands up,' he said, pointing a gun at me.
'Can't,' I replied. 'I'm carrying this accordion.'
With that he shot me and ran away. I braced myself for the searing pain which never came, and I looked down and saw that the bullet had lodged in my accordion, rendering the bellows inoperable. The accordion had saved my life. But what kind of life is it, with no accordion?
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
Deleted Scenes
Given the appalling infrequency of which I update this site, you'll be surprised to learn that I actually write a blog every single day.
'Every single day?' I hear you cry. 'But where are these blogs, where have you hidden them?'
Well, I can answer that question; you see, I am such a perfectionist and my standards are so stringent, that only the very best blogs are ever seen by the public. But now, in the spirit of Easter time sharing and joy, I will publish excerpts from past unseen blogs for the very first time. Enjoy...
I find it very difficult to pickle an onion without thinking about how much easier it would be to just buy a jar of pre-pickled onions from the supermarket. But this is an obstacle I will have to overcome if I am ever to realise my dream of owning my own onion pickling factory.
- from the blog 'Onions' 19/2/2009
Discotheques are all very well and good, but they'll never replace the experience of a full brass section parping in one's face.
- from the blog 'Bad fart jokes' 2/7/2009
If Shakespeare were alive today, there are many questions I would like to ask him, such as 'How did you live to be so old?'
- from the blog 'Shakespeare in Gloves' 29/11/2009
Why can't I get on the telly? Is it because I don't have big hair, skinny jeans and a tendency to talk about 'random' things that happened to me? Or is it because the bigwigs can't deal with the way I constantly speak in patois?
- from the blog 'The rantings of a struggling, bitter comedian' 3/2/2010
I think what sets me out from the crowd is my keen attention to detial.
- from the blog 'My CV' 5/9/2010
The man told me the only show I'd ever be on was Crimewatch. Which turned out to be true, because after he said that I killed him.
- from the blog 'The rantings of a struggling, bitter comedian part two' 2/12/2010
'Every single day?' I hear you cry. 'But where are these blogs, where have you hidden them?'
Well, I can answer that question; you see, I am such a perfectionist and my standards are so stringent, that only the very best blogs are ever seen by the public. But now, in the spirit of Easter time sharing and joy, I will publish excerpts from past unseen blogs for the very first time. Enjoy...
I find it very difficult to pickle an onion without thinking about how much easier it would be to just buy a jar of pre-pickled onions from the supermarket. But this is an obstacle I will have to overcome if I am ever to realise my dream of owning my own onion pickling factory.
- from the blog 'Onions' 19/2/2009
Discotheques are all very well and good, but they'll never replace the experience of a full brass section parping in one's face.
- from the blog 'Bad fart jokes' 2/7/2009
If Shakespeare were alive today, there are many questions I would like to ask him, such as 'How did you live to be so old?'
- from the blog 'Shakespeare in Gloves' 29/11/2009
Why can't I get on the telly? Is it because I don't have big hair, skinny jeans and a tendency to talk about 'random' things that happened to me? Or is it because the bigwigs can't deal with the way I constantly speak in patois?
- from the blog 'The rantings of a struggling, bitter comedian' 3/2/2010
I think what sets me out from the crowd is my keen attention to detial.
- from the blog 'My CV' 5/9/2010
The man told me the only show I'd ever be on was Crimewatch. Which turned out to be true, because after he said that I killed him.
- from the blog 'The rantings of a struggling, bitter comedian part two' 2/12/2010
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Facebook!
Facebook! Shit! It’s the future! Shit!
It has come to my attention recently that I have been ‘de-friended’ by five people on that Facebook. Five people! Now, to someone with 2000 ‘friends’ on there, that doesn’t make much of a dent, but when you have as few as me, you begin to notice, and begin to question what it is that’s causing people to ‘de-friend’ you.
Is it because I comment on everyone’s status updates with ‘lol’, regardless of whether what they were saying was funny?
Is it because I overuse the affectionate nickname ‘Fats’ when commenting on their photos?
Is it because I insist on telling everyone what I’m doing all the time, including toilet visits?
Well, if they don’t like it, they can go to hell. No, I don’t mean that, I miss them. Especially that one. That one whose status updates were 40% complaining about traffic and 60% thinly veiled homoerotic fantasies about John Barrowman. Take me back! Please!
It has come to my attention recently that I have been ‘de-friended’ by five people on that Facebook. Five people! Now, to someone with 2000 ‘friends’ on there, that doesn’t make much of a dent, but when you have as few as me, you begin to notice, and begin to question what it is that’s causing people to ‘de-friend’ you.
Is it because I comment on everyone’s status updates with ‘lol’, regardless of whether what they were saying was funny?
Is it because I overuse the affectionate nickname ‘Fats’ when commenting on their photos?
Is it because I insist on telling everyone what I’m doing all the time, including toilet visits?
Well, if they don’t like it, they can go to hell. No, I don’t mean that, I miss them. Especially that one. That one whose status updates were 40% complaining about traffic and 60% thinly veiled homoerotic fantasies about John Barrowman. Take me back! Please!
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Me no hablo
I find the British abroad embarrassing. I am personally ashamed that we cannot speak any other languages and expect everyone else to learn ours.
For example, when I was in Spain, this man came up to me and said, 'Hola. Estoy buscando para comprar algunos medicamentos en el área. ¿Sabe usted dónde podrÃa ser capaz de conseguir algo de lo que mi amigo y yo podemos alcanzar un estado quÃmicamente mejorado alucinógenas de la conciencia? Su ayuda en este tema serÃa muy apreciada ya que todos estamos muy interesados en comprar algunos medicamentos. Tengo sido informóque este es un buen lugar para adquirirlos, pero no estoy seguro del lugar especÃfico a seguir. Además, puede que necesite un cajero automático como tengo algo de dinero en mi poder, pero quizás no lo suficiente para comprar la cantidad de medicamentos que se necesitan. Me han dicho que voy a comprar, ya que es el cumpleaños de mi amigo y será un regalo especial para él. Gracias por su ayuda en este asunto.'
And I had no idea what he was talking about.
For example, when I was in Spain, this man came up to me and said, 'Hola. Estoy buscando para comprar algunos medicamentos en el área. ¿Sabe usted dónde podrÃa ser capaz de conseguir algo de lo que mi amigo y yo podemos alcanzar un estado quÃmicamente mejorado alucinógenas de la conciencia? Su ayuda en este tema serÃa muy apreciada ya que todos estamos muy interesados en comprar algunos medicamentos. Tengo sido informóque este es un buen lugar para adquirirlos, pero no estoy seguro del lugar especÃfico a seguir. Además, puede que necesite un cajero automático como tengo algo de dinero en mi poder, pero quizás no lo suficiente para comprar la cantidad de medicamentos que se necesitan. Me han dicho que voy a comprar, ya que es el cumpleaños de mi amigo y será un regalo especial para él. Gracias por su ayuda en este asunto.'
And I had no idea what he was talking about.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Monday, 28 March 2011
I bet...
I bet the worst thing about being a dragon is people always asking you for a light. It's like, what am I, your own personal lighter? Use a match. Or better still, give up smoking. God, I'm getting angry just thinking about it.
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Things I saw...
I saw a clown get run over. It really made me ponder the absurdity of life. I called an ambulance afterwards, but it was too late. Time sure does fly when you're a-ponderin'.
I saw a spectacular spring time sunset. If you ask me, there's nothing more beautiful than that. But you didn't ask me so forget I even said anything.
I saw a man trying to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. Man, no wonder he's the cheapest arsonist at the agency.
I saw two guys piling stuff on a donkey, it reminded me of that old board game, the Game of Life. That donkey has lost at the Game of Life.
I saw a dude fall down on the pavement and lie there motionless. 'He must be drunk,' I thought. Later on I walked past again and some ambulance guys were shocking him but he still wasn't moving. I was wrong. He wasn't drunk, he was wasted.
I saw a spectacular spring time sunset. If you ask me, there's nothing more beautiful than that. But you didn't ask me so forget I even said anything.
I saw a man trying to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. Man, no wonder he's the cheapest arsonist at the agency.
I saw two guys piling stuff on a donkey, it reminded me of that old board game, the Game of Life. That donkey has lost at the Game of Life.
I saw a dude fall down on the pavement and lie there motionless. 'He must be drunk,' I thought. Later on I walked past again and some ambulance guys were shocking him but he still wasn't moving. I was wrong. He wasn't drunk, he was wasted.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
My (rejected) Chortle Correspondents piece
I sent an article into Chortle Correspondents but it has yet to be published, so I've decided to publish it exclusively here. See if you can figure out why it was rejected...
Some things I don't like about comedy by Ben 'Pimpmaster 3000' Davids
What I like most about comedy is the laffs. The laffs are what have kept me going during my years as a stand up alternative comic.
But some people like to laff at things that I’m not so keen on.
Paedos
Racism
I hate racism in all its forms, but there’s some that take it too far. I did a corker about a Chinese bloke sat in the front row and all of a sudden everyone was calling me a racist! I was like, ‘All you Chinese talk weird!’ And he was saying, ‘I’m not even Chinese, I’m German!’ Political correctness gone mad.
Whimsy
I don’t like whimsical comedy very much at all. I saw one bloke going on about fairies and donkey headed people for hours once! I was like, ‘Talk about something we can all relate to, like doing summat on a bus that u wouldn’t normally do on a bus!’ Then they asked me to leave the high school production of a Midsummer Night’s Dream! A JOKE! ALWAYS WORKING!
Sitcoms
Not as funny as they used to be. Too much canned laughter. How do they fit all of it in a can anyway? I reckon you could fit all of the laughter from today’s sitcoms into a proper small can, and then put it at the back of your cupboard until about five years later when you give it to your local primary school for their Harvest festival, and they send it to Africa, and they open it there and some laughter comes out, and they think, ‘Cheeky bastards.’
Some things I don't like about comedy by Ben 'Pimpmaster 3000' Davids
What I like most about comedy is the laffs. The laffs are what have kept me going during my years as a stand up alternative comic.
But some people like to laff at things that I’m not so keen on.
Paedos
They are well shit, but some people think they’re funny. How would you like it if Roman Polanski interfered with you in a sexual way? Not very much I fancy.
Roman Polanski
Racism
I hate racism in all its forms, but there’s some that take it too far. I did a corker about a Chinese bloke sat in the front row and all of a sudden everyone was calling me a racist! I was like, ‘All you Chinese talk weird!’ And he was saying, ‘I’m not even Chinese, I’m German!’ Political correctness gone mad.
A Chinese man
Whimsy
I don’t like whimsical comedy very much at all. I saw one bloke going on about fairies and donkey headed people for hours once! I was like, ‘Talk about something we can all relate to, like doing summat on a bus that u wouldn’t normally do on a bus!’ Then they asked me to leave the high school production of a Midsummer Night’s Dream! A JOKE! ALWAYS WORKING!
Shit
The Fringe
What is the Fringe, eh? What is it? According to Wikipedia , it’s the world’s largest arts festival and runs for four weeks every August. Well, I suppose that answers that.
Sitcoms
Not as funny as they used to be. Too much canned laughter. How do they fit all of it in a can anyway? I reckon you could fit all of the laughter from today’s sitcoms into a proper small can, and then put it at the back of your cupboard until about five years later when you give it to your local primary school for their Harvest festival, and they send it to Africa, and they open it there and some laughter comes out, and they think, ‘Cheeky bastards.’
A small can of laughter
Conclusion
I like some kinds of comedy and don’t like others. If you disagree with me, please write a reply piece. But if you do, so help me God, I will stab you in the ear while you sleep.
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
I can't pronounce you man and wife
WOMAN: You should have seen his face; he was high rate.
MAN: You mean irate.
WOMAN: That's what I said; high rate.
MAN: No, it's irate.
WOMAN: High rate.
MAN: Irate.
WOMAN: High rate.
MAN: Irate.
WOMAN: Whatever. Harsehole.
MAN: You mean irate.
WOMAN: That's what I said; high rate.
MAN: No, it's irate.
WOMAN: High rate.
MAN: Irate.
WOMAN: High rate.
MAN: Irate.
WOMAN: Whatever. Harsehole.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
NEW BLOG!
Aaaargh! Anyway, the reason I haven't updated this blog for a while is because I've been busy with things. You know, Christmas, New Year, Hannukah, Kwanzaa. Things like that.
Of course, all these festivities mean that I have to be out a lot, which isn't very fair on my dog, so when I leave, I always put a nice radio station on for him. Unless he's been a bad boy. Then I put Chris Moyles on. Even the dog's intelligence was insulted.
ZING! He's back!
Of course, all these festivities mean that I have to be out a lot, which isn't very fair on my dog, so when I leave, I always put a nice radio station on for him. Unless he's been a bad boy. Then I put Chris Moyles on. Even the dog's intelligence was insulted.
ZING! He's back!
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Friday, 24 September 2010
That thing...
You know that thing where you think about someone who's died, and you think they're still alive, but then you remember that they're dead?
And then you laugh to yourself because you know, duh! Thicko! And then someone asks you why you're laughing and you say, 'I just remembered Aunty Beryl's dead.'
That thing, my friend, that thing will get you into all kinds of trouble.
And then you laugh to yourself because you know, duh! Thicko! And then someone asks you why you're laughing and you say, 'I just remembered Aunty Beryl's dead.'
That thing, my friend, that thing will get you into all kinds of trouble.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Friday the 13th
Today is Friday the 13th, the unluckiest of all days. In fact, whilst writing that first sentence I broke two of my fingers. Now three. Now four. Now a thumb. I should probably stop typing.
Stupid explosive keyboard.
Stupid explosive keyboard.
Memories of my university days...
I remember when I took that first semester at university, thinking to myself how different it all was from school.
One key difference was the way we could swear in seminars without being told off.
'Shitfingers,' one student would remark.
'Fannyflaps,' another would retort.
'Sticky ginger pubes,' another would wryly observe.
Yes, I still treasure my time at Nottingham Tourette's University.
One key difference was the way we could swear in seminars without being told off.
'Shitfingers,' one student would remark.
'Fannyflaps,' another would retort.
'Sticky ginger pubes,' another would wryly observe.
Yes, I still treasure my time at Nottingham Tourette's University.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Edinbrrr!
I'm very excited now as I'll soon be departing for the Edinbrrr Fringe Festival, where I'll be performing my debut solo show, 'Him with the Hairy Mango' at the Laughing Horse Free Fringe venue 9999 (the Hangman's Knacker, Leith.)
My show will be a frank, autobiographical yarn taking in the first eight years of my life.
LAUGH as I point at a man in the front row and insinuate his shirt is gay.
WEEP as I tell you about the tragic death of my grandad/hamster.
SHIT as you leave the room and sit on the toilet.
PUT some money in the bucket at the end because I need ketamine.
That's 'Him With the Hairy Mango' at the Hangman's Knacker, Leith.
Preview Quotes
'Adequate,' Tamworth Times.
'He tore the roof off the place!' Witness statement after my bulldozer rampage.
'A... show, with plenty... of... laughs. The... show I have ever seen.' Ellipsis Weekly
My show will be a frank, autobiographical yarn taking in the first eight years of my life.
LAUGH as I point at a man in the front row and insinuate his shirt is gay.
WEEP as I tell you about the tragic death of my grandad/hamster.
SHIT as you leave the room and sit on the toilet.
PUT some money in the bucket at the end because I need ketamine.
That's 'Him With the Hairy Mango' at the Hangman's Knacker, Leith.
Preview Quotes
'Adequate,' Tamworth Times.
'He tore the roof off the place!' Witness statement after my bulldozer rampage.
'A... show, with plenty... of... laughs. The... show I have ever seen.' Ellipsis Weekly
Friday, 16 July 2010
A World War One poem by Siegfried Sissy
Mud.
Mud everywhere.
Honestly, I can't get over how muddy it is.
I'm covered.
In the stuff.
Mother sent some clean socks,
But I accidentally dropped them in the mud.
I bloody hate mud.
Mud everywhere.
Honestly, I can't get over how muddy it is.
I'm covered.
In the stuff.
Mother sent some clean socks,
But I accidentally dropped them in the mud.
I bloody hate mud.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
An excerpt from an action movie I'm writing
Dr Shazam: Games up, O'Malley. All exits are sealed and the bomb will go off in two minutes. You're finished.
O'Malley: What?
(The film is called O'Malley the Deaf Assassin.)
O'Malley: What?
(The film is called O'Malley the Deaf Assassin.)
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Clocks
The man prized his clock that stood on his shelf. It was given to him on his birth and he treasured it ever since. Remarkably, at the moment of his death, it stopped. Never to tick again. This was so notable, it even made the newspapers...
MAN BEATEN TO DEATH WITH CLOCK
MAN BEATEN TO DEATH WITH CLOCK
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Like a broken record
People always tell me I’m like a broken record,
Because I keep telling them about my collection of broken records.
I wonder if I’ve broken a record,
For the biggest collection of broken records.
I asked them at the office of broken records,
If there was a record for the biggest collection of broken records,
And they said there was already a broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records.
A man in America has ten thousand broken records,
Which has broken my record,
Because I have only three hundred broken records,
And if I want to achieve a broken record,
I’d need to get a lot more broken records.
So I’m always on the lookout for broken records,
To add to my collection of broken records,
And maybe one day I’ll have a broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records,
But first, I need to find nine thousand seven hundred and one broken records,
And add them to my three hundred broken records,
If I’m ever to get my own broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records,
And maybe then I’ll stop sounding like a broken record.
Because I keep telling them about my collection of broken records.
I wonder if I’ve broken a record,
For the biggest collection of broken records.
I asked them at the office of broken records,
If there was a record for the biggest collection of broken records,
And they said there was already a broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records.
A man in America has ten thousand broken records,
Which has broken my record,
Because I have only three hundred broken records,
And if I want to achieve a broken record,
I’d need to get a lot more broken records.
So I’m always on the lookout for broken records,
To add to my collection of broken records,
And maybe one day I’ll have a broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records,
But first, I need to find nine thousand seven hundred and one broken records,
And add them to my three hundred broken records,
If I’m ever to get my own broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records,
And maybe then I’ll stop sounding like a broken record.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
The Adventures of Socially Awkward Man: Part 6
When he isn't online, being too socially awkward to tell other men to put away their penises on Chatroulette, Socially Awkward Man likes to go out and indulge in a bit of nightlife, as it is only there that his true socially awkward nature can reach its full potential.
In this edition, our hero visits a nightclub and encounters a local character.
Idea for a horror film.
A man wakes up in the woods. He can't remember how he got there, but knows that he has to find his way home. Throughout the night he is pursued by demons and monsters, but he eventually reaches a clearing, where he finds his old van. He gets in, starts the engine and drives away, breathing a sigh of relief. It's then , in the film's final scene that he looks in his rear view mirror and sees a monster sitting in his back seat.
The lights in the auditorium go up and your eyes adjust as the credits roll. you think about leaving but then you look down and OH MY GOD! YOU'VE SPILLED POPCORN ALL OVER YOUR TROUSERS!
The lights in the auditorium go up and your eyes adjust as the credits roll. you think about leaving but then you look down and OH MY GOD! YOU'VE SPILLED POPCORN ALL OVER YOUR TROUSERS!
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
England's World Cup Squad: My Verdict
Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past few months, you’ll know that the World Cup starts this week. My friend Delwyn has actually been living under a rock, but has Wifi, so stays in touch with what’s happening in the world of sport. I have no idea what relevance this has to anything.
Anyway, as a “pundit” of football, I have put together a critique of Flavio Capelli’s England squadron. Incidentally, I just went to the greengrocers and bought a “pundit” of strawberries and they were delicious.
Goalkeepers
David James
The thing about “Jamesey” is that he’s really old. I mean like, eighty years old. And you have to ask yourself, should an eighty year old man really be playing football, or sport such a flamboyant hairstyle? How about a career in gardening, granddad?
Robert Green
Robert Green plays for West Ham. You know, when I was younger I thought that “Ham” must be short for something, like “Hambury” or “Hambone.” But you know what? It isn’t.
Joe Hart
Joe Hart is probably my sixth favourite member of the Hart Foundation, behind Bret, Owen, Davy Boy Smith, Jim “the Anvil” and Hart FM.
Defenders
Glen Johnson
Glen Johnson was signed by Liverpool for £17 million last year. 17 million. It would take me about 900 years to save up that amount of money, and by that time he’d have probably retired anyway.
Ashley Cole
Ashley Cole, Ashley Cole, Ashley Ashley Cole. When he gets the ball he scores a goal, Ashley Ashley Cole!
Michael Dawson
I never watched Dawson’s Creek, and yet I don’t like it because it was a precursor to terrible television shows like the OC and One Tree Hill. Avoid him unless it’s an emergency.
John Terry
He reckons he’s twenty-nine, right? So then why does he have the face of a fifty year old? And how did he manage to have an affair with a sexy underwear model? Answer: He has a GSOH.
Stephen Warnock
Stephen Warnock is a left back. Let’s hope he doesn’t get “left back” in the dressing room! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. AAAAAAAH HAHAHHAHAAAA HAHA HA…
Matthew Upson
HAAAAA HA HA HA HAAA! LEFT BACK IN THE DRESSING ROOM! OH SHIT, I AM SUCH A JOKER! BAAAA HA HA HA HAAAAA!
Jamie Carragher
Remember those Harry Enfield characters from the 90s? The ones that went, “Ay, ay, calm down, calm down”? No? Me neither.
Ledley King
What many people don’t know about Ledley, when they complain about him always being injured, is that his legs are made of balsawood and candy floss.
Midfielders
Steven Gerrard
Thanks to the injuries of “Her name is” Rio Ferdinand, Steven Gerrard is now the captain of England. If England win the world cup, he’s going to celebrate by undergoing forehead normalising surgery with Ant from Ant and Dec, in which a portion of Ant’s forehead will be grafted onto his. Also, he has already prepared a speech if England win, which consists entirely of the words, ‘lads’, ‘erm’, ‘obviously’ and ‘pleased’.
Aaron Lennon
Wouldn’t it be great if he was related to John Lennon? That would be amazing.
Frank Lampard
Old Lamp, that’s what they call him at Stanford Park where “Chelsea Rovers” play. Old Lamp is the Vice-Captain of England, which means whenever Gerrard goes to the toilet or something like that, he lords it around the camp like he’s Mr Important or something like that, and even slapped Joe Hart across the face because he refused to call him Captain Lamp. What I’m trying to say is, Old Lamp is like Dick Cheney.
Joe Cole
Joey Cole, Joey Cole, Joey Joey Cole, when he gets the ball he scores the goal, Joey Joey Cole!
Gareth Barry
He looks a bit like Dick van Dyke doesn’t he? What, you don’t think so, either? I’ve never found anyone who agrees with me on that one.
James Milner
I don’t understand who he is. He’s not really famous like “David Beckhamands” or anyone like that, he’s just some guy. In fact, if I were to see him in the street, I wouldn’t be that bothered. I mean, I’d ask for an autograph, but in a really half-arsed way. Like, facing away from him or something like that.
Shaun Wright-Phillips
SWP is what they call him, but don’t confuse him with the lady from Sex with the City, Sarah Wessica Parker, because he doesn’t like that. He’s the first player with a double-barrelled name to represent England since Steve McManaman-Amanaman in 2000. The Wright part is taken from his father, Matthew and the Phillips is from his mother, a kettle.
Michael Carrick
As well as being a midfielder, Carrick is also an avid collector of fridge magnets letters. When asked how he felt being part of Capelli’s squad, he said, “REALLY GR38T!”
Strikers
Peter Crouch
He’s very tall, which means it’s very funny that his name is “Crouch”, because that is what he would have to do to get through your average doorway. No-one has ever measured him successfully, because whenever they try, he just goes, “Crouch no like!” and flails his limbs around, wounding anyone within a three hundred yard “radius”. If you’re wondering why someone doesn’t just measure him while he’s asleep, well then, why don’t you do it? Smart arse.
Jermain Defoe
Striker, lover, brother of Hollywood actor Willem; Jermain Defoe is a complex character. Why is it that he scores freely for his club, Tottenham Hopspurn, but rarely finds the net in an England shirt? Is it because the England shirt is too heavy? Someone look into that for me. I’d do it, but I have a pie in the oven.
Emile Heskey
Did you know there’s a drinking game, where the players must drink every time Mr Heskey falls over? I played it once. Yes, I was alone, and yes I wasn’t watching him on the football field, but rather watching him walk through a town centre, and yes, the only way I could get even slightly tipsy was to keep tripping him, but so what? I’m a free spirit. A free, don’t-give-a-damn Heskey tripping spirit.
Wayne Rooney
The dilemma about Rooney is whether to play him as a lone striker, where he would be reliant on good service from the flanks, and an attacking central midfielder playing a supporting role, or whether to play him with another striker, who may act as a foil, allowing him to play deeper and win possession. Oh sorry, “LOL SHRECK!”
Anyway, as a “pundit” of football, I have put together a critique of Flavio Capelli’s England squadron. Incidentally, I just went to the greengrocers and bought a “pundit” of strawberries and they were delicious.
Goalkeepers
David James
The thing about “Jamesey” is that he’s really old. I mean like, eighty years old. And you have to ask yourself, should an eighty year old man really be playing football, or sport such a flamboyant hairstyle? How about a career in gardening, granddad?
Robert Green
Robert Green plays for West Ham. You know, when I was younger I thought that “Ham” must be short for something, like “Hambury” or “Hambone.” But you know what? It isn’t.
Joe Hart
Joe Hart is probably my sixth favourite member of the Hart Foundation, behind Bret, Owen, Davy Boy Smith, Jim “the Anvil” and Hart FM.
Defenders
Glen Johnson
Glen Johnson was signed by Liverpool for £17 million last year. 17 million. It would take me about 900 years to save up that amount of money, and by that time he’d have probably retired anyway.
Ashley Cole
Ashley Cole, Ashley Cole, Ashley Ashley Cole. When he gets the ball he scores a goal, Ashley Ashley Cole!
Michael Dawson
I never watched Dawson’s Creek, and yet I don’t like it because it was a precursor to terrible television shows like the OC and One Tree Hill. Avoid him unless it’s an emergency.
John Terry
He reckons he’s twenty-nine, right? So then why does he have the face of a fifty year old? And how did he manage to have an affair with a sexy underwear model? Answer: He has a GSOH.
Stephen Warnock
Stephen Warnock is a left back. Let’s hope he doesn’t get “left back” in the dressing room! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. AAAAAAAH HAHAHHAHAAAA HAHA HA…
Matthew Upson
HAAAAA HA HA HA HAAA! LEFT BACK IN THE DRESSING ROOM! OH SHIT, I AM SUCH A JOKER! BAAAA HA HA HA HAAAAA!
Jamie Carragher
Remember those Harry Enfield characters from the 90s? The ones that went, “Ay, ay, calm down, calm down”? No? Me neither.
Ledley King
What many people don’t know about Ledley, when they complain about him always being injured, is that his legs are made of balsawood and candy floss.
Midfielders
Steven Gerrard
Thanks to the injuries of “Her name is” Rio Ferdinand, Steven Gerrard is now the captain of England. If England win the world cup, he’s going to celebrate by undergoing forehead normalising surgery with Ant from Ant and Dec, in which a portion of Ant’s forehead will be grafted onto his. Also, he has already prepared a speech if England win, which consists entirely of the words, ‘lads’, ‘erm’, ‘obviously’ and ‘pleased’.
Aaron Lennon
Wouldn’t it be great if he was related to John Lennon? That would be amazing.
Frank Lampard
Old Lamp, that’s what they call him at Stanford Park where “Chelsea Rovers” play. Old Lamp is the Vice-Captain of England, which means whenever Gerrard goes to the toilet or something like that, he lords it around the camp like he’s Mr Important or something like that, and even slapped Joe Hart across the face because he refused to call him Captain Lamp. What I’m trying to say is, Old Lamp is like Dick Cheney.
Joe Cole
Joey Cole, Joey Cole, Joey Joey Cole, when he gets the ball he scores the goal, Joey Joey Cole!
Gareth Barry
He looks a bit like Dick van Dyke doesn’t he? What, you don’t think so, either? I’ve never found anyone who agrees with me on that one.
James Milner
I don’t understand who he is. He’s not really famous like “David Beckhamands” or anyone like that, he’s just some guy. In fact, if I were to see him in the street, I wouldn’t be that bothered. I mean, I’d ask for an autograph, but in a really half-arsed way. Like, facing away from him or something like that.
Shaun Wright-Phillips
SWP is what they call him, but don’t confuse him with the lady from Sex with the City, Sarah Wessica Parker, because he doesn’t like that. He’s the first player with a double-barrelled name to represent England since Steve McManaman-Amanaman in 2000. The Wright part is taken from his father, Matthew and the Phillips is from his mother, a kettle.
Michael Carrick
As well as being a midfielder, Carrick is also an avid collector of fridge magnets letters. When asked how he felt being part of Capelli’s squad, he said, “REALLY GR38T!”
Strikers
Peter Crouch
He’s very tall, which means it’s very funny that his name is “Crouch”, because that is what he would have to do to get through your average doorway. No-one has ever measured him successfully, because whenever they try, he just goes, “Crouch no like!” and flails his limbs around, wounding anyone within a three hundred yard “radius”. If you’re wondering why someone doesn’t just measure him while he’s asleep, well then, why don’t you do it? Smart arse.
Jermain Defoe
Striker, lover, brother of Hollywood actor Willem; Jermain Defoe is a complex character. Why is it that he scores freely for his club, Tottenham Hopspurn, but rarely finds the net in an England shirt? Is it because the England shirt is too heavy? Someone look into that for me. I’d do it, but I have a pie in the oven.
Emile Heskey
Did you know there’s a drinking game, where the players must drink every time Mr Heskey falls over? I played it once. Yes, I was alone, and yes I wasn’t watching him on the football field, but rather watching him walk through a town centre, and yes, the only way I could get even slightly tipsy was to keep tripping him, but so what? I’m a free spirit. A free, don’t-give-a-damn Heskey tripping spirit.
Wayne Rooney
The dilemma about Rooney is whether to play him as a lone striker, where he would be reliant on good service from the flanks, and an attacking central midfielder playing a supporting role, or whether to play him with another striker, who may act as a foil, allowing him to play deeper and win possession. Oh sorry, “LOL SHRECK!”
Thursday, 27 May 2010
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Survival Tips
The best thing to do when confronted by a chainsaw-wielding maniac is to not look like a tree.
If you're being attacked by a bear, always crap your pants because it may put him off. But at least if it doesn't, ha ha, he ate your crap.
Baby tigers might look like a fun pet, but remember, they grow up, and let's face it, imagine how much it'd cost to have that thing neutered.
When falling off a cliff, try to aim away from the jagged rocks. If you do end up landing on them, try moving a little to the left when you next fall off.
If you're being attacked by a bear, always crap your pants because it may put him off. But at least if it doesn't, ha ha, he ate your crap.
Baby tigers might look like a fun pet, but remember, they grow up, and let's face it, imagine how much it'd cost to have that thing neutered.
When falling off a cliff, try to aim away from the jagged rocks. If you do end up landing on them, try moving a little to the left when you next fall off.
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