You know those people who have out-of-body experiences and that, and they always bang on about some proper long tunnel with a light at the end of it? Sounds shit to me.
If I was God I'd make the entrance to heaven some ridiculously mental roller coaster ride that does about 50 flips and goes at 100mph. Also, seeing as all roller coasters seem to need to have some kind of theme these days, the theme would be a brothel. So you'd be pelting it along in a carriage with a bra and fishnets on and wizzing through all these sordid red-lit rooms with prostitutes being all like "What the fuck??"
It'd be a right laugh wouldn't it?
So yeah, once these out-of-body experience people are past their boring dark tunnel they reckon they get to some big white place with angels and shit. This also sounds boring. At the end of my roller coaster you'd land in a fuck-off pool of jelly which is every single nice flavour ever at the same time. Then St. Peter would be all like:
"Sup homie, you be one deeeeaddd motherfucker, you feel me? Slide me some skin, my man."
Which you'd do.
"Now here's the deal you funky sucker, you're gonna be hanging low in heaven for the rest of eternity so what do you wanna do?"
"Well I tell you what I don't want to do, loiter around in a white room."
"I hear dat! Do you wanna have a game of air hockey?"
"Fuck yes."
So you have the most intense game of air hockey that you've ever had, and it's neck-and-neck until the last minute, when you score an absolute corker which bounces off of the sides like 10 times before going in.
"You jive-turkey, that's the illest shot I've ever seen, my man. Anyways son I gotta go usher some mo' peeps into eternity, you feel?"
So he'd saunter off and you'd think of something else to do which is fucking banging, like go to a chinese buffet.
After reading this, I hope people who've had out-of-body experiences are embarrassed about their interpretations of ever-lasting ecstacy.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Heat Magazine
Ever wondered what the personification of Heat magazine would be like? A twat. Just an absolute shitting fuck. It'd be like somebody turning up with some brand new bag and making a big song and dance about it, making sure it's in plain view at all times, shifting it towards you and making eyes, until you eventually ask: "What are you doing?"
"New bag. You should get one. Everybody should."
"Why?"
"Because it's fashionable. So you should get it."
"Who decided it was fashionable?"
"Fashion guys. Look at it, it's great. Incidentally, have you heard about Jordan's kids?"
"Who?"
"Jordan, you know, Katie Price."
"Well I know who she is, but I don't know her. Why would I want to know about her kids?"
"Okay well in that case, guess who was looking slightly rough the other day? Victoria Beckham. She didn't have make up on and she was wearing trackies and shit. I took a photo and drew a ring around it, look," it'd say, producing a fuzzy photograph which must surely be an intrusion on basic human rights.
"Why are you showing me this?"
See, Heat Magazine would be a fucking irritating and boring person to have around, so why do people read the magazine? Also, if you started eating ice cream they'd say:
"Urm....you sure? The skinny rock-chick look is in at the moment."
Then you'd put it away and they'd go:
"Oh wait....wait.....no, sorry. Curvy, curvy's in. Eat away. Beyonce's curvy, are you trying to tell me she's ugly? You should try and be exactly like her. Go on."
Girls, don't read Heat magazine, do whatever the fuck you want.
"Oh yeah and you'll be glad to know I've taken note of what dress loads of actresses were wearing on the red carpet at some premiere and said whether I thought they were any good or not, do you want to look?"
"Actually Heat, I've gotta shoot off...."
"You sure?"
"Yeaaahhh best be off."
"Hang on hang on, what about this article about some stupid chav cunt who's had about fifty kids?"
"Naaahhh got things to do, Heat."
And then Heat would sit there, alone, and cry. And cry.
"New bag. You should get one. Everybody should."
"Why?"
"Because it's fashionable. So you should get it."
"Who decided it was fashionable?"
"Fashion guys. Look at it, it's great. Incidentally, have you heard about Jordan's kids?"
"Who?"
"Jordan, you know, Katie Price."
"Well I know who she is, but I don't know her. Why would I want to know about her kids?"
"Okay well in that case, guess who was looking slightly rough the other day? Victoria Beckham. She didn't have make up on and she was wearing trackies and shit. I took a photo and drew a ring around it, look," it'd say, producing a fuzzy photograph which must surely be an intrusion on basic human rights.
"Why are you showing me this?"
See, Heat Magazine would be a fucking irritating and boring person to have around, so why do people read the magazine? Also, if you started eating ice cream they'd say:
"Urm....you sure? The skinny rock-chick look is in at the moment."
Then you'd put it away and they'd go:
"Oh wait....wait.....no, sorry. Curvy, curvy's in. Eat away. Beyonce's curvy, are you trying to tell me she's ugly? You should try and be exactly like her. Go on."
Girls, don't read Heat magazine, do whatever the fuck you want.
"Oh yeah and you'll be glad to know I've taken note of what dress loads of actresses were wearing on the red carpet at some premiere and said whether I thought they were any good or not, do you want to look?"
"Actually Heat, I've gotta shoot off...."
"You sure?"
"Yeaaahhh best be off."
"Hang on hang on, what about this article about some stupid chav cunt who's had about fifty kids?"
"Naaahhh got things to do, Heat."
And then Heat would sit there, alone, and cry. And cry.
A Spooky Post-Halloween Ghost Story
It was a cold, misty night in the graveyard, and the general atmosphere was one of spookiness. The moon was full as fuck, and there was fuckloads of spooky owls everywhere hooting as well. Basically, if you were unfortunate enough to be out and about in the graveyard on this particularly spooky night, you'd be shitting it.
BUT! One solitary soul was indeed out and about in that graveyard that very night......none other than the one and only Martin Kemp, who used to be in Spandau Ballet and then he was in the film biopic of The Krays and then he was Steve in Eastenders and then he was in a DFS advert and now he's in Spandau Ballet again. Clearly a busy man, then, but nonetheless he'd found the time in his life to go for a leisurely stroll through his local graveyard. Only when he reached the graveyard and saw how fucking SPOOKY it was did he regret his decision. He pulled his coat collar up and hurried along so as to get this walk over with as soon as possible, or ASAP if you've got less time.
"Christ. Fucking spooky in here." he says to himself, and he used to be in Spandau Ballet and everything. He wasn't the singer though, he was the bass player. Just saying. That doesn't actually affect the narrative in any shape or form but I feel as if it was worth knowing.
Now unfortunately for him, the graveyard's atmosphere didn't improve to the levels of 'slightly creepy' or 'a bit weird', it in fact only worsened and stooped down to the levels of 'shit-scary' or even 'fucking freaky-as'. This occurred when a few bats decided to fly out of the mother-fucking belfry of the church.
"Fuck that." Martin says. Bats always did shit him up a bit, but combined with mist and owls it was all too much. He quickened his pace to a run, he knew something bad was about to go down, BUT HE WAS TOO BLOODY LATE!
That's right, a bloody ghost shows up and scares the fucking shit out of him.
The moral of this story is this, if you're Martin Kemp I'd advise you not to carry out your routine walk of a graveyard if you haven't first properly inspected the site to make sure whether or not it's likely to end up in you getting scared shitless, because it'll cause a problem for your bandmates when it comes to their reformation tour.
Ring-ring goes his phone the next day.
"Alright Martin! Or should I say Reggie Kray, or Steve from Eastenders! HAHAAHAAAAA!! It's Tony Hadley here, singer from your band, Spandau Ballet. So, you ready for our sell-out tour?"
"You've gotta be joking mate, I was out walking in a graveyard last night..."
"Why?"
"I fancied a walk that's all."
".....Right. Not the sort of behaviour I'd expect from a DFS salesman, but okay."
"So yeah, I was walking through the graveyard but it turned out to be a big mistake because it was really bloody scary in there and a ghost jumped out and stuff."
"You're joking."
"Nah, dead serious. A real fucking ghost."
"Who was it of?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well who's ghost was it? It had to have been somebody's."
"Oh. Well I don't know. He had a sheet on, like."
"But you're assuming it was a 'he'? That's a bit sexist, mate."
"Oh no no I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it then?"
"Well I don't know it just came out like that, I didn't think."
"Well just consider that next time, alright? So you didn't find out who's ghost it was then?"
"Well, no. As I said it had a sheet on. Besides it probably wouldn't have been a famous guy or anything it's just a normal graveyard...."
"Martin, you just did it again mate. Who said it was a 'guy'? Are you saying a woman isn't capable of being a ghost?"
"Look, shut up. Point is, I can't do the tour, I'm still too shook-up from the ghost incident, REGARDLESS OF GENDER."
"Oh alright mate. No worries, we'll just get Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers on bass instead."
"Yeah cool fair play."
"Laters."
Yeah, pretty spooky story, eh?
BUT! One solitary soul was indeed out and about in that graveyard that very night......none other than the one and only Martin Kemp, who used to be in Spandau Ballet and then he was in the film biopic of The Krays and then he was Steve in Eastenders and then he was in a DFS advert and now he's in Spandau Ballet again. Clearly a busy man, then, but nonetheless he'd found the time in his life to go for a leisurely stroll through his local graveyard. Only when he reached the graveyard and saw how fucking SPOOKY it was did he regret his decision. He pulled his coat collar up and hurried along so as to get this walk over with as soon as possible, or ASAP if you've got less time.
"Christ. Fucking spooky in here." he says to himself, and he used to be in Spandau Ballet and everything. He wasn't the singer though, he was the bass player. Just saying. That doesn't actually affect the narrative in any shape or form but I feel as if it was worth knowing.
Now unfortunately for him, the graveyard's atmosphere didn't improve to the levels of 'slightly creepy' or 'a bit weird', it in fact only worsened and stooped down to the levels of 'shit-scary' or even 'fucking freaky-as'. This occurred when a few bats decided to fly out of the mother-fucking belfry of the church.
"Fuck that." Martin says. Bats always did shit him up a bit, but combined with mist and owls it was all too much. He quickened his pace to a run, he knew something bad was about to go down, BUT HE WAS TOO BLOODY LATE!
That's right, a bloody ghost shows up and scares the fucking shit out of him.
The moral of this story is this, if you're Martin Kemp I'd advise you not to carry out your routine walk of a graveyard if you haven't first properly inspected the site to make sure whether or not it's likely to end up in you getting scared shitless, because it'll cause a problem for your bandmates when it comes to their reformation tour.
Ring-ring goes his phone the next day.
"Alright Martin! Or should I say Reggie Kray, or Steve from Eastenders! HAHAAHAAAAA!! It's Tony Hadley here, singer from your band, Spandau Ballet. So, you ready for our sell-out tour?"
"You've gotta be joking mate, I was out walking in a graveyard last night..."
"Why?"
"I fancied a walk that's all."
".....Right. Not the sort of behaviour I'd expect from a DFS salesman, but okay."
"So yeah, I was walking through the graveyard but it turned out to be a big mistake because it was really bloody scary in there and a ghost jumped out and stuff."
"You're joking."
"Nah, dead serious. A real fucking ghost."
"Who was it of?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well who's ghost was it? It had to have been somebody's."
"Oh. Well I don't know. He had a sheet on, like."
"But you're assuming it was a 'he'? That's a bit sexist, mate."
"Oh no no I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it then?"
"Well I don't know it just came out like that, I didn't think."
"Well just consider that next time, alright? So you didn't find out who's ghost it was then?"
"Well, no. As I said it had a sheet on. Besides it probably wouldn't have been a famous guy or anything it's just a normal graveyard...."
"Martin, you just did it again mate. Who said it was a 'guy'? Are you saying a woman isn't capable of being a ghost?"
"Look, shut up. Point is, I can't do the tour, I'm still too shook-up from the ghost incident, REGARDLESS OF GENDER."
"Oh alright mate. No worries, we'll just get Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers on bass instead."
"Yeah cool fair play."
"Laters."
Yeah, pretty spooky story, eh?
What Would Happen if Noel Edmunds Actually Did Have A 'House Party'
Nobody would come. He'd be sitting there drinking a WKD and his few good friends would turn up and they'd just sit around the iPod picking songs and changing them after about 30 seconds.
"Oh have you heard this one?" says Noel, and puts on Stairway To Heaven.
"Everyone's heard fucking Stairway to Heaven, Noel. Are you fucking stupid or something?"
"Well sorry I was just asking. How about this?" he says, and on comes Summer of 69 by Brian Adams.
"Oh for fuck's sake. Where are the girls, Noel? You said there'd be girls."
"They'll be here."
Bullshit Noel, bullshit. And yes I am smarter than a fucking 12 year old or whatever that shitty show is you do, so fuck off. I don't give a shit about year 7 geography, suck a fat one.
P.S, Peace and Love xx
"Oh have you heard this one?" says Noel, and puts on Stairway To Heaven.
"Everyone's heard fucking Stairway to Heaven, Noel. Are you fucking stupid or something?"
"Well sorry I was just asking. How about this?" he says, and on comes Summer of 69 by Brian Adams.
"Oh for fuck's sake. Where are the girls, Noel? You said there'd be girls."
"They'll be here."
Bullshit Noel, bullshit. And yes I am smarter than a fucking 12 year old or whatever that shitty show is you do, so fuck off. I don't give a shit about year 7 geography, suck a fat one.
P.S, Peace and Love xx
The Mad Hatter's Quest For True Love
It's all well and good living in Wonderland, but eventually you're going to want to find somebody special to settle down with aren't you, really? Once you've gotten over the dizzying rush of everything just being ridiculously mental all the time and the talking Do-Do's lording it up, you'd realise that there literally isn't any girlfriend material in Wonderland at all. In actual fact, everyone's a fucking nutcase. It'd get irritating.
So the Mad Hatter would go to a club with the March Hare, be sort of standing around at the bar looking at the dance floor:
"She's a bit of alright." Mad Hatter would say, nudging the March Hare and pointing at the Queen of Hearts. The March Hare's in a committed relationship though (yeah he got one of the normal ones), and he's one of those guys who doesn't like to voice his opinion on any other girl because he thinks it's inappropriate, so he just says:
"Yeah, I suppose. Not really my type, I don't know really."
So anyway, the night proceeds, with the Mad Hatter getting a few more drinks in for Dutch courage, then eventually goes over and speaks to her.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!" she immediately cries.
"What?"
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!" she repeats, and then the Mad Hatter notices that she's got a fucking flamingo in her hand.
"What the fuck?" he says, and wanders back to the bar, bemused.
"She was a right weirdo." he says to the March Hare, but he's busy texting his girlfriend. This sort of thing re-occurs throughout the night. He tries it on with the Dutchess but he notices she's cradling a pig, etc. Everyone's a fucking headcase, there's no two ways around it.
So, that night the Mad Hatter leaves on his own, just like every other night. When he gets home he gets some tea on the go, puts his favourite record on ('Sound of Silence' by Simon and Garfunkel) and cries a tiny bit. The Dormouse overhears this and decides to try and cheer his mate up.
"What's wrong, Hatty?" he asks, and the Mad Hatter drains some tea and sniffs.
"Everyone in Wonderland's fucking weird. I've never even kissed a girl because when I do something ridiculously mental happens like I grow to 50 feet tall or something, and then the girl is actually a duck. It just.....it just gets me down, that's all."
The Dormouse gives him a reassuring pat on the back.
"Oh it ain't so bad. Think about those oysters that got tricked by the Walrus and eaten!"
"What the fuck has that got to do with anything?"
"Well, I'm just saying."
"They're oysters, oysters get eaten all the time! And since when do fucking walruses eat them anyway??!?! Or wear clothes??!! This is exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about. I just want a nice normal life with a wife and kids, we can't just have mad tea parties all the time. Eventually we're going to run out of tea...."
The Dormouse knows when he's not wanted, and leaves the Mad Hatter alone.
Lewis Carroll really should've considered these delicate emotional matters before he created such a surreal world. Somebody's gonna get hurt.
So the Mad Hatter would go to a club with the March Hare, be sort of standing around at the bar looking at the dance floor:
"She's a bit of alright." Mad Hatter would say, nudging the March Hare and pointing at the Queen of Hearts. The March Hare's in a committed relationship though (yeah he got one of the normal ones), and he's one of those guys who doesn't like to voice his opinion on any other girl because he thinks it's inappropriate, so he just says:
"Yeah, I suppose. Not really my type, I don't know really."
So anyway, the night proceeds, with the Mad Hatter getting a few more drinks in for Dutch courage, then eventually goes over and speaks to her.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!" she immediately cries.
"What?"
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!" she repeats, and then the Mad Hatter notices that she's got a fucking flamingo in her hand.
"What the fuck?" he says, and wanders back to the bar, bemused.
"She was a right weirdo." he says to the March Hare, but he's busy texting his girlfriend. This sort of thing re-occurs throughout the night. He tries it on with the Dutchess but he notices she's cradling a pig, etc. Everyone's a fucking headcase, there's no two ways around it.
So, that night the Mad Hatter leaves on his own, just like every other night. When he gets home he gets some tea on the go, puts his favourite record on ('Sound of Silence' by Simon and Garfunkel) and cries a tiny bit. The Dormouse overhears this and decides to try and cheer his mate up.
"What's wrong, Hatty?" he asks, and the Mad Hatter drains some tea and sniffs.
"Everyone in Wonderland's fucking weird. I've never even kissed a girl because when I do something ridiculously mental happens like I grow to 50 feet tall or something, and then the girl is actually a duck. It just.....it just gets me down, that's all."
The Dormouse gives him a reassuring pat on the back.
"Oh it ain't so bad. Think about those oysters that got tricked by the Walrus and eaten!"
"What the fuck has that got to do with anything?"
"Well, I'm just saying."
"They're oysters, oysters get eaten all the time! And since when do fucking walruses eat them anyway??!?! Or wear clothes??!! This is exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about. I just want a nice normal life with a wife and kids, we can't just have mad tea parties all the time. Eventually we're going to run out of tea...."
The Dormouse knows when he's not wanted, and leaves the Mad Hatter alone.
Lewis Carroll really should've considered these delicate emotional matters before he created such a surreal world. Somebody's gonna get hurt.
St. Peter Thinks Your Death Was Shit
Wouldn't you be absolutely gutted if you only got into heaven if you died a proper good death, and you died by choking on a cake or something? St. Peter is a harsh mo-fo, to be sure.
"And what did you die of, son? Was it in a fight with a nuclear bomb? Or were you eaten by a shark and an alligator at the same time?"
"Urm..... something like that...."
"Well what was it then?"
"Well it's sort of hard to explain...."
"How so?"
So you say under your breath: "...............I choked on a cake."
"What? I can't hear you, speak up! I'm fucking St. Peter for fuck's sake, don't be mumbling in front of me, I've had enough shit from dead people in my eternal lifetime to have to put up with this."
"I said I choked on a cake, alright!!"
(Gasps all round)
"Well fuck me, that is the worst fucking death I've ever heard of, and I once had a guy who got fucked up by a teapot. I'm afraid you're simply not eligible for a place in heaven, you're going to have to loiter around over there for the rest of eternity," he says, and points to a rather gloomy area which seems to be populated by lots of people with teapots embedded in their heads.
"Oh for fuck's sake."
You're literally gutted, but rules are rules. Just out of curiosity you hang around for a bit to see what the next guy's death was.
"Cause of death?" asks St. Peter, who you have just decided has a fucking big nose anyway so the joke's on him, and at the end of the day his job is shit. He doesn't even get to go into heaven, he has to stand at the fucking gate, FOREVER. That'd be like being a bouncer for the most amazing nightclub of all time with a never-ending queue of dead people, or something.
"It was mental. I was pegging it along some clifftop, coz I'm a fucking nutcase like that, just jogging along ridiculously fast, when SUDDENLY a motherfucking bald-headed eagle swoops down and batters me right in the ankle, and I was all like 'Say whaaaat?' but it was too late, my ankle was fucked, right, and I fell off the cliff but I as I was falling down a cock-sucking Nazi sniper who had been hiding in the face of the cliff since the war fucking shot me in the shoulder! By now I was all like 'Shit me!' but there wasn't much I could do about it, so I was falling down this huge cliff with a battered ankle and a fucked-up shoulder, when SUDDENLY I landed absolutely safely on a branch that was sprouting out of the side of the cliff, so I was all like 'Phew! Thank God for that!' but it wasn't over yet! I then had a brain haemorrhage and a heart attack at the same time, and a skinhead bottled me in the face."
There is a poignant silence, and then finally St. Peter initiates a slow clap.
"Banging. Absolutely banging. That's the sort of shit I want to hear," he says, and markedly looks at you, "For that you even get to shake Jesus' hand when you go in."
"Oh that's good."
"Yeah innit."
So you watch this jammy cunt go in and shake Jesus' hand, looking proper fucking smug. By the way, Jesus actually has a huge ginger afro. Not many people know that.
"Fuck it. Jesus is a twat anyway," you mutter as you retreat to your gloomy corner.
"What was that shit?" St. Peter asks.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yeah that's right nothing."
So yeah the weather's pretty shit today isn't it?
"And what did you die of, son? Was it in a fight with a nuclear bomb? Or were you eaten by a shark and an alligator at the same time?"
"Urm..... something like that...."
"Well what was it then?"
"Well it's sort of hard to explain...."
"How so?"
So you say under your breath: "...............I choked on a cake."
"What? I can't hear you, speak up! I'm fucking St. Peter for fuck's sake, don't be mumbling in front of me, I've had enough shit from dead people in my eternal lifetime to have to put up with this."
"I said I choked on a cake, alright!!"
(Gasps all round)
"Well fuck me, that is the worst fucking death I've ever heard of, and I once had a guy who got fucked up by a teapot. I'm afraid you're simply not eligible for a place in heaven, you're going to have to loiter around over there for the rest of eternity," he says, and points to a rather gloomy area which seems to be populated by lots of people with teapots embedded in their heads.
"Oh for fuck's sake."
You're literally gutted, but rules are rules. Just out of curiosity you hang around for a bit to see what the next guy's death was.
"Cause of death?" asks St. Peter, who you have just decided has a fucking big nose anyway so the joke's on him, and at the end of the day his job is shit. He doesn't even get to go into heaven, he has to stand at the fucking gate, FOREVER. That'd be like being a bouncer for the most amazing nightclub of all time with a never-ending queue of dead people, or something.
"It was mental. I was pegging it along some clifftop, coz I'm a fucking nutcase like that, just jogging along ridiculously fast, when SUDDENLY a motherfucking bald-headed eagle swoops down and batters me right in the ankle, and I was all like 'Say whaaaat?' but it was too late, my ankle was fucked, right, and I fell off the cliff but I as I was falling down a cock-sucking Nazi sniper who had been hiding in the face of the cliff since the war fucking shot me in the shoulder! By now I was all like 'Shit me!' but there wasn't much I could do about it, so I was falling down this huge cliff with a battered ankle and a fucked-up shoulder, when SUDDENLY I landed absolutely safely on a branch that was sprouting out of the side of the cliff, so I was all like 'Phew! Thank God for that!' but it wasn't over yet! I then had a brain haemorrhage and a heart attack at the same time, and a skinhead bottled me in the face."
There is a poignant silence, and then finally St. Peter initiates a slow clap.
"Banging. Absolutely banging. That's the sort of shit I want to hear," he says, and markedly looks at you, "For that you even get to shake Jesus' hand when you go in."
"Oh that's good."
"Yeah innit."
So you watch this jammy cunt go in and shake Jesus' hand, looking proper fucking smug. By the way, Jesus actually has a huge ginger afro. Not many people know that.
"Fuck it. Jesus is a twat anyway," you mutter as you retreat to your gloomy corner.
"What was that shit?" St. Peter asks.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yeah that's right nothing."
So yeah the weather's pretty shit today isn't it?
"This Country's Going To The Dogs," says an idiot
It's all well and good using metaphorical phrases to describe the current state of affairs in this country, but do people ever consider what would happen if our country actually DID go to some dogs? It'd be far worse than this credit crunch shit or whatever Gordon Brown does wrong (yeah everyone on panel shows like 'Mock the Week' bang on about Gordon Brown being shit, but do they ever ever ever explain what it is that he did? No, they just bang on about him being shit. Didn't they ever learn how to construct a logical and informed argument? I'm sure he's not perfect and didn't get into power by a fair election, but come on guys, easy target alert (I'm talking to you, Bald-Man-With-Funny-Voice). So yeah, this is what would happen if the country actually did go to 'the dogs'.........
"And the results of the general election are in.....the elected Prime Minister of England is now....'The Dogs'."
(A hubub of confusion. People urge the votes to be checked again.)
".......No I'm afraid that's definitely it. This country has gone to The Dogs."
So up would walk 'The Dogs' (who happen to be 3 massive dogs who have no political understanding whatsoever) to give a speech. It's an absolute shambles.
"Urm...okay....first of all, I think there should be.....less taxes?" says one, trying to win the crowd over.
"How do you intend on making this possible?" asks a reporter. Another dog steps in to help his buddy out.
"Well....just make them lower, you know..."
"What would this mean for our country's capital? The healthcare? Schools? Police?"
"Oh. Oh yeah. Well, make them better as well."
An awkward silence ensues.
The Dogs sense that this speech isn't going well and retreat to 10 Downing Street to regroup.
"What the fucking fuck are we going to do?" asks one dog.
"I don't know, people on panel shows are always banging on about taxes and shit so I thought it'd be good to make them lower?"
"Well it would make sense wouldn't it?"
"In all honesty I didn't think we'd get elected anyway. I haven't the slightest fucking clue what's going on, I'm a dog."
The country doesn't take long to descend into absolute chaos. No taxes are being paid so policemen and doctors are out of work, crime and sickness is on the up, there is no trade whatsoever between countries because the dogs have no concept of ownership.
The first meeting between Barack Obama and The Dogs is comical at best. They can't even shake his hand and pose for the photos, because they're fucking dogs. Instead they just sort of stand around him. Everyone in America's all like: "Why the fuck did Barack Obama go all the way to England just to hang out with some dogs?" and people are all like: "They're the Prime Minister of England," and they're all: "Say whaaaat??"
Eventually The Dogs would accept that they should stick to doing what they do best, and they just bound around 10 Downing Street lolling their tongues about whilst being not as clever as cats.
Interestingly though, despite all the chaos and riots ensuing in the country, nobody ever complains that 'this country has gone to the dogs.' Bizarre isn't it? Because it literally has.
What's wrong with complaining about things literally? I suppose it'd make conversation a lot more clumsy because you'd have to summarise every thing about the country that isn't to your liking, by which time the bus ride would be over and the other person would be getting off to get on with their life. So I suppose in a way it's fair enough to use this phrase, but please spare a thought for the people in an alternate reality who actually live in this situation. Over and out.
"And the results of the general election are in.....the elected Prime Minister of England is now....'The Dogs'."
(A hubub of confusion. People urge the votes to be checked again.)
".......No I'm afraid that's definitely it. This country has gone to The Dogs."
So up would walk 'The Dogs' (who happen to be 3 massive dogs who have no political understanding whatsoever) to give a speech. It's an absolute shambles.
"Urm...okay....first of all, I think there should be.....less taxes?" says one, trying to win the crowd over.
"How do you intend on making this possible?" asks a reporter. Another dog steps in to help his buddy out.
"Well....just make them lower, you know..."
"What would this mean for our country's capital? The healthcare? Schools? Police?"
"Oh. Oh yeah. Well, make them better as well."
An awkward silence ensues.
The Dogs sense that this speech isn't going well and retreat to 10 Downing Street to regroup.
"What the fucking fuck are we going to do?" asks one dog.
"I don't know, people on panel shows are always banging on about taxes and shit so I thought it'd be good to make them lower?"
"Well it would make sense wouldn't it?"
"In all honesty I didn't think we'd get elected anyway. I haven't the slightest fucking clue what's going on, I'm a dog."
The country doesn't take long to descend into absolute chaos. No taxes are being paid so policemen and doctors are out of work, crime and sickness is on the up, there is no trade whatsoever between countries because the dogs have no concept of ownership.
The first meeting between Barack Obama and The Dogs is comical at best. They can't even shake his hand and pose for the photos, because they're fucking dogs. Instead they just sort of stand around him. Everyone in America's all like: "Why the fuck did Barack Obama go all the way to England just to hang out with some dogs?" and people are all like: "They're the Prime Minister of England," and they're all: "Say whaaaat??"
Eventually The Dogs would accept that they should stick to doing what they do best, and they just bound around 10 Downing Street lolling their tongues about whilst being not as clever as cats.
Interestingly though, despite all the chaos and riots ensuing in the country, nobody ever complains that 'this country has gone to the dogs.' Bizarre isn't it? Because it literally has.
What's wrong with complaining about things literally? I suppose it'd make conversation a lot more clumsy because you'd have to summarise every thing about the country that isn't to your liking, by which time the bus ride would be over and the other person would be getting off to get on with their life. So I suppose in a way it's fair enough to use this phrase, but please spare a thought for the people in an alternate reality who actually live in this situation. Over and out.
The Original Stitch-Up
Ever wondered where the phrase 'stitched up' comes from? Your query ends here. Gather round and I shall tell you a tale.....
Jimmy-Boy Jameson is walking through the high street of his local town on the way to his tailor. He had been measured for a suit not long ago and today is the day when he'll pick it up.
"Bugger me I can't wait to fuckin wear this suit." he says to himself in a fit of excitement. So, he steps into the tailor and rings the bell.
"Ah Jimmy-Boy, here's your suit." says the tailor.
"Is it alright if I put it on now? It's just I really wanna fuckin wear it, you know what I'm saying?"
"Yes that's fine."
"Banging."
So he gets the suit on. But, he realises that on the back in it says 'Jimmy-Boy Jameson is a God-damn prick.' in stitching.
"What the fucking fuck is going on?" he says to himself, and walks back to the counter to accost the tailor.
"Oy! What the fucking fuck is going on?" he says once again. At this point the tailor bursts out laughing, and so does everyone on the high-street.
"You got done! I think you're a prick so I wrote it on your suit in stitching! Waheeyyyy!!" he says. Jimmy-Boy is furious.
"So, I've been 'stitched up'."
"What?"
"I've been stitched up."
"But you were meant to 'get done'....."
"Yeah but surely it makes more sense to say that I've been stitched up....seeing as there's stitching involved?"
"..........I suppose you're right."
And so, history was unknowingly made that very day by the mischievous tailor. Ever since then, cockneys the world over have been leisurely and wantonly uttering this phrase at every opportunity. What a legend.
Interestingly, that tailor was also only 5 foot tall. What a fucking midget!
By the way, the phrase 'egg on face' comes from a similar event, also involving Jimmy-Boy Jameson. He was making an omelette and got egg all over his face, and consequently was very embarrassed. Since that incident, whenever he got embarrassed again people would remark: "This is like that time you got egg on your face."
And so on and so on. Unfortunately, however, due to these two incidents Jimmy-Boy plunged into a deep depression and consequently killed himself. Tough break, eh!
Jimmy-Boy Jameson is walking through the high street of his local town on the way to his tailor. He had been measured for a suit not long ago and today is the day when he'll pick it up.
"Bugger me I can't wait to fuckin wear this suit." he says to himself in a fit of excitement. So, he steps into the tailor and rings the bell.
"Ah Jimmy-Boy, here's your suit." says the tailor.
"Is it alright if I put it on now? It's just I really wanna fuckin wear it, you know what I'm saying?"
"Yes that's fine."
"Banging."
So he gets the suit on. But, he realises that on the back in it says 'Jimmy-Boy Jameson is a God-damn prick.' in stitching.
"What the fucking fuck is going on?" he says to himself, and walks back to the counter to accost the tailor.
"Oy! What the fucking fuck is going on?" he says once again. At this point the tailor bursts out laughing, and so does everyone on the high-street.
"You got done! I think you're a prick so I wrote it on your suit in stitching! Waheeyyyy!!" he says. Jimmy-Boy is furious.
"So, I've been 'stitched up'."
"What?"
"I've been stitched up."
"But you were meant to 'get done'....."
"Yeah but surely it makes more sense to say that I've been stitched up....seeing as there's stitching involved?"
"..........I suppose you're right."
And so, history was unknowingly made that very day by the mischievous tailor. Ever since then, cockneys the world over have been leisurely and wantonly uttering this phrase at every opportunity. What a legend.
Interestingly, that tailor was also only 5 foot tall. What a fucking midget!
By the way, the phrase 'egg on face' comes from a similar event, also involving Jimmy-Boy Jameson. He was making an omelette and got egg all over his face, and consequently was very embarrassed. Since that incident, whenever he got embarrassed again people would remark: "This is like that time you got egg on your face."
And so on and so on. Unfortunately, however, due to these two incidents Jimmy-Boy plunged into a deep depression and consequently killed himself. Tough break, eh!
Ghosts
Does anyone else think that more of an effort should be made by the government to discipline and just generally keep an eye on ghosts? I mean, who else do we just give the lee-way to to hang around in old houses and just terrify whoever comes inside? If anybody else did this the council would certainly get involved and make an attempt to put a stop to it. It's squatting, for one thing.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ghost? This is the Harrow Council, we've had some complaints about you terrifying people. If you don't own this building you have no right to do that."
"Boooooo!"
"Excuse me?"
This would be the point when the social worker would summon the two massive strong men to their aid and the ghost would be escorted from the premises.
"What are you doing? I used to live here when I was alive!"
"Mr. Ghost such an intangible argument simply won't hold sway in the court of law. We're placing you under arrest for disturbing the peace."
Turns out the ghost had a proper hard life as well so he's generally a hard-done-by sort. He used to get tripped over by bullies at school all the bloody time.
"This is an outrage!" he'd bellow with his ghostly lungs, but the two council brutes wouldn't listen and throw him in the fucking slammer for the rest of his after-life.
Wouldn't that be fucking shit? If it turned out there was an afterlife but you spent it all in fucking prison.
But yeah, that's what should happen to ghosts. It's only fair.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ghost? This is the Harrow Council, we've had some complaints about you terrifying people. If you don't own this building you have no right to do that."
"Boooooo!"
"Excuse me?"
This would be the point when the social worker would summon the two massive strong men to their aid and the ghost would be escorted from the premises.
"What are you doing? I used to live here when I was alive!"
"Mr. Ghost such an intangible argument simply won't hold sway in the court of law. We're placing you under arrest for disturbing the peace."
Turns out the ghost had a proper hard life as well so he's generally a hard-done-by sort. He used to get tripped over by bullies at school all the bloody time.
"This is an outrage!" he'd bellow with his ghostly lungs, but the two council brutes wouldn't listen and throw him in the fucking slammer for the rest of his after-life.
Wouldn't that be fucking shit? If it turned out there was an afterlife but you spent it all in fucking prison.
But yeah, that's what should happen to ghosts. It's only fair.
Why The World Would Be Completely Different If Jesus Was Bald
Because nobody would've listened to his parables or teachings, they just would've rubbed his head and called him 'Uncle Slaphead', or 'Baldy Christ'. I'm serious.
"So basically the Samaritan helped this bloke even though he was his enemy..."
"Your hair follicles could do with a bit of help, mate!" a complete joker would interject. Now of course after this interruption he was damned for eternity, but he wasn't to know this yet and he spurred the rest of the crowd on.
"Better cover your head up mate, Jerusalem's pretty hot, you'll get sunstroke!"
"Baldy!" (this heckler had a somewhat less vivid imagination than the other two).
So yeah, he'd go off and wander the desert and resist temptation from the Devil, but he'd get caught on one final thing.....
"Okay Jesus, so you think you're a big shot coz you resisted loads of crazy shit I offered you, cat. But dig this. I'm willing to give you a full head of hair, my man. That's right. Think about how much warmer your head is gonna be in the winter, dog." (the Devil is a jazz musician by the way, hence his ridiculous manner of speaking.)
Now obviously Jesus takes this offer up immediately. There's only so much scalp-bashing a man can take before he caves in, even the son of the Lord.
"Hot-damn, Sam. I gone and tempted the son of God reeeeallll good, man. Slide me some skin, Beelzebub." says Satan to his right-hand man who was previously hiding in a bush.
"Yeah okay that's all well and good Satan, but you forgot to take into account that I've spent the majority of my life being bald, and as such I now have the mentality of an incredibly hard skinhead," Jesus quite rightly points out, and then nuts Satan right on the bridge of the nose.
"Hey man that ain't cool! You done gone and ruined my nose rrreaaaal bad, dog! Beelzebub, let's scram, dude." Satan says, and they sort of saunter off whilst scatting to themselves and clicking the fingers.
If only the Bible was actually like this they might shift a few more copies, even in these hard financial times.
"So basically the Samaritan helped this bloke even though he was his enemy..."
"Your hair follicles could do with a bit of help, mate!" a complete joker would interject. Now of course after this interruption he was damned for eternity, but he wasn't to know this yet and he spurred the rest of the crowd on.
"Better cover your head up mate, Jerusalem's pretty hot, you'll get sunstroke!"
"Baldy!" (this heckler had a somewhat less vivid imagination than the other two).
So yeah, he'd go off and wander the desert and resist temptation from the Devil, but he'd get caught on one final thing.....
"Okay Jesus, so you think you're a big shot coz you resisted loads of crazy shit I offered you, cat. But dig this. I'm willing to give you a full head of hair, my man. That's right. Think about how much warmer your head is gonna be in the winter, dog." (the Devil is a jazz musician by the way, hence his ridiculous manner of speaking.)
Now obviously Jesus takes this offer up immediately. There's only so much scalp-bashing a man can take before he caves in, even the son of the Lord.
"Hot-damn, Sam. I gone and tempted the son of God reeeeallll good, man. Slide me some skin, Beelzebub." says Satan to his right-hand man who was previously hiding in a bush.
"Yeah okay that's all well and good Satan, but you forgot to take into account that I've spent the majority of my life being bald, and as such I now have the mentality of an incredibly hard skinhead," Jesus quite rightly points out, and then nuts Satan right on the bridge of the nose.
"Hey man that ain't cool! You done gone and ruined my nose rrreaaaal bad, dog! Beelzebub, let's scram, dude." Satan says, and they sort of saunter off whilst scatting to themselves and clicking the fingers.
If only the Bible was actually like this they might shift a few more copies, even in these hard financial times.
The Mega-Apocalyptic Armageddon-Rapture
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A Modern Fairytale For The Cynical People We Have Become
Once Upon a Time, the exact time being 8:30 on a Thursday, the beautiful maiden Annabelle left her house to go to work. Now when I say beautiful maiden she wasn’t exactly fucking Marilyn Monroe, but considering she lived in a pretty normal suburban English town she was a bit of alright. I’d say most people would rate her as about an 8 out of 10. If you’re having trouble picturing that, it’s the sort of girl most people fancied in high school but she wasn’t one of the bitches. Otherwise I wouldn’t have described her as a maiden; I probably would’ve said ‘beautiful bitch’ or something. I’ll now take some time to apologise for the unrelenting chauvinism that has constituted this fairy-tale up until this point. However, I can’t promise it won’t happen again.
As Annabelle caught the magical (it isn’t really) 182 bus towards Harrow bus station, she noticed the streets looked quite empty today.
‘Strange,’ she thought.
Upon arriving at Harrow bus station, she is immediately taken aside by an old crone.
“Be warned young’un, there be many a villain up ahead! That’s why all the villagers are hidin’ today. There be a curse on this town….” she warns.
“What, in St. Anne’s shopping centre? And why are you talking like that, are you from Cornwall?” Annabelle asked. The old crone isn’t particularly happy about this, but being quite old she is probably suffering from senile dementia anyway so Annabelle was quite right to initially doubt her warnings without being presented with solid evidence.
“Young’un, if you’s don’t heed my advice, you could be imprisoned by the wicked queen!”
“Look I know a lot of people oppose the monarchy these days, what with them being a somewhat unnecessary drain on tax-payer’s money, but I hardly think you could go as far to say that Queen Elizabeth II is ‘wicked’. That’s just being harsh.”
Of course by now the old crone is so flummoxed by all of Annabelle’s shrewd post-modern observations that she gives away all the plot points which were to be gradually unveiled in a whimsical yet educational fashion.
“What the fuck are you talking about?! Listen, what’s meant to happen is you go ahead, get captured and held in a tower by the wicked queen, who is actually me by the way, and then you get rescued by a prince and live happily ever after! Why the fuck do you keep talking fucking shit? You fucking slut, for fuck’s sake.”
“Alright first of all don’t you dare call me that, and if you don’t leave me alone I’m going to call the police.”
“What??! No! Go ahead and I’ll take off my old crone disguise and capture you!”
So, as forewarned, Annabelle calls the police. The ‘wicked queen’ is arrested for antisocial behaviour, and on further investigation is found to be a paranoid-schizophrenic.
So yes, unfortunately in this day and age it is quite impossible for fairy tales to come true. Partially because we’re just too unwilling for something fantastical to occur I suppose.
Sad really, isn’t it?
Although in another sense it isn’t sad at all, because some fairy tales are pretty heavy and involve a lot of child abduction and shit. Mad.
As Annabelle caught the magical (it isn’t really) 182 bus towards Harrow bus station, she noticed the streets looked quite empty today.
‘Strange,’ she thought.
Upon arriving at Harrow bus station, she is immediately taken aside by an old crone.
“Be warned young’un, there be many a villain up ahead! That’s why all the villagers are hidin’ today. There be a curse on this town….” she warns.
“What, in St. Anne’s shopping centre? And why are you talking like that, are you from Cornwall?” Annabelle asked. The old crone isn’t particularly happy about this, but being quite old she is probably suffering from senile dementia anyway so Annabelle was quite right to initially doubt her warnings without being presented with solid evidence.
“Young’un, if you’s don’t heed my advice, you could be imprisoned by the wicked queen!”
“Look I know a lot of people oppose the monarchy these days, what with them being a somewhat unnecessary drain on tax-payer’s money, but I hardly think you could go as far to say that Queen Elizabeth II is ‘wicked’. That’s just being harsh.”
Of course by now the old crone is so flummoxed by all of Annabelle’s shrewd post-modern observations that she gives away all the plot points which were to be gradually unveiled in a whimsical yet educational fashion.
“What the fuck are you talking about?! Listen, what’s meant to happen is you go ahead, get captured and held in a tower by the wicked queen, who is actually me by the way, and then you get rescued by a prince and live happily ever after! Why the fuck do you keep talking fucking shit? You fucking slut, for fuck’s sake.”
“Alright first of all don’t you dare call me that, and if you don’t leave me alone I’m going to call the police.”
“What??! No! Go ahead and I’ll take off my old crone disguise and capture you!”
So, as forewarned, Annabelle calls the police. The ‘wicked queen’ is arrested for antisocial behaviour, and on further investigation is found to be a paranoid-schizophrenic.
So yes, unfortunately in this day and age it is quite impossible for fairy tales to come true. Partially because we’re just too unwilling for something fantastical to occur I suppose.
Sad really, isn’t it?
Although in another sense it isn’t sad at all, because some fairy tales are pretty heavy and involve a lot of child abduction and shit. Mad.
The Life and Times of, Ra-Ra-Rasputin, the world's first rapper
Yeah we all know the stories about Rasputin being a mad monk and having loads of mad sex orgies and shit, but an often overlooked aspect of his life was his strong passion for hip-hop, or 'hippety-hop' as he insisted on calling it for some reason.
"Oy Tsar Nicholas, have you ever heard Public Enemy's first album? Some fucking banging tunes on that."
"For fuck's sake Rasputin, I brought you into my palace as a healer and all you've done is bang on about fucking obscure samples and flows. When are you gonna knuckle down and heal my son of his hemophillia?"
"Oh. Oh yeah. Sorry mate."
Then he'd sort of dawdle off and start rapping to himself. So yes, in effect, he was the world's first rapper. It's such a fucking shame that nobody seems to know this.
His never-ceasing rapping did indeed piss many a powerful Russian off, hence his assassination.
Being stabbed, poisoned, clubbed, drowned and shot is a bit more impressive than being shot a few times isn't it Fiddy Cent?
OR SHOULD I SAY, DICKHEAD????!?!?
Instantaneous Real Love
Okay, so here's the deal. Humans are governed by their emotions, right? So why did people vote for Hitler?
Because they fancied him.
I have solid and conclusive evidence that Hitler regularly toured the pubs and clubs of Germany flirting riotously with the civilians and making it seem as if they really had a chance with him.
"Oh I know he's a player and he can have whoever he wants......but the things he says to me are different."
But of course, the civilians were deceived. He'd be sending the very same texts to each of them. Texts such as: "Had a great time tonight. Maybe we can meet up? ;) XXX"
The meeting would be scheduled, but at the last minute he'd cancel because something important had come up. And the cycle would continue! Only giving them enough attention to maintain their interest but never really giving them what they want. And so, they voted for him as a means of maybe getting him to really like them back, even though votes are fucking anonymous.
What a filthy cock tease.
So yes, when presented with this evidence (and a fictional Facebook note DOES count as evidence) it is arguable that Hitler's closest modern equivalent is Paris Hilton, seeing as she did that stupid fucking program where she pretends her obsessive fans can actually be her best friend. This being the case, should she not be arrested for the heinous crimes she committed? Unless you're a member of the BNP and deny the holocaust.
But anyway, I'm digressing. My main point is, don't you wish instead of all these bullshit emotions we have which are essentially shaped by the most mundane of utterances and actions and chance circumstances, there should be some sort of 'Instantaneous Real Love' (c) in which two people who would be happy together instantly really really love each other? Wouldn't it be nice, as sung by Brian Wilson. Then again, you shouldn't listen to him because he's a fucking nutcase.
Here is an example of my proposed emotional system taking place:
Person A enters coffee shop. Gets a coffee. Person B walks in. Eye contact is made. The two are compatible and would make each other really happy. Person A approaches.
'Would you like to be my girlfriend?'
'Of course, I've never even fucking well heard of 'treat them mean keep them keen'. Let's be happy together.'
See, it works doesn't it? So, God/Darwin, whatever you believe, the next time there's some sort of intelligent species being created/evolving, make sure they have this far superior emotional system installed. It makes things easier for everybody.
AND HITLER WOULDN'T HAVE EVER GOT INTO POWER!!!!!!!!
Because they fancied him.
I have solid and conclusive evidence that Hitler regularly toured the pubs and clubs of Germany flirting riotously with the civilians and making it seem as if they really had a chance with him.
"Oh I know he's a player and he can have whoever he wants......but the things he says to me are different."
But of course, the civilians were deceived. He'd be sending the very same texts to each of them. Texts such as: "Had a great time tonight. Maybe we can meet up? ;) XXX"
The meeting would be scheduled, but at the last minute he'd cancel because something important had come up. And the cycle would continue! Only giving them enough attention to maintain their interest but never really giving them what they want. And so, they voted for him as a means of maybe getting him to really like them back, even though votes are fucking anonymous.
What a filthy cock tease.
So yes, when presented with this evidence (and a fictional Facebook note DOES count as evidence) it is arguable that Hitler's closest modern equivalent is Paris Hilton, seeing as she did that stupid fucking program where she pretends her obsessive fans can actually be her best friend. This being the case, should she not be arrested for the heinous crimes she committed? Unless you're a member of the BNP and deny the holocaust.
But anyway, I'm digressing. My main point is, don't you wish instead of all these bullshit emotions we have which are essentially shaped by the most mundane of utterances and actions and chance circumstances, there should be some sort of 'Instantaneous Real Love' (c) in which two people who would be happy together instantly really really love each other? Wouldn't it be nice, as sung by Brian Wilson. Then again, you shouldn't listen to him because he's a fucking nutcase.
Here is an example of my proposed emotional system taking place:
Person A enters coffee shop. Gets a coffee. Person B walks in. Eye contact is made. The two are compatible and would make each other really happy. Person A approaches.
'Would you like to be my girlfriend?'
'Of course, I've never even fucking well heard of 'treat them mean keep them keen'. Let's be happy together.'
See, it works doesn't it? So, God/Darwin, whatever you believe, the next time there's some sort of intelligent species being created/evolving, make sure they have this far superior emotional system installed. It makes things easier for everybody.
AND HITLER WOULDN'T HAVE EVER GOT INTO POWER!!!!!!!!
There's a motherf***king vampire in the motherf**king club!!
WHAT WOULD YOU DO, THOUGH? You'd be bloody buggered. Literally.
"Can I get you a drink?" asks the vampire to some unsuspecting girl.
"Yeah alright." she replies. But unfortunately instead he opts to drain her blood entirely. Nobody would bloody know! They'd think he was being a bit over the top with the whole making out shebang and then the girl passed out or some fucking shit. So basically, vampires are barking up the wrong tree by hanging around in crypts and shit, aren't they? They ought to get themselves down to Oceana, they'd make a killing. Yet again, literally.
But I suppose the management would cotton onto it sooner or later and make some ridiculous announcement like: "We're afraid to say that the club will be shutting down early tonight due to a vampire in the facility. Please leave."
And then of course everybody would be looking around for said vampire and they'd lay all the blame on some poor pale bloke.
"It weren't me! I'm just ginger, and since when were there any ginger vampires?"
"This is the 21st century Count Ginge-ula, get with it."
Then he'd get battered whilst Dracula just sneaks out proper unsuspecting like. What a jammy cunt.
"Can I get you a drink?" asks the vampire to some unsuspecting girl.
"Yeah alright." she replies. But unfortunately instead he opts to drain her blood entirely. Nobody would bloody know! They'd think he was being a bit over the top with the whole making out shebang and then the girl passed out or some fucking shit. So basically, vampires are barking up the wrong tree by hanging around in crypts and shit, aren't they? They ought to get themselves down to Oceana, they'd make a killing. Yet again, literally.
But I suppose the management would cotton onto it sooner or later and make some ridiculous announcement like: "We're afraid to say that the club will be shutting down early tonight due to a vampire in the facility. Please leave."
And then of course everybody would be looking around for said vampire and they'd lay all the blame on some poor pale bloke.
"It weren't me! I'm just ginger, and since when were there any ginger vampires?"
"This is the 21st century Count Ginge-ula, get with it."
Then he'd get battered whilst Dracula just sneaks out proper unsuspecting like. What a jammy cunt.
Margaret Thatcher's Brief Stint As A Poet
The year is 1984. Big Brother isn't in charge, Margaret Thatcher is. This scene occurs in 10 Downing Street on a crisp summer evening.
"What you writing there Maggie, some sort of official Prime Minister related document or something?" asks one of Margaret's aides as he enters her private study.
"What? Oh....erm....yeah that's exactly it. Some new law....or something."
"Well that's quite complicated business Maggie, you can't just pass new laws willy-nilly," he says as he approaches her desk, which is directly in front of a wide window displaying a picturesque orange sunset over the London skyline.
".....Maggie why is this new law written in...stanzas?..........Is that iambic pentameter?"
"No! Fuck no. That's for wimps. It's an incredibly harsh but efficient new policy or law or whatever."
"I don't think it is. In fact, it seems to be riddled with whimsical rhyming couplets."
"Don't be such a fucking idiot you cunt. Shut up." Maggie says, and attempts to tuck the scented paper away in a drawer but her aide is too quick. He's taller than her so he holds it above her and begins to read.
"Oh, London! Cruel and beautiful master, with your marble-white buildings..."
"Give it back you sodding cunt!" she cries as she reaches for it.
"I am but a slave to your bustle, your unique hum...."
"It was a fucking joke anyway! London's a shit, I hate it. Can't you tell a joke when you fucking well see one? I just caused the miner's strike for Christ's sake, I hate poetry and all nice things. GIVE IT BACK."
You can probably guess that after this altogether traumatising event Margaret Thatcher never indulged in poetry again. 'Tis a shame though, because no mortal soul should be deprived of their need to express themselves. Except for possibly Victoria Beckham, who insists on every form of her expression being really quite awful. Silly old girl!
I feel as if I've only criticised women thus far so perhaps I should criticise a man.
My Chemical Romance singer..........twat? Yep.
"What you writing there Maggie, some sort of official Prime Minister related document or something?" asks one of Margaret's aides as he enters her private study.
"What? Oh....erm....yeah that's exactly it. Some new law....or something."
"Well that's quite complicated business Maggie, you can't just pass new laws willy-nilly," he says as he approaches her desk, which is directly in front of a wide window displaying a picturesque orange sunset over the London skyline.
".....Maggie why is this new law written in...stanzas?..........Is that iambic pentameter?"
"No! Fuck no. That's for wimps. It's an incredibly harsh but efficient new policy or law or whatever."
"I don't think it is. In fact, it seems to be riddled with whimsical rhyming couplets."
"Don't be such a fucking idiot you cunt. Shut up." Maggie says, and attempts to tuck the scented paper away in a drawer but her aide is too quick. He's taller than her so he holds it above her and begins to read.
"Oh, London! Cruel and beautiful master, with your marble-white buildings..."
"Give it back you sodding cunt!" she cries as she reaches for it.
"I am but a slave to your bustle, your unique hum...."
"It was a fucking joke anyway! London's a shit, I hate it. Can't you tell a joke when you fucking well see one? I just caused the miner's strike for Christ's sake, I hate poetry and all nice things. GIVE IT BACK."
You can probably guess that after this altogether traumatising event Margaret Thatcher never indulged in poetry again. 'Tis a shame though, because no mortal soul should be deprived of their need to express themselves. Except for possibly Victoria Beckham, who insists on every form of her expression being really quite awful. Silly old girl!
I feel as if I've only criticised women thus far so perhaps I should criticise a man.
My Chemical Romance singer..........twat? Yep.
Candle? In the wind? Why'd you want to put it in the wind for?
Alright Elton John, you plump little balladeer, I know you didn't write the bloody lyrics but that's no excuse for committing the social faux-pa of putting candles in the wind in the first place.
Poor Marilyn Monroe eh, getting fucking freezing cold in the wind holding a candle like that.
"Elton, could I come back in now please? It's fucking freezing and this candle is gonna go out."
"Marilyn you'll do whatever the bloody hell I tell you to do. And anyway, most people these days think this song is about Princess Diana coz I tweaked the bloody lyrics didn't I?"
"Oh right. Well that's fair enough I suppose."
However, Elton didn't count on the fact that Marilyn Monroe has been dead for ages, and in a puff of smoke she is gone and the candle hits the floor and sets fire to his garden BIG time. Thanks to the massive amount of wind, the fire soon encircles Elton's estate entirely.
"Oh for FUCK'S sake! As if I need this, I haven't had a hit in fucking ages." he rages, mashing 999 into his £1million mobile phone (probably).
"I reckon it's because you completely lost your voice," pipes in David Furnish, Elton's husband.
"Fucking shut it, Furnish. Go and FURNISH someone's house." Elton retorts, barely containing his laughter after such a deft play on words.
The fire service arrive and luckily douse the flames before any serious damage is done, and the begin inquiring as to what started the fire.
"Oh well I told Marilyn Monroe to hold my candle in the wind and because she's been dead for however many years she promptly disappeared, which caused havoc in my garden as you can imagine, what with it being so dry and windy out." Elton explains, leisurely digging his hands into the pockets of his £10billion luxury dressing gown (maybe). This explanation is of course met with a swift binding in a straight jacket and Elton is thrown into a mental asylum without so much as a by-your-leave.
"What rotten fucking luck!" Elton grumbles as he settles down in his cell and begins composing another useless album in his head.
"You're telling me, mate. You'll never guess what I got done for," a voice says, which turns out to be the voice of none other than Robert Downey Jr.
"Robert Downey Jr! You did voice-acting for the music video of my song 'I Want Love' didn't you, you old tosser?" Elton exclaims.
"I'm not English so I have no idea what a 'tosser' is, but I'm presuming it's some sort of compliment because I'm an ignorant American just like all the comedians say. And yeah I've got no sense of irony either so don't bother being ironic. But anyway yeah I did do the voice acting, but as I was saying, guess what I got thrown in here for?"
Elton has already composed 3 dreary ballads by this point.
"What?"
"Well, it's because I murdered someone." Robert says.
"Oh. Oh right." Elton says.
At this point things become considerably more awkward in the cell.
"So what are you in here for?" Robert offers, to try and break the ice, as it were.
"I told Marilyn Monroe to hold my candle in the wind and she disappeared because she's been dead for ages so it set fire to my garden, for the 5th bloody time today." Elton says.
"Well you fucking mug, I needed somebody to hold my candle in the wind the other day and I got Elizabeth Taylor to do it, she's still alive."
"Too true."
"The candle went out though."
"Yeah, so the lyrics of my song foretell."
"Mmm."
And so Elton spent the rest of his days next to Robert Downey Jr. in a loony bin having quite awkward conversations.
IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU.
I WANNA BE A COWBOY WHEN I'M OLDER
What did you lot want to be when you grow up? You can probably guess from the title of this motherf**king note that for a brief time I wanted to a cowboy. Which is fucking ridiculous.
I reckon if I actually knew that a 'cowboy' is essentially a glorified version of a farmer then I reckon I would've thought otherwise. Not actually that much rootin' and tootin' involved, probably.
"Did you, urm, did you buck all the barley, Jim?"
".....Yeah. Yeah I did Sam."
Oh Christ that very nearly took a very Brokeback Mountain-esque turn. Brokeback Mountain has meant that essentially no cowboys are ever perceived as heterosexual any more, doesn't it?
Another thing I wanted to be when I grew up was like a karate master or something, coz I used to play Street Fighter 2 Turbo on the Super Nintendo. But, upon attending karate classes I quickly realised that not many fireballs are actually involved. It was bloody shit to be perfectly honest.
But imagine a cowboy karate master, he'd be practically fucking invincible wouldn't he? Unless maybe a ninja pirate turned up.
"Hey! Does Billy the Karate Kid drink around here?" says the ninja pirate as he storms into the saloon.
"You're talkin' about me." he says as he stands up. He's wearing some mad fucking outfit like a karate belt around leather trousers and a cowboy hat with a ying-yang on it and shit. Don't even get me started on what the ninja pirate looks like. He looks like something from the 80s.
"Well, you've met your match." he says. Everyone thinks it's gonna be a duel. But, turns out it isn't, they arranged to meet on one of those dating websites and they reckon they're a perfect match. They get happily civil-partnered or whatever the term is and buy a lovely ranch somewhere. SEE? IT HAPPENED AGAIN!!!! CURSE YOU ANG LEE WITH YOUR HEART-BREAKING SLOW-PACED OSCAR-MAGNET!
Who do you think would win in a fight out of Blackbeard the pirate and Alexander the Great? Obviously Blackbeard! Although he might get distracted by a bullion or something. Or, Alexander the Great might get distracted by his mum who he had sex with. That was pretty fucking weird of him, wasn't it?
I reckon if I actually knew that a 'cowboy' is essentially a glorified version of a farmer then I reckon I would've thought otherwise. Not actually that much rootin' and tootin' involved, probably.
"Did you, urm, did you buck all the barley, Jim?"
".....Yeah. Yeah I did Sam."
Oh Christ that very nearly took a very Brokeback Mountain-esque turn. Brokeback Mountain has meant that essentially no cowboys are ever perceived as heterosexual any more, doesn't it?
Another thing I wanted to be when I grew up was like a karate master or something, coz I used to play Street Fighter 2 Turbo on the Super Nintendo. But, upon attending karate classes I quickly realised that not many fireballs are actually involved. It was bloody shit to be perfectly honest.
But imagine a cowboy karate master, he'd be practically fucking invincible wouldn't he? Unless maybe a ninja pirate turned up.
"Hey! Does Billy the Karate Kid drink around here?" says the ninja pirate as he storms into the saloon.
"You're talkin' about me." he says as he stands up. He's wearing some mad fucking outfit like a karate belt around leather trousers and a cowboy hat with a ying-yang on it and shit. Don't even get me started on what the ninja pirate looks like. He looks like something from the 80s.
"Well, you've met your match." he says. Everyone thinks it's gonna be a duel. But, turns out it isn't, they arranged to meet on one of those dating websites and they reckon they're a perfect match. They get happily civil-partnered or whatever the term is and buy a lovely ranch somewhere. SEE? IT HAPPENED AGAIN!!!! CURSE YOU ANG LEE WITH YOUR HEART-BREAKING SLOW-PACED OSCAR-MAGNET!
Who do you think would win in a fight out of Blackbeard the pirate and Alexander the Great? Obviously Blackbeard! Although he might get distracted by a bullion or something. Or, Alexander the Great might get distracted by his mum who he had sex with. That was pretty fucking weird of him, wasn't it?
Ice Cream and Jelly
Do you remember the days when your birthday would essentially just involve giving yourself a fucking stomach ache? Absolute too much cake and jelly and shit. So why is it then that we looked forward to birthdays far more when we were kids? They seem fucking rubbish in retrospect.
"Oh yeah fucking cheers for the football. Yeah well I'm a boy aren't I so I must love fucking football."
Yeah some guy who you just invited because he was in your class gave you that. At least these days people who give you presents actually know who you are. Although saying this, I suppose if I told my younger self what birthdays involve now he wouldn't be that impressed.
"Well basically you drink alcohol, which is actually quite likely to cause you to forget the entire evening, and then you go to a club which is essentially a dark room and dance around to songs you might not even like particularly much."
"Are you serious?"
"......Well yeah."
"That sounds fucking shit you mug."
Yeah I'm not sure why I've made my younger self sound like Danny Dyer. I literally didn't sound like that when I was a kid. In fact I was always conscious of my voice being ridiculously high when I heard it back in a recording. I probably thought I sounded like Harrison Ford or something stupid but I fucking didn't. I sounded like a twatty little kid.
"No honestly it is pretty fun."
"How? Explain exactly how that is fun. Where's all the jelly? Jelly tastes nice. Tastes a fuckload nicer than fucking vodka."
"Well yes but..."
"No. Shut it. You've embarrassed yourself, and therefore you've embarrassed me, because I'm you, and I don't like being embarrassed," (is anyone else now imagining him {me} to sound like Michael Cain?) "You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off."
"What doors?"
"...."
I wonder if a conversation with your younger self actually would go a bit like that. My thinking is most definitely yes. But at this point I'd consider the fact that I'm quite a lot bigger than 4 year old version of myself so I'd proceed to kick the shit out of myself. Then Stephen Hawking would come along and be like: "What the HELL is going on here?? This is ridiculously impossible. AS IF this makes scientific sense."
Younger Self: "Who invited this cunt to the fucking party?"
Hawking: "He did." (Points at my Dad. My Dad looks a bit sheepish.)
Younger Self: "Well you'd better consider yourself uninvited" (Now in a voice like Clint Eastwood).
This would be the moment when I'd decide it was time to take my leave, seeing as I've caused yet another paradoxical mess which results in a fight between a small boy and a wheel-chair bound scientist. I've literally done it like 7 times this week already.
(The cake emerges)
Haaaaappy biiiiirthday toooo Kiiiirk.
Hawking literally wrecks the entire song with his fucking monotonous robot voice. My dad now proper regrets inviting him. But only now, not for the fight he's having with his son. Who is me.
(Head explodes)
Over and out.
Space Travel......
Space! The place of intangible size and scale. OR is it?
We join a couple of astronauts in the future at some point in a space shuttle. Their mission? To find a fucking alien.
"Do you think we'll find an alien, then?"
"Yeah probably."
So yes the general mood is optimism. But, just as they leave the solar system, something extremely unforeseen happens. Their space shuttle collides with what looks like yet more empty space.
"What the?" they both exclaim, although both are secretly very glad that this has happened because the two of them never actually got on very well in the first place. There's been an obscene amount of awkward silences between the two of them, and they keep reflecting back to the day when the crew was picked and they were hoping it was gonna be them and the well fit girl who went for the job as well. Both of them suspected that she may fancy them because she looked at them occasionally, like when they spoke to her or whatever. Women, take note of this. If you look at a guy, like when you walk past them in the street, chances are he'll interpret that eye contact as "God he's fit."
But back to the astronauts.
They leave the shuttle in their space suits to investigate the situation. They float forwards and realise that 'space' beyond our solar system is in fact a painted backdrop, much like a fucking massive film set.
"Well that's a bit bloody weird," one of them reflects.
"What?"
"I said that's a bit bloody weird."
"I can't hear you?"
The reason for that is because sound doesn't travel in space.
But yeah, they move along the gigantic painted backdrop and discover a door. Being inquisitive fellows, they take it upon themselves to have a bit of a peek inside.
Yeah, inside it's like the backlot of a film set. A light technician is on break and eating a donut. He looks quite awkward about them being there.
"Oh for God's sake. Don't tell me we've been inside a proper massive version of 'The Truman Show' for billions of years?" one of the astronaut asks. The technician slowly nods his head and carries on chewing on his donut.
"So 'space' and all that. Infinity. It doesn't exist?"
Yet again the sullen nod from the technician.
"Well what's all this shit, then?"
"Urm. Well basically it turns out every religion was a bit right, sort of. The only bit they missed out was the fact that God tapes everyone's life for a bit of a laugh. Plays the funny bits at parties." the technician said.
"Fuuuck."
"Yep."
At this point the rather more quiet astronaut pipes up.
"Was any of the bits in my life showed at parties."
"Uh.....no, no I don't think so."
"Oh right. Good! Bloody good! Wouldn't want to look an idiot or whatever." But obviously he does wish he was picked for one of these party screenings, it'd mean he'd meant something in a strange way.
"So what are you, then?"
"An angel. I'm Gabriel," he says, and at this point another awkward looking technician pokes his hand round a corner, "And that's Uriel."
Uriel does a funny little wave and shuffles off again.
Isn't it funny how things turn out sometimes?
We join a couple of astronauts in the future at some point in a space shuttle. Their mission? To find a fucking alien.
"Do you think we'll find an alien, then?"
"Yeah probably."
So yes the general mood is optimism. But, just as they leave the solar system, something extremely unforeseen happens. Their space shuttle collides with what looks like yet more empty space.
"What the?" they both exclaim, although both are secretly very glad that this has happened because the two of them never actually got on very well in the first place. There's been an obscene amount of awkward silences between the two of them, and they keep reflecting back to the day when the crew was picked and they were hoping it was gonna be them and the well fit girl who went for the job as well. Both of them suspected that she may fancy them because she looked at them occasionally, like when they spoke to her or whatever. Women, take note of this. If you look at a guy, like when you walk past them in the street, chances are he'll interpret that eye contact as "God he's fit."
But back to the astronauts.
They leave the shuttle in their space suits to investigate the situation. They float forwards and realise that 'space' beyond our solar system is in fact a painted backdrop, much like a fucking massive film set.
"Well that's a bit bloody weird," one of them reflects.
"What?"
"I said that's a bit bloody weird."
"I can't hear you?"
The reason for that is because sound doesn't travel in space.
But yeah, they move along the gigantic painted backdrop and discover a door. Being inquisitive fellows, they take it upon themselves to have a bit of a peek inside.
Yeah, inside it's like the backlot of a film set. A light technician is on break and eating a donut. He looks quite awkward about them being there.
"Oh for God's sake. Don't tell me we've been inside a proper massive version of 'The Truman Show' for billions of years?" one of the astronaut asks. The technician slowly nods his head and carries on chewing on his donut.
"So 'space' and all that. Infinity. It doesn't exist?"
Yet again the sullen nod from the technician.
"Well what's all this shit, then?"
"Urm. Well basically it turns out every religion was a bit right, sort of. The only bit they missed out was the fact that God tapes everyone's life for a bit of a laugh. Plays the funny bits at parties." the technician said.
"Fuuuck."
"Yep."
At this point the rather more quiet astronaut pipes up.
"Was any of the bits in my life showed at parties."
"Uh.....no, no I don't think so."
"Oh right. Good! Bloody good! Wouldn't want to look an idiot or whatever." But obviously he does wish he was picked for one of these party screenings, it'd mean he'd meant something in a strange way.
"So what are you, then?"
"An angel. I'm Gabriel," he says, and at this point another awkward looking technician pokes his hand round a corner, "And that's Uriel."
Uriel does a funny little wave and shuffles off again.
Isn't it funny how things turn out sometimes?
FIIIIIIGHT!!!!!!
Imagine if you were walking home one time and you see a fight ahead of you, and as you get closer you realise it's literally Jesus and the Devil. But, because it's real life, the fight is literally awful and mainly involves the guys trying to get the other in a headlock. I don't get why fights in real life can't be a bit better, maybe the human race has evolved to think instinctively that a headlock is the best way of beating someone in a fight. I swear it's rubbish though, it doesn't even hurt that much. Mind you, Jesus and the Devil aren't exactly human are they? So it wouldn't be too much to ask for them to have a better fight with some punches in the face or something.
"Jesus you cunt you've ruined my fucking jacket!" says the Devil. Yeah unfortunately the Devil chose to wear his favourite jacket this particular day. Do you ever get that, when you're not doing anything to warrant you wearing your favourite jacket but you wear it anyway, to make yourself feel a little bit better? Yeah, the Devil gets that too. People always just assume he's really full of himself because he's the epitome of all evil, but ACTUALLY he's got quite a lot of self confidence issues.
Before he left the house he was fiddling with his hair for ages because he couldn't get it to look right. He had a major crisis and actually said "I'm so fucking ugly" out loud. If anyone was around to see it they probably would have thought he was quite weird. Shouldn't talk to yourself should you, really?
But anyway, the fight. So far it looks as if Jesus has the upper hand, because a few weeks ago he started attending karate classes and he gives the Devil a bit of a stylish maneuver which results in him being thrown to the ground and looking like a fucking mug. At this point the Devil goes bright red out of sheer embarrassment. Unfortunately for him, a couple of satanists are walking past at this point and because he looks so fucking stupid they literally rethink their entire religious outlook.
"Might be a Buddhist instead maybe."
"Yeah well Buddha would cane Jesus in a fight wouldn't he?"
"I reckon so."
If only life were as simple as that, where you only decide to like somebody if they could beat other people in a fight. WHEN WILL HUMANS LEARN TO GOVERN THEIR EMOTIONS?
They won't. And neither will the Devil for that matter. By the way, because this is modern day Jesus has had a proper make over. If you were imagining him with long hair, a beard and a robe you were fucking wrong. He went to a really chavvy barbers and got one of those haircuts where you use fuckloads of wet-look gel and have it spiked up but then a weird little fringe. Remember when literally everybody got that haircut? Those were the days.
"Jesus you cunt you've ruined my fucking jacket!" says the Devil. Yeah unfortunately the Devil chose to wear his favourite jacket this particular day. Do you ever get that, when you're not doing anything to warrant you wearing your favourite jacket but you wear it anyway, to make yourself feel a little bit better? Yeah, the Devil gets that too. People always just assume he's really full of himself because he's the epitome of all evil, but ACTUALLY he's got quite a lot of self confidence issues.
Before he left the house he was fiddling with his hair for ages because he couldn't get it to look right. He had a major crisis and actually said "I'm so fucking ugly" out loud. If anyone was around to see it they probably would have thought he was quite weird. Shouldn't talk to yourself should you, really?
But anyway, the fight. So far it looks as if Jesus has the upper hand, because a few weeks ago he started attending karate classes and he gives the Devil a bit of a stylish maneuver which results in him being thrown to the ground and looking like a fucking mug. At this point the Devil goes bright red out of sheer embarrassment. Unfortunately for him, a couple of satanists are walking past at this point and because he looks so fucking stupid they literally rethink their entire religious outlook.
"Might be a Buddhist instead maybe."
"Yeah well Buddha would cane Jesus in a fight wouldn't he?"
"I reckon so."
If only life were as simple as that, where you only decide to like somebody if they could beat other people in a fight. WHEN WILL HUMANS LEARN TO GOVERN THEIR EMOTIONS?
They won't. And neither will the Devil for that matter. By the way, because this is modern day Jesus has had a proper make over. If you were imagining him with long hair, a beard and a robe you were fucking wrong. He went to a really chavvy barbers and got one of those haircuts where you use fuckloads of wet-look gel and have it spiked up but then a weird little fringe. Remember when literally everybody got that haircut? Those were the days.
Well that's the thing though isn't it?
Scariest animal? Alligator? WellIlllll I have a story about alligators which may or may not change your mind.
I was walking home from Sainsbury's one time when I saw what seemed to be a by-the-numbers mugging occurring up ahead. Being a dirty fucking coward, I dove into the nearest bush on the verge of pissing myself. However, luckily help was at hand for the hapless old lady who was the victim.
"Stop, thief!" bellowed an heroic alligator, and he snatched the purse back off of the mugger and gave his ear a bloody good clipping. "Now, apologise!"
The mugger apologised.
See! Alligators aren't so bad. However, unfortunately, the alligator then proceeded to eat both of them. Well it's not his fault is it? It's in his bloody nature.
WHICH bring me to my very next point. Nature or nurture? I reckon if I brought up an alligator from birth then maybe I could prevent him from eating people.
"Allie! No! Eat this fucking sausage instead," is what I'd say. If he disobeyed he'd feel the back of my hand. And yes, this would be a matter for the RSPCA, but I'm my own man, dude, I don't listen to nobody.
But anyway, sharks are the scariest animal actually. Nurture don't even come into it. You know in the womb there's always two shark embryos, but only one makes it out alive? Yeah, one of them eats the other one. The womb's hardly setting a good example, is it? Wouldn't be surprised if the social services got involved on that one.
"We just don't think your womb is a safe environment for a young shark, Mrs. Shark."
"YOU CAN'T TAKE MY BABY!"
I sense a heartbreaking plotline for an Oscar-nominated film brewing. Don't anyone fucking steal it. 'Slumdog Millionaire Shark'. Got a ring to it, hasn't it? Or perhaps 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Shark'. 'Sharkier Shark Tale'.
.........
Imagine if Jaws was filmed from the shark's point of view. Actually a heartbreaking tale about an orphan shark who tries to overcome the death of his wife.
"I'm only happy when I eat.......BUT THAT MEANS HURTING OTHER PEOPLE!" (cries loads)
I was walking home from Sainsbury's one time when I saw what seemed to be a by-the-numbers mugging occurring up ahead. Being a dirty fucking coward, I dove into the nearest bush on the verge of pissing myself. However, luckily help was at hand for the hapless old lady who was the victim.
"Stop, thief!" bellowed an heroic alligator, and he snatched the purse back off of the mugger and gave his ear a bloody good clipping. "Now, apologise!"
The mugger apologised.
See! Alligators aren't so bad. However, unfortunately, the alligator then proceeded to eat both of them. Well it's not his fault is it? It's in his bloody nature.
WHICH bring me to my very next point. Nature or nurture? I reckon if I brought up an alligator from birth then maybe I could prevent him from eating people.
"Allie! No! Eat this fucking sausage instead," is what I'd say. If he disobeyed he'd feel the back of my hand. And yes, this would be a matter for the RSPCA, but I'm my own man, dude, I don't listen to nobody.
But anyway, sharks are the scariest animal actually. Nurture don't even come into it. You know in the womb there's always two shark embryos, but only one makes it out alive? Yeah, one of them eats the other one. The womb's hardly setting a good example, is it? Wouldn't be surprised if the social services got involved on that one.
"We just don't think your womb is a safe environment for a young shark, Mrs. Shark."
"YOU CAN'T TAKE MY BABY!"
I sense a heartbreaking plotline for an Oscar-nominated film brewing. Don't anyone fucking steal it. 'Slumdog Millionaire Shark'. Got a ring to it, hasn't it? Or perhaps 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Shark'. 'Sharkier Shark Tale'.
.........
Imagine if Jaws was filmed from the shark's point of view. Actually a heartbreaking tale about an orphan shark who tries to overcome the death of his wife.
"I'm only happy when I eat.......BUT THAT MEANS HURTING OTHER PEOPLE!" (cries loads)
Urmm... excuse me?!?
Remember back in the day if you got in trouble at school you'd get sent to the wall or some shit? What was the fucking point in that? When you reflect back on things like with your older and wizened perspective, isn't it really weird to consider what's going through the grown adult's mind when they do that?
"Well I'll send them to the wall then, won't I? It doesn't make any fucking sense though, considering what other punishments there could be. I could beat them up or something, that'd teach them a lesson. But I won't. Because that's illegal."
So when you think about it, the only punishment which teachers are able to use is making children hang around in a particular place for longer than they would do usually. Bit weird that, isn't it? Though I suppose that's what prison is essentially. But with more bum-rape in the showers.
"I sentence you to 3 years of hanging around in a place for a longer length of time than you would do usually but with possible bum-rape in the showers!"
Wouldn't you love it if that's what judges actually said.
Everyone would be like "Yeah alright mate that's a bit strong."
"You wanna see strong?!?!!? THIS is strong!!!"
This would be the moment when the judge crushes a rock with his bare hands. Yeah, turns out he can crush rocks with his bare hands.
"I sentence you to be in awe of my strength!!"
"You're a fucking weird judge, mate."
"I sentence you to shut up!"
Mind you, if you were a judge you would milk that phrase wouldn't you?
Gets home from work: "I sentence you to get the kettle on!"
"Oh hello darling how was your day?"
"I sentence you to 'yeah it was alright'."
"Pass many sentences?"
"Hell yeah. HOLLAAAA."
"Well I'll send them to the wall then, won't I? It doesn't make any fucking sense though, considering what other punishments there could be. I could beat them up or something, that'd teach them a lesson. But I won't. Because that's illegal."
So when you think about it, the only punishment which teachers are able to use is making children hang around in a particular place for longer than they would do usually. Bit weird that, isn't it? Though I suppose that's what prison is essentially. But with more bum-rape in the showers.
"I sentence you to 3 years of hanging around in a place for a longer length of time than you would do usually but with possible bum-rape in the showers!"
Wouldn't you love it if that's what judges actually said.
Everyone would be like "Yeah alright mate that's a bit strong."
"You wanna see strong?!?!!? THIS is strong!!!"
This would be the moment when the judge crushes a rock with his bare hands. Yeah, turns out he can crush rocks with his bare hands.
"I sentence you to be in awe of my strength!!"
"You're a fucking weird judge, mate."
"I sentence you to shut up!"
Mind you, if you were a judge you would milk that phrase wouldn't you?
Gets home from work: "I sentence you to get the kettle on!"
"Oh hello darling how was your day?"
"I sentence you to 'yeah it was alright'."
"Pass many sentences?"
"Hell yeah. HOLLAAAA."
The Trials of Pierce Brosnan
It was a cold, cold night. Something like 4 degrees centigrade. Not sure what that works out as in fahrenheit, it's sort of a weird system and I don't fully understand it to be perfectly honest.
But yes, indeed, 'twas a cold night. Pierce Brosnan, former James Bond is making his way home from a hard day at the mine. Yep, he's so hard up after getting replaced by Daniel Craig that he has to work his arse off in a fucking mine.
"Mr. Brosnan, are there any hard feelings between you and Daniel Craig?"
"Daniel who?"
".......Daniel Craig. You know, the new Bond?"
"I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCKING FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT." (that was an extract of an interview with Nuts magazine. Just so happens to be his favourite magazine as well so the blow was even harder)
Anyways, back to the bloody cold night. Mind you, it's not the coldest night of all time, but quite enough to prompt you to wear a coat or scarf or something.
Pierce spots something up ahead in the distance. He can't quite make it out just yet but it appears to be some kind of cow in trouble or something.
"Wonder what that could be?"
He gets there to find that he was bloody right. It's a cow in trouble.
"Poor cow, I'd better help it out."
It appeared to be stuck in a gate (yeah by the way this takes place in the countryside. He's hardly gonna see a cow in trouble in the suburbs is he???), and he approached it cautiously.
"Are you alright?" he asks. Bit strange isn't it, why would you ask a cow something like that? But, by some miracle, this is the only cow in the country that can talk so he replies.
"I'm bloody stuck in this gate aren't I!!!" (there is a pause) ".....wait a minute. You're Pierce Brosnan!"
Pierce smiles and expects the usual barrage of compliments about him being handsome or rugged or charming or some shit. HOWEVER, this is not what he receives.
"Hard luck bout the James Bond thing, mate. Oh and also, in Madam Doubtfire you're the wife's new boyfriend aren't you? Fucking harsh."
This is all too much for Pierce to bear and he's all like "Shu'up man!"
The cow's having none of this, it has a swing at him but luckily misses. Pierce runs home.
"What a shit day." he says. And he's fucking freezing.
At this point Daniel Craig drives past in a Bentley with a fuckload of women and cool people in the car with him. Pierce tuts.
But yes, indeed, 'twas a cold night. Pierce Brosnan, former James Bond is making his way home from a hard day at the mine. Yep, he's so hard up after getting replaced by Daniel Craig that he has to work his arse off in a fucking mine.
"Mr. Brosnan, are there any hard feelings between you and Daniel Craig?"
"Daniel who?"
".......Daniel Craig. You know, the new Bond?"
"I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCKING FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT." (that was an extract of an interview with Nuts magazine. Just so happens to be his favourite magazine as well so the blow was even harder)
Anyways, back to the bloody cold night. Mind you, it's not the coldest night of all time, but quite enough to prompt you to wear a coat or scarf or something.
Pierce spots something up ahead in the distance. He can't quite make it out just yet but it appears to be some kind of cow in trouble or something.
"Wonder what that could be?"
He gets there to find that he was bloody right. It's a cow in trouble.
"Poor cow, I'd better help it out."
It appeared to be stuck in a gate (yeah by the way this takes place in the countryside. He's hardly gonna see a cow in trouble in the suburbs is he???), and he approached it cautiously.
"Are you alright?" he asks. Bit strange isn't it, why would you ask a cow something like that? But, by some miracle, this is the only cow in the country that can talk so he replies.
"I'm bloody stuck in this gate aren't I!!!" (there is a pause) ".....wait a minute. You're Pierce Brosnan!"
Pierce smiles and expects the usual barrage of compliments about him being handsome or rugged or charming or some shit. HOWEVER, this is not what he receives.
"Hard luck bout the James Bond thing, mate. Oh and also, in Madam Doubtfire you're the wife's new boyfriend aren't you? Fucking harsh."
This is all too much for Pierce to bear and he's all like "Shu'up man!"
The cow's having none of this, it has a swing at him but luckily misses. Pierce runs home.
"What a shit day." he says. And he's fucking freezing.
At this point Daniel Craig drives past in a Bentley with a fuckload of women and cool people in the car with him. Pierce tuts.
If Brad Pitt worked at my local newsagents.......
....funnily enough things would be exactly the same except sometimes people would ask him for his autograph after being served.
"A pack of Benson & Hedges please. And your autograph."
"Sure."
However this would cause a massive shift in value of Brad Pitt's autographs. Seeing as he'd be churning them out far more frequently than he has done previously, on account of him working full-time at the newsagent and generally obliging to autograph requests, value would massively decrease. This would be extremely bad news for Jimmy Jefferson, the man whose claim to fame in the local neighbourhood is that he has a really nice Brad Pitt autograph which he has framed in his living room. Brad Pitt is his favourite movie star. But yeah, 'coz literally everybody in the neighbourhood would have one of his autographs or more (some people use them to write their shopping lists on and shit) nobody would give a single shit about Jimmy Jefferson's autograph would they?
"Yeah he was a really decent bloke, I got it at the premiere of Benjamin Button...."
"Jimmy. I know he's well alright, he works in the fucking newsagent. Look." the person would then reveal that they are wearing underpants made out of unwanted Brad Pitt autographs. Although this is really fucking weird, it pretty much hammers the point home.
"Mah Gad" exclaims Jimmy Jefferson. He'd storm over to the newsagent to give Brad a piece of his mind.
"Brad you tosser how could you do this to me?"
"......excuse me?"
"You know what I mean!!"
"....do I know you?"
At this point it would dawn on Jimmy that he's the one who's being out of order. It isn't Brad's fucking fault is it? Besides he was pretty good in 'The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford' wasn't he? Quite scary in that, actually. So yeah why would you fuck with Brad Pitt anyway? He was bloody massive in 'Troy', even if he did have ridiculous hair. He seems to be one of those guys who suits short hair way better.
Jimmy Jefferson, what are you like?
"A pack of Benson & Hedges please. And your autograph."
"Sure."
However this would cause a massive shift in value of Brad Pitt's autographs. Seeing as he'd be churning them out far more frequently than he has done previously, on account of him working full-time at the newsagent and generally obliging to autograph requests, value would massively decrease. This would be extremely bad news for Jimmy Jefferson, the man whose claim to fame in the local neighbourhood is that he has a really nice Brad Pitt autograph which he has framed in his living room. Brad Pitt is his favourite movie star. But yeah, 'coz literally everybody in the neighbourhood would have one of his autographs or more (some people use them to write their shopping lists on and shit) nobody would give a single shit about Jimmy Jefferson's autograph would they?
"Yeah he was a really decent bloke, I got it at the premiere of Benjamin Button...."
"Jimmy. I know he's well alright, he works in the fucking newsagent. Look." the person would then reveal that they are wearing underpants made out of unwanted Brad Pitt autographs. Although this is really fucking weird, it pretty much hammers the point home.
"Mah Gad" exclaims Jimmy Jefferson. He'd storm over to the newsagent to give Brad a piece of his mind.
"Brad you tosser how could you do this to me?"
"......excuse me?"
"You know what I mean!!"
"....do I know you?"
At this point it would dawn on Jimmy that he's the one who's being out of order. It isn't Brad's fucking fault is it? Besides he was pretty good in 'The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford' wasn't he? Quite scary in that, actually. So yeah why would you fuck with Brad Pitt anyway? He was bloody massive in 'Troy', even if he did have ridiculous hair. He seems to be one of those guys who suits short hair way better.
Jimmy Jefferson, what are you like?
DONALD DUCK, YOU FUCKING FREELOADER
Yeah that's it Donald, you mooch off of all the other Disney characters who actually talk. All you do is make a fucking row and you reckon you can throw your weight around with the likes of Mickey Mouse??
Mickey has said loads of words before and I haven't heard one properly enunciated syllable escape from your fucking beak ever since your filthy conception, you fucking duck.
Did you know 'duck' is supposed to be the funniest word in the English language?
Well that explains it then doesn't it. The thing is though, this rage probably comes from the fact that I actually think Daisy Duck is weirdly attractive. Minnie Mouse is a fucking beast in comparison. Speaking of fancying anthropomorphosised cartoon animals, how fit is Naula, and Maid Marion in Robin Hood? A fox in more than one way, I should say!!! CORRRRRR
Mickey has said loads of words before and I haven't heard one properly enunciated syllable escape from your fucking beak ever since your filthy conception, you fucking duck.
Did you know 'duck' is supposed to be the funniest word in the English language?
Well that explains it then doesn't it. The thing is though, this rage probably comes from the fact that I actually think Daisy Duck is weirdly attractive. Minnie Mouse is a fucking beast in comparison. Speaking of fancying anthropomorphosised cartoon animals, how fit is Naula, and Maid Marion in Robin Hood? A fox in more than one way, I should say!!! CORRRRRR
Current Affairs
I'm sure you've all heard of the latest epidemic, SWINE FLU. I prophecise it shan't be long before people start becoming a 'fan' of something like "Swine flu is rubbish!" on Facebook.
"yer well itz killin al da pigs an i fink dats well out of order innit? but aint swine flu a funny name tho lol :D xx"
I'll tell you something, I pray for the day when there's a flu which eliminates every dickhead in the world. It'd be called....yes...."dickhead flu".
This would be the news announcement: 'A bloody wicked epidemic has reached England and has begun wiping out every dickhead in the country mercilessly. Some victims include Mark Ronson, Johnny Borrell (he's cut his fucking hair have you seen that?) and Jo Brand, because she isn't fucking funny is she?'
However, moments after this announcement the news reporter would catch it because he pushed an old lady over once which warrants him the title of 'dickhead'.
Ever wondered what sort of acts could immediately warrant you as a dickhead? If the epidemic did occur, the government would have to put out a public announcement about how to best avoid becoming a dickhead and therefore being susceptible to the deadly virus.
"Avoid wearing tracksuit bottoms tucked into socks, do not under any circumstances use ketchup on a roast dinner, never proclaim that you are 'well random and a bit mad'...." and so on and so forth.
Speaking of people saying they are 'well random and a bit mad', are they aware that by declaring themselves as such they immediately lose the respect of every single person in the immediate area? Maybe they do it on purpose to stir things up.
Perhaps they're anarchists........
Good God, they're plotting the overthrow of the world. Their world would involve everybody repeating the songs from The Mighty Boosh, and saying words like 'cupboard' out of context because they're so fucking random and mad. But, "dickhead flu" would wipe them out anyways so I suppose I haven't got that much to worry about really have I?
"yer well itz killin al da pigs an i fink dats well out of order innit? but aint swine flu a funny name tho lol :D xx"
I'll tell you something, I pray for the day when there's a flu which eliminates every dickhead in the world. It'd be called....yes...."dickhead
This would be the news announcement: 'A bloody wicked epidemic has reached England and has begun wiping out every dickhead in the country mercilessly. Some victims include Mark Ronson, Johnny Borrell (he's cut his fucking hair have you seen that?) and Jo Brand, because she isn't fucking funny is she?'
However, moments after this announcement the news reporter would catch it because he pushed an old lady over once which warrants him the title of 'dickhead'.
Ever wondered what sort of acts could immediately warrant you as a dickhead? If the epidemic did occur, the government would have to put out a public announcement about how to best avoid becoming a dickhead and therefore being susceptible to the deadly virus.
"Avoid wearing tracksuit bottoms tucked into socks, do not under any circumstances use ketchup on a roast dinner, never proclaim that you are 'well random and a bit mad'...." and so on and so forth.
Speaking of people saying they are 'well random and a bit mad', are they aware that by declaring themselves as such they immediately lose the respect of every single person in the immediate area? Maybe they do it on purpose to stir things up.
Perhaps they're anarchists........
Good God, they're plotting the overthrow of the world. Their world would involve everybody repeating the songs from The Mighty Boosh, and saying words like 'cupboard' out of context because they're so fucking random and mad. But, "dickhead flu" would wipe them out anyways so I suppose I haven't got that much to worry about really have I?
Assigned Topic: Oranges
Brief: Write a blog about oranges.
Assigned by Jonathan Paul Lennon
The Note: Oranges are arguably a fruit. However, fruits are often arguably a vegetable (see 'Tomatoes'). So therefore, arguably, debate-ably, theoretically, oranges belong neither here nor there in terms of category. This puts oranges in a somewhat awkward position philosophically. If one were to 'eat' an orange, what are we actually consuming, and what does this tell us about our society?
Socratizzle, Socrates' somewhat unknown and far more 'street' cousin and fellow philosopher, offered this musing: "An orange is the pinnacle of creation. It transcends a category, just as God does. Therefore, an orange is the true incarnation of God. I eat an orange, therefore I am an orange. I think?"
Following this school of thought came the movement of Orange-ism. Orange-ists were renowned for their high regard of anything orange. This ranged from oranges, blood oranges (only the skin), certain grapefruits (this was a shady area and frowned upon by Orthodox Orange-ists), council workers' fluorescent jackets, and so on. Also, they began wearing a fuckload of fucking orange. This, inevitably, caused uproar. Orange is a vivid and somewhat extreme colour, too vivid and extreme for some tastes, and so when the general public is visually assaulted by a group of marching orange-clad socialists they can become somewhat perturbed.
"Well it's too much bloody orange, isn't it?"
This provoked a violent reaction against the Orange-ists. Like-minded people gathered together and drew up a manifesto for a new opposing movement to these orangey fuckers. These new activists were for some fucking reason called 'the Orange Men'. Bizarrely, almost none of the members of this movement were even 'men'. Not that gender matters, does it?
But anyway, violent clashes between these opposing parties occurred, despite neither of them having any political views outside of the regard and wearing of the colour orange.
Here is a quote of a moving anti-riot speech given by the current Prime Minister of the time:
"People of Britain. I ask you, as a fellow Briton, to stop this madness. Oranges are just a fruit, they are not a justifiable cause for violence. We can all fly under one banner, under the banner of Great Britain, and of peace....."
However, he was interrupted here by an Orange-ist who asked:
"But Prime Minister, oranges resent being lumped into the category of 'fruit'. It is a highly vague and general term, and not something people should be judged for their merits by. You wouldn't categorise someone for their race, would you?"
"No, of course I wouldn't. But oranges ARE a fruit."
"He said it again!"
"....But...but they are! They're just a fucking fruit for fucking fuck's sake."
"You dirty fascist! Brothers! To arms!"
At this moment the Orange-ists went fucking apeshit and smashed a few windows. Unfortunately for them, those windows happened to belong to Ross Kemp, who consequently went apeshit and headbutted a few Orange-ists and set fire to a market stall selling oranges. For some reason the Orange Men were completely absent from this incident, the reasons for which have never been properly given.
At the end of the day we're all a fucking fruit though aren't we for fuck's sake?
By the way, who do you think the phone company Orange is actually funded by? Something for you to think about there.
Assigned by Jonathan Paul Lennon
The Note: Oranges are arguably a fruit. However, fruits are often arguably a vegetable (see 'Tomatoes'). So therefore, arguably, debate-ably, theoretically, oranges belong neither here nor there in terms of category. This puts oranges in a somewhat awkward position philosophically. If one were to 'eat' an orange, what are we actually consuming, and what does this tell us about our society?
Socratizzle, Socrates' somewhat unknown and far more 'street' cousin and fellow philosopher, offered this musing: "An orange is the pinnacle of creation. It transcends a category, just as God does. Therefore, an orange is the true incarnation of God. I eat an orange, therefore I am an orange. I think?"
Following this school of thought came the movement of Orange-ism. Orange-ists were renowned for their high regard of anything orange. This ranged from oranges, blood oranges (only the skin), certain grapefruits (this was a shady area and frowned upon by Orthodox Orange-ists), council workers' fluorescent jackets, and so on. Also, they began wearing a fuckload of fucking orange. This, inevitably, caused uproar. Orange is a vivid and somewhat extreme colour, too vivid and extreme for some tastes, and so when the general public is visually assaulted by a group of marching orange-clad socialists they can become somewhat perturbed.
"Well it's too much bloody orange, isn't it?"
This provoked a violent reaction against the Orange-ists. Like-minded people gathered together and drew up a manifesto for a new opposing movement to these orangey fuckers. These new activists were for some fucking reason called 'the Orange Men'. Bizarrely, almost none of the members of this movement were even 'men'. Not that gender matters, does it?
But anyway, violent clashes between these opposing parties occurred, despite neither of them having any political views outside of the regard and wearing of the colour orange.
Here is a quote of a moving anti-riot speech given by the current Prime Minister of the time:
"People of Britain. I ask you, as a fellow Briton, to stop this madness. Oranges are just a fruit, they are not a justifiable cause for violence. We can all fly under one banner, under the banner of Great Britain, and of peace....."
However, he was interrupted here by an Orange-ist who asked:
"But Prime Minister, oranges resent being lumped into the category of 'fruit'. It is a highly vague and general term, and not something people should be judged for their merits by. You wouldn't categorise someone for their race, would you?"
"No, of course I wouldn't. But oranges ARE a fruit."
"He said it again!"
"....But...but they are! They're just a fucking fruit for fucking fuck's sake."
"You dirty fascist! Brothers! To arms!"
At this moment the Orange-ists went fucking apeshit and smashed a few windows. Unfortunately for them, those windows happened to belong to Ross Kemp, who consequently went apeshit and headbutted a few Orange-ists and set fire to a market stall selling oranges. For some reason the Orange Men were completely absent from this incident, the reasons for which have never been properly given.
At the end of the day we're all a fucking fruit though aren't we for fuck's sake?
By the way, who do you think the phone company Orange is actually funded by? Something for you to think about there.
Striving towards Peace and Love is all well and good but....
.....at the end of the day it wouldn't really work, would it? Wonderful in theory, like Communism (this note is sponsored by Karl Marx) but in practise? Not so sure.
After all, could you ever bring yourself to share Peace and Love with somebody quite as shit as Paris Hilton? And also she's richer than us, so her version of Peace and Love would probably be way better than ours. For example, you'd see her skip in front of you in the queue for some amazing club and you say to the bouncer, "Now hold on, Peace and Love and all that, but she just pushed in."
"Excuse me sir, Peace and Love, chill out."
"But she pushed in."
"Whoa man your vibes are hassling me, get back into the fucking queue and shut up or I'll kill you. Dude."
Yeah, the bouncers would look and act exactly the same as they do now but would speak in tedious hippie cliches. So it makes you think doesn't it, humans must be designed to never be truly happy. I'd say the only chance you've got of being truly happy is if you're literally completely fucking mad. Do you reckon this was a design fault on God's part, or intentional? He's chuckling away up in the gardens of eternal bliss: "Waheyyy even when they get really fucking rich there's still a longing for something they can't quite place. Fucking idiots!"
So yeah after the club you see Paris Hilton in Kebab Express and you think 'Well, I may as well abuse this Peace and Love system now if she's going to.' So you go and nick loads of her chips and just say Peace and Love over and over. But then of course the guys behind the counter would be all like:
"Oh well done for ruining it for the rest of us, Boss."
"Nice one, fascist."
"Way to take advantage of a non-imposed pseudo-political movement, Boss."
So yes, just as Chuck Berry sang in that song on Pulp Fiction, it goes to show you never can win. (Somebody taps Kirk on the shoulder and whispers: 'Actually the lyrics were 'it goes to show you never can tell'.)
Shit, cancel the entire blog.
Over and out
After all, could you ever bring yourself to share Peace and Love with somebody quite as shit as Paris Hilton? And also she's richer than us, so her version of Peace and Love would probably be way better than ours. For example, you'd see her skip in front of you in the queue for some amazing club and you say to the bouncer, "Now hold on, Peace and Love and all that, but she just pushed in."
"Excuse me sir, Peace and Love, chill out."
"But she pushed in."
"Whoa man your vibes are hassling me, get back into the fucking queue and shut up or I'll kill you. Dude."
Yeah, the bouncers would look and act exactly the same as they do now but would speak in tedious hippie cliches. So it makes you think doesn't it, humans must be designed to never be truly happy. I'd say the only chance you've got of being truly happy is if you're literally completely fucking mad. Do you reckon this was a design fault on God's part, or intentional? He's chuckling away up in the gardens of eternal bliss: "Waheyyy even when they get really fucking rich there's still a longing for something they can't quite place. Fucking idiots!"
So yeah after the club you see Paris Hilton in Kebab Express and you think 'Well, I may as well abuse this Peace and Love system now if she's going to.' So you go and nick loads of her chips and just say Peace and Love over and over. But then of course the guys behind the counter would be all like:
"Oh well done for ruining it for the rest of us, Boss."
"Nice one, fascist."
"Way to take advantage of a non-imposed pseudo-political movement, Boss."
So yes, just as Chuck Berry sang in that song on Pulp Fiction, it goes to show you never can win. (Somebody taps Kirk on the shoulder and whispers: 'Actually the lyrics were 'it goes to show you never can tell'.)
Shit, cancel the entire blog.
Over and out
At which time the Universe will actually end for real
A simple-minded boy walks into his local newsagents to purchase a can of Coca-Cola. His name is Dennis, and he is what most people of our society would consider a 'chav'. This label is earned when one or more of the following characteristics are displayed: he throws penny sweets at passing strangers, wears joggers tucked into socks, still uses wet-look gel but just to flatten down his number-2-all-over hair etc. etc. (Kirk Steaggles' solicitor would like to point out at this time that he does not condone social labelling or stereotyping of any kind. Everybody is an individual and entirely beautiful on their own merits. Especially Kirk Steaggles and his solicitor.)
So yes, as I was saying, Dennis strolls into his newsagents as he has done many many times before and retrieves a can of Coca-Cola (his favourite fizzy pop) from the refrigerator. The newsagent clerk is rather uneasy because he's quite sure that Dennis has stolen a Mars bar before, which almost sent his entire business into bankruptcy. He's literally always teetering on the edge of complete ruin. He's about to board up the shop every night when somebody buys a 2-litre bottle of Fanta at the last minute which just about keeps him in business.
Anyhow, Dennis intends to buy the Coca-Cola in a fully legal and proper manner, so he brings it to the counter and begins digging for change.
"70p please." Asks the clerk. Dennis double takes for a minute.
"70p? Fucking hell, I remember when these things used to cost 50p." he says. Quite mundane conversation really, obviously with inflation and the credit crunch and that prices will have risen a bit since Dennis was a young'un. But, for some reason this strikes the newsagent clerk as an extremely poignant sentence. He stops dead and stares blankly. Dennis hands the correct change but the clerk does not respond.
"You're right," he says, "You're bloody bloody right."
Things get a bit awkward after this, and Dennis begins to leave promptly. However, the newsagent isn't having this.
"Come back boy! I think me and you are really onto something! Let's do something about this! I can't have things going up by 20p without so much as a by-your-leave! This is anarchy! Let's get ourselves down to that fucking mental thing in Switzerland that can make black holes...." he begins.
"What, the Large Hadron Collider?"
"Yeah, that. Let's go and set the fucker off!"
"But the Large Hadron Collider is unable to create a black hole large enough to cause any damage." (Yeah turns out Dennis is fucking amazing at Physics.)
"We'll see about that!" says the newsagent clerk, and he puts a copy of 'Anarchy in the UK' by the Sex Pistols in his boombox and sprints off to Switzerland. Dennis tags along.
When he gets there the scientists all let him through 'coz he's playing 'Anarchy in the UK' really loud and they're scared of anarchy.
"Right you fuckers! I'm not having prices go up by 20p! It's probably your fault!" he singles out one Swiss scientists, who for the sake of stereotype (which Kirk Steaggles does not condone) is currently eating a chocolate bar using a Swiss army knife and checking the time on a cuckoo clock.
"Anyway! Start it up!" he demands, although 'Anarchy in the UK' is coming to a close at this point so he has to press the skip button to make it play again. The scientists shrug and start it up. The Universe is sucked into a black hole.
And there you have it children, the end of the Universe. The moral of the story is:
Science x Anarchy = End of Universe to the power of 2
George Clooney's crisis
George Clooney was on his way home from work and presently was just leaving Gregg's after purchasing a sausage roll and a chicken salad sandwhich. 'Wellllllll I've had a hard day, I'll treat myself,' was his logic, which couldn't be faulted really.
He HAD had a hard day.
So, he was pacing down Harrow Weald high street eagerly digging into his sandwich (he thought he'd save the sausage roll for last) when he noticed a commotion (see 'hub-bub', discuss in relation to 'disturbance') up ahead. Being the good useful soul that he was, George decided to inspect this further. He selflessly tucked his sandwich and sausage roll away into his pockets, even though he was fucking starving and he'd had a really hard day. He hoped it wasn't a medical emergency though, since it was ages since he'd been on E.R and performed his last operation. Yeah, turns out on E.R back in the day they didn't have much of a budget so all the operations were fucking real, they had to break into a real hospital and do them when the real doctorz weren't looking. George was responsible for many deaths but he didn't mind because he was getting a good amount of acting experience under his belt.
"What's the trouble here?" he asked in his creamy-yet-macho voice to back row of the throng of people. Seeing as such a voice simply couldn't be ignored at least ten people turned around to answer him.
"There's been a bit of a disturbance/hub-bub, this poor old lady here has had her bag stolen." one of them said, though he did seem incredibly nervous talking to such a handsome man and he stammered on every single fucking word but I couldn't be bothered to type it like that it would have taken ages. It literally took him about 10 minutes to say the entire thing, which only exacerbated the hub-bub because it made everybody really tetchy.
"Good God," George said, though he secretly hated himself for blaspheming, "Where did the culprit go?"
"That way," said a different person, thank fuck, "Heading towards Boxtree Park, the centre of all evil in the H.A postcode."
Though George didn't outwardly show it, the name of 'Boxtree Park' sent shivers down his spine. Matt Damon told him on the set of Ocean's Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen that he got his phone stolen there once. He had to start one of those Facebook groups about getting phone numbers back even though Facebook hadn't even started when I was in year 8 (I think that was when Ocean's Eleven came out, though that could have been Twelve) so he literally got no numbers back at all.
"I'll stop the thief!" George said, and as he did so his stomach grumbled really loudly which made everybody realise just how much he was putting himself out and they developed a newer, stronger sense of awe for him.
And so off he went, running faster than most movie stars, despite being fucking starving with a rapidly cooling sausage roll in his pocket and having had a bloody hard day.
He reached Boxtree Park, and saw a suspicious figure with a hood on (coz the Daily Mail say bad people wear them and they're always right aren't they?) sitting on a bench with an old woman's bag. 'Aha!' thought George, 'That's the guy!'.
So, he strolled over to him shaking his fist.
"Hey buddy! You'd better give that back!!" he bellowed. The figure looked up, startled, causing the hood to fall backwards. Nothing could prepare George for what he saw.
"Oh....Jesus God no...." he whimpered, "Tom Hanks!! You're a well-respected actor who usually plays loveable characters, except in 'Catch Me If You Can' when you were sort of prickly but still humanly endearing. HOW....COULD...YOU?"
"Oh fuck off George."
He HAD had a hard day.
So, he was pacing down Harrow Weald high street eagerly digging into his sandwich (he thought he'd save the sausage roll for last) when he noticed a commotion (see 'hub-bub', discuss in relation to 'disturbance') up ahead. Being the good useful soul that he was, George decided to inspect this further. He selflessly tucked his sandwich and sausage roll away into his pockets, even though he was fucking starving and he'd had a really hard day. He hoped it wasn't a medical emergency though, since it was ages since he'd been on E.R and performed his last operation. Yeah, turns out on E.R back in the day they didn't have much of a budget so all the operations were fucking real, they had to break into a real hospital and do them when the real doctorz weren't looking. George was responsible for many deaths but he didn't mind because he was getting a good amount of acting experience under his belt.
"What's the trouble here?" he asked in his creamy-yet-macho voice to back row of the throng of people. Seeing as such a voice simply couldn't be ignored at least ten people turned around to answer him.
"There's been a bit of a disturbance/hub-bub, this poor old lady here has had her bag stolen." one of them said, though he did seem incredibly nervous talking to such a handsome man and he stammered on every single fucking word but I couldn't be bothered to type it like that it would have taken ages. It literally took him about 10 minutes to say the entire thing, which only exacerbated the hub-bub because it made everybody really tetchy.
"Good God," George said, though he secretly hated himself for blaspheming, "Where did the culprit go?"
"That way," said a different person, thank fuck, "Heading towards Boxtree Park, the centre of all evil in the H.A postcode."
Though George didn't outwardly show it, the name of 'Boxtree Park' sent shivers down his spine. Matt Damon told him on the set of Ocean's Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen that he got his phone stolen there once. He had to start one of those Facebook groups about getting phone numbers back even though Facebook hadn't even started when I was in year 8 (I think that was when Ocean's Eleven came out, though that could have been Twelve) so he literally got no numbers back at all.
"I'll stop the thief!" George said, and as he did so his stomach grumbled really loudly which made everybody realise just how much he was putting himself out and they developed a newer, stronger sense of awe for him.
And so off he went, running faster than most movie stars, despite being fucking starving with a rapidly cooling sausage roll in his pocket and having had a bloody hard day.
He reached Boxtree Park, and saw a suspicious figure with a hood on (coz the Daily Mail say bad people wear them and they're always right aren't they?) sitting on a bench with an old woman's bag. 'Aha!' thought George, 'That's the guy!'.
So, he strolled over to him shaking his fist.
"Hey buddy! You'd better give that back!!" he bellowed. The figure looked up, startled, causing the hood to fall backwards. Nothing could prepare George for what he saw.
"Oh....Jesus God no...." he whimpered, "Tom Hanks!! You're a well-respected actor who usually plays loveable characters, except in 'Catch Me If You Can' when you were sort of prickly but still humanly endearing. HOW....COULD...YOU?"
"Oh fuck off George."
KAFKA KAFKA KAFKA KAFKA KAFKA
"Yeah alright Kafka, writing existentialist metaphors about alienation involving beetles is all well and good, but isn't it about time you knuckled down and did a bit of work? Your coursework was really quite average last term and you could do with some higher marks to bring your average up."
This is the sort of thing Franz Kafka had to put up with every day from his pushy father. HOWEVER, it would have been an entirely different story if Kafka's stories involved people waking up as a toad. His dad fucking loved that concept. "Well it'd be bloody mad, wouldn't it? Waking up as a fucking toad? Mental. Someone should really write a story where that happens." Gives little Franz a proper blatant look. You know the one where you raise your eyebrows as high as they go and nod a little bit. So yeah, who could blame the fellow for feeling a little bit angsty? Not I, for one. Not I.
'Kafka, Kafka, where did our love go? And all of your beetles, and a modernist metaphor.....' (That's a line from the unreleased Supremes song, 'Kafka, Where Did Our Love Go?'. Motown bossmen thought it was a bit 'too real' and 'close to the bone' for a mainstream audience. I for one agree. Do you? Discuss, in relation to discus.)
This is the sort of thing Franz Kafka had to put up with every day from his pushy father. HOWEVER, it would have been an entirely different story if Kafka's stories involved people waking up as a toad. His dad fucking loved that concept. "Well it'd be bloody mad, wouldn't it? Waking up as a fucking toad? Mental. Someone should really write a story where that happens." Gives little Franz a proper blatant look. You know the one where you raise your eyebrows as high as they go and nod a little bit. So yeah, who could blame the fellow for feeling a little bit angsty? Not I, for one. Not I.
'Kafka, Kafka, where did our love go? And all of your beetles, and a modernist metaphor.....' (That's a line from the unreleased Supremes song, 'Kafka, Where Did Our Love Go?'. Motown bossmen thought it was a bit 'too real' and 'close to the bone' for a mainstream audience. I for one agree. Do you? Discuss, in relation to discus.)
The Night of the Terrifying Turkey
I don't know about any of you lot, but I've come to the conclusion that turkeys are actually quite fucking terrifying. I'd been suppressing this issue for quite some time, but now's the time to confront it.
---------------It was a cold September night (yes, it's always September isn't it), and Kirk was sleeping soundly in his comfortable, warm bed. BUT, all was not well, coz there was a fucking turkey outside his window wasn't there!! It was going apeshit and it scared the shit out of young Kirk--------------
So yes, that story was made up, I don't live anywhere near turkeys and never intend to, but imagine this scene vividly and I think you'll agree that you'd be fucking mentally scared. And anyways, what the fuck is up with all that extra skin on their head? Looks like they're covered in strawberry hubba-bubba, the fucking bell-ends.
"Oy.......George....where'd you get that hubba-bubba?"
"I didn't, it's my bloody head isn't it! Your head's the same, Teddy."
"Whatever George." (strolls on cockily. George was an unpopular turkey and nobody really listened to him that much to be honest).
But I've detracted from the point. The actual incident when I got terrified by a turkey is when I was on an English holiday (classic) in some seaside place and we stayed in a farm, and they only had a fucking great turkey patrolling around didn't they. Yeah so he fuckin' chased me and made this mental noise. Never forgave the dickhead farmer for that. But yet it makes every Christmas dinner all the sweeter. Over and out.
"Whatever George." (strolls on cockily. George was an unpopular turkey and nobody really listened to him that much to be honest).
But I've detracted from the point. The actual incident when I got terrified by a turkey is when I was on an English holiday (classic) in some seaside place and we stayed in a farm, and they only had a fucking great turkey patrolling around didn't they. Yeah so he fuckin' chased me and made this mental noise. Never forgave the dickhead farmer for that. But yet it makes every Christmas dinner all the sweeter. Over and out.
One of the many adventures of GIRLS ALOUD!!
Cheryl, Nadine, Sarah, Nicola and Kimberly are sitting around in their office with nothing to do particularly. Suddenly! there is a heavy knock on the door.
"Come in!" shouts Kimberly, then pouts loads. Coz she's in Girls Aloud. The person enters, a middle-aged man in a long trench-coat looking extremely flustered indeed.
"Is this Girls Aloud, private detectives?"
"For this adventure, yes. Though we have absolutely no qualifications or authority in the way of police work or experience. But, yeah." says Cheryl, then does a dazzling smile.
"I've got a big problem...." he starts.
"Well we'll deal with that, no problem." says Cheryl again, but Nadine's not having this.
"Yeah alright Cheryl," she says in her ridiculous Northern Irish accent so it sounds more like 'yey ullroit shairull'
"You've already said one line, one of the other girls is meant to go now." she says. Cheryl frowns and does a 'whatever' face.
"Since when were there rules?"
"I never said there were rules, but it's common courtesy. This is an ensemble, it's not all about you, just coz you presented fucking X-Factor." she says. The room falls silent. It's what was on everybody's mind.
"I knew this is what it was about, you just HAD to bring that up didn't you?"
"To be fair Cheryl you do keep banging on about it." says Nicola. That's the ginger one. You can make up your own minds up about her.
"I literally haven't mentioned it once!!" Cheryl protests. By this point the already-flustered man is looking extremely uncomfortable indeed.
"Yeah, but....it was on T.V loads...." Sarah says.
"If I may cut in...." the flustered man says. They all give him the iciest stares you've ever seen.
"Yeah alright 'mate'." says Sarah, and starts cracking up at how pathetic he looks.
"What a wanker!" chips in Kimberly. The ginger one starts doing the 'wanker' gesture. He goes bright red and stumbles out, and they all crack up.
"What were we talking about again?" asks Nadine (Woyt wehrr weuy torlking aboit ageyn?)
They all shrug, and start performing their single 'A Promise'. Brings the fucking house down.
What would you do if were treated in such a manner when trying to enlist the services of a private detective?
A thought process.......
Okay so the Bible says that Jesus is gonna come back one day, right? (I think it does anyway I haven't read it)
Thing is, what if he did, but he came back entirely on his own on some remote island, and had no way of reaching civilization to spread the word of his return? It'd be a fucking joke wouldn't it. He'd have to give God a right bollocking, I expect.
"Oy, Dad, couldn't you have put me somewhere better, like New York City, or London?"
"Well son, no. And anyways, I'm not just your dad, I am also you simultaneously, part of the holy trinity, innit?"
"What does 'innit' mean?"
"Son, you have much to learn, which is why I have put you back on this Earth."
"Yeah but where the fuck am I?"
"............Hold on son.........just a minute........I have to take a call...."
Jesus waits for literally weeks but God doesn't get back to him.
So, Jesus tries to make a boat out of some sand, but it doesn't work.
"This is fucking ridiculous." he says to himself.
So yeah, what would you do if you were in his position?
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