Thursday, September 03, 2015

Lucy again, and some kind words toward my former wife

The former Mrs Coleman and I do not see eye-to-eye on a great many things, which is why we have now been divorced for the best part of three years. Our differences were many, and largely comprised (but are not unique to) my breaking the house rules about the slow-closing toilet seat. OK, I was guilty of some Other Really Bad Things, but it was the toilet shenanigans which drove her over the edge, I should imagine.

Be that as it may, I admit that I was welling up a bit over the dignity and care my ex-wife handled the final hours of poor, dead Lucy Minogue yesterday. OK, I welled up quite a lot.

Puppy was very ill in her last few days, and was at the point - on top of her blindness, deafness and creeping dementia - that she had lost continence of both bladder and bowel. But instead of taking Lucy on her final journey with matted and stinking fur, Vanessa bathed and groomed her and let her go to sleep neither smelling nor looking like a furry ball of turds. That's a gesture basic human kindness that is sadly missing in this world today, and I respect that.

And later, the former Mrs Coleman sends me this picture of the front of her local Weymouth butcher-stroke-publicity-hunter's shop:

"Home of the Juicy Lucy Burger", for all love
Man, that didn't take long. Lucy would be up there laughing her little face off.

Wednesday, September 02, 2015

Lucy (2004-2015)

Lucy 2004-2015
It's heartbreaking when a family pet dies, and today is no exception as Lucy Minogue crosses that ol' Rainbow Bridge at the age of eleven. Time's just caught up with the old lady as her eyesight, hearing (and probably the worst of all for a dog) sense of smell went, and she was left with zero quality of life.

It's always a terrible decision for any pet owner to make, but the former Mrs C has made the right one. I've only seen Lucy off-and-on over the last three years because of divorce, and it's the children Hazel and Adam I truly feel sorry for, having to experience the loss of a much-loved family member who we've known since she was a pup for the first time.


Family dog, with family
The consolation is that the house won't be empty when they get home from the inevitable, as there's another small fluffy dog on the scene by the name of Nelson. There's nothing worse than a house being empty of dog, and I can tell you that from personal experience. But it's not all about me, because today is all about remembering The Best Small Dog Ever with a huge pile of photos.

We'll all miss you, Puppy.

I mean, how could you ever resist that face?
"ZZZzzz..."
Lucy never had puppies of her own, so here she is with one of her children
"I say, my good man, could I trouble you for a piece of cheese?"

"I suppose you think that's funny"

Dog on holiday
"I can has beefs?"
Butter wouldn't melt etc
"Halp!"
"I'm sure there's a phone number I can ring and report you for this"

ZZZzzz... (reprise)
"Nothing much going on here - just the whole world revolving around me"
"You're an idiot. Get out"
If you've got a pet, go home and give him or her a hug. Unless it's a snake or a leopard, then don't.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Bob the Builder and the Devil's Work

This used to be Bob the Builder. Let's be frank, dear reader - here's a man I'd trust with my damp course any time of the day or night, and that's not even sexy slang.

He had two number one singles, and kept Neil Morrissey on the straight-and-narrow, stopping him from appearing in dreadful films such as Run For Your Wife. Then he stopped being Bob the Builder, and went straight out and appeared in dreadful films like Run For Your Wife.

Now look at Bob. LOOK AT HIM.

They've turned him into some dreadful CGI man-child, and it's not even Neil Morrissey.

Look at those dead, dead eyes and that vacant face.

There's nobody at home. The skull is empty except for the FIRES OF HELL that burn with SATAN'S WORK. Can he fix it? Only if LUCIFER says so.

And those hands.

Freakishly large, and I know what you're thinking. Those are the hands of a committed masturbator, thinking SATANIC thoughts of lust and wanton wossnames when he's supposed to be building an extension at Mrs Humpsmore's house. If you look in the skip behind Bob's builder's yard, I'll wager you'll find them full of buggered watermelons.

And there's one other thing.

Who gave you the extra finger, Bob? That's right. SATAN.

The new Bob the Builder. Evil. QED.

Let's just remember the glory days. Like the time they let Stephen King write an episode.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

The Coleman Family versus The London Flower Lovers' League

In which I am exposed as slightly better than average by the London Flower Lovers' League
"What the hell is this nonsense?" my sister asks.

She is at my father's house in Cornwall, and is Going Through Stuff, and using the electronic witchcraft that is Facebook to convey significant finds back to me and my brother.

And indeed, what the hell is this nonsense, and what the buggery were we doing getting mixed up with the London Flower Lovers' League?

I slept on it, and it all came back. Just before Christmas, a group of nice ladies with large handbags would visit our school on the Fulham Palace Road and give each child one daffodil bulb. They were the London Flower Lovers' League, and their existence has been a complete blank in my mind for the last four decades. We were expected to take the bulb away, grow it in a pot, and bring it back on a set day in the spring term, and Face The Judgement of the London Flower Lovers' League.

Naturally, at the age of six, I couldn't give a shit whether my bulb lived or died, and once it was safely at home, it was all down to my mother to do all the hard work. After a few weeks, still giving zero shits, the plant was ferried back to school and The Judgement of the London Flower Lovers' League commenced.

I have no memory of this, except for A Very Special School Assembly, where a group from the London Flower Lovers' League (looking exactly like the Monty Python team in drag as the Batley Townswomen's Guild) stood at the front and gave prizes to the winners. After a brief moment of hope mixed with giving a shit, I found I was not a winner, and returned to my default setting vis-a-vis daffodil bulbs (ie not giving a shit).

But, on returning to my class, I was handed a London Flower Lovers' League certificate saying my mum's daffodil was "Highly Commended", an item which I have no recollection of ever owning. My sister, as you can see, got a second class certificate of merit, and she claims she once got a first class one as well. Pictures or it didn't happen, swot. Away from these scenes of jubilation, my brother got a certificate saying "Thank you for your flower", clearly missing the words "but it was shit and we've already stamped on it".

Now he's got a house with a swimming pool in the garden, so sod you, the London Flower Lovers' League.

"Which one of you's Coleman? I know your mum grew your bulb for you. Don't deny it"
And what of the London Flower Lovers' League? The London Flower Lovers' League became the London Children's Flower Society, are still going as a registered charity, appear to be lovely people doing this as volunteers, and still do the spring bulb-growing competition.

I'm sorry if I was rude about you and your efforts to bring some colour into children's lives. Don't send the Batley Townswomen's Guild round.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Friday, August 21, 2015

The dinner party conundrum

Gandhi: "Aww, crap. Not another dinner party"
It's that age old philosophical question: If you could invite three figures from history to a dinner party, who would you choose?

And this is where I feel sorry for people like Gandhi, Joan of Arc and Jesus, because they're doomed to spending their entire life in the hereafter attending dull dinner parties with unimaginative hosts and the same small circle of A-List celebrity stiffs.

Even the stoical Gandhi's heart must sink when he turns up at another front door in suburbia to see Hitler's jacket, swastika arm-band winking at him like the evil eye, hanging from the coat hook. Christ's endless well of forgiveness is surely running dry as he finds he's been sat to a hedge fund manager from Surbiton, and he'd commit actual murder for a KFC bargain bucket instead of fucking sea bass again.

"You realise the whole fisherman thing is symbolic," Jesus protests, but the hedge fund manager won't shut the fuck up about the profit he'll turn in his latest asset stripping adventure. Jesus makes a note to pass on the the people at the gates of heaven: "Don't let this one in. 100% twat."

That's why - if posed with the dinner party question - I'd steer well away from the A-Listers and go for a threesome a bit further down the food chain. In fact, I'd invite notable bastards from history, in the hope that they might turn on each other, I get to throw them out, and finish the whole ordeal as early into the evening as possible. So:

Idi Amin Dada: All-round bastard and ruler of Uganda between 1971-1979. Said to have had an interest in cannibalism and the painful death of his enemies. I'd like to force feed him Buckie and Irn Bru, just to make him realise the folly of his keenness for ruling Scotland.

Dr Harold Shipman: Said to be Britain's worst serial killer, although what the press actually means is 'best', because he seemed to be rather good at it. I'd like him to check out my feet, then accidentally kick him in the face.

Thomas Midgley Jr: You may not have heard of him, but he is the inventor of both lead in petrol and CFCs in aerosol cans. His inventions lead to the poisoning of millions and the slow destruction of our ozone layer, contributing largely to the climate change we are experiencing today. He also invented a contraption to help get him out of bed, which killed him. One eulogy says he "had more impact on the atmosphere than any other single organism in Earth's history", which is probably not an overstatement. I'd like to talk to him about a couple of small matters.

Amin: "Yer me best pal, hic"
Now, sane people would be wondering why I've invited a cannibal, a mass murderer and the worst person in the world round my place for a nice little dinner party in commuter-belt Hampshire. It's quite simple. I was going to make them three delightful courses of the finest Waitrose-based cuisine, all heavily garnished with their own shit, because fuck those dead guys.

And that's my ideal dinner party.

P.S. In case one of these three devils cries off for any reason:

Reserve place-setting: Ron

Ron: "I swear on my life somebody hacked my account and ordered two big pink wobbly blancmanges in the shape of a lady's bosoms."

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Walt Disney's Minnie Mouse, RIP

Why did nobody tell me about Minnie Mouse dying? I had to find out about it on Facebook of all places.

And to make things worse, it looks like poor Mickey's taking it really badly.

Instead of the help he so clearly needs, he's being forced - at the end of an electric cattle prod - to get up on the carnival float and do another parade down Main Street at Disneyland Paris. And it's killing him.

Why - we ask - is he feeling so guilty?

That'll be it. Minnie gave birth to a dog, and it drove her over the edge. Tragic.

How many times have we seen loved ones giving birth to dogs, leading to a tale of tragedy and woe? Too many times, that's how many. 

I think I speak for us all when I say: RIP MINNIE MOOSE U ARE WIV DA ANGLES IN HEVEN WIV DIANA AND CECIL THE LOIN. AND ALSO CILLA AND THE QUENE MUM GOD BLESS HER.

I am not mad.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

The importance of correct grammar in a post-modern society

Without punctuation, we tend toward chaos, and this anti-nazi banner that reads "GET IN THE SEA NAZIS" is all the proof we need. It could be saying any number of things:

- "Get in the Sea Nazis" = The Sea Nazis are recruiting again. Please join the Sea Nazis, they're like the Sea Scouts, only with weird ideas about racial purity. (See also: Pond scum)

- "Get in! The Sea Nazis" = We support FC Athletico Hitler of Hamburg, otherwise known as The Sea Nazis. Get in!"

- "Get 'In the Sea Nazis'" = 'In the Sea Nazis" is the new bestseller by Jeffrey Archer, and tells of his 100% true adventures infiltrating the Sea Nazis from their base in a Scout hut on the banks of the River Thames in Abingdon.

- "Get in the sea! Nazis!" = Often heard during the Dunkirk Evacuation of 1940.

- "Get in the sea, Nazis" = Go on, fuck off the lot of you.

SEA NAZIS: They're back, in Lego form
The more eagle-eyed among you will note from the photograph that trucking company Eddie Stobart is now offering "trolled distribution" to its customers.

Trolled distribution is when you receive a huge delivery on a truck pallet, but all it contains is a slip of paper saying "I've done your mum, LOL".

In fact, Eddie Stobart, renowned for giving all of their trucks women's names, have given their experimental Trolled Distribution lorry the moniker "Your Mum" as special tribute to the juvenile joke that never dies. No, that's YOUR mum.

Even Ron's in on the act:

RON: In dispute with Virgin Media, who claim he watched the adult movie "Get in the She Nazis" on a pay channel, which he didn't.
 Poor Ron.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

The worst Facebook fridge magnet in the world

You know I'm a big fan of those rubbish share-me Facebook fridge magnets that people keep sharing. So I had to save this one for posterity.

It has been shared 352,000 times, proof indeed that our society deserves every terrible thing that it gets.

Then I remembered this exists...

 ...which is doing the rounds with a reminder to the punters that it's photoshopped and not real. Because somebody, somewhere is going to say "Is that real?"

It's real.*

*Lie.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

We Will Go To Mount Paektu

Slovenian avante garde industrial rock band Laibach are playing a couple of dates in Pyongyang next week, and I'm not entirely sure what the North Koreans have let themselves in for.

To mark the occasion, they've released their own version of popular North Korean propaganda song "We Will Go To Mount Paektu". It's actually quite good, and is easily the best song about a volcano I've heard today.



And here's the original version by the Moranbong Band, the popular beat combo reputedly hand-picked by Kim Jong Un himself, who once did a mental live version of the Rocky theme on Korean Central TV.



But which one's better? Only one way to find out....

 I'm pretty sure that the Moranbong girls will take them, easy.