Dear South West Trains
When a train - let us say last night's 1857 Brighton-Reading service - is running a mere ten minutes late, it is perhaps best not to terminate that service at, say, Basingstoke, stranding your fare-paying customers on platform four, thus allowing the return service to run on time and to make your performance statistics look good.
This is mainly because there may be passengers on that train who have paid good money to be taken to Reading, who may not be, in the main, completely pleased to find themselves stranded short of their destination in what can best be described as sub-arctic temperatures for the best part of an hour.
The guard informed me that a network controller had decided that because there were "so few" customers requiring the service to Reading, the train would terminate early and make good the ten minutes lost to the timetable. In doing so, South West Trains managed to inconvenience myself and other customers by more than an hour. I'm sure there's some twisted logic in there which I, a mere customer, am not privy. Well done.
The station manager, train driver and guard were all very sorry and frankly embarrassed by the company's actions, but platitudes do not make the trains run on time, nor make up for my late arrival at work. Someone, somewhere needs to be taught that treating customers - even ones they cannot see from their control room - like something stuck to the bottom of their shoe is perhaps A Bad Thing To Do.
Yours, Scary
Neatly precised by Ionicus, who has qualifications in prose and hardly any pictures of a naked Carol Smillie:
Dear cunts
Fuck you and your fucking trains.
Love,
Scary
I think I'll stick to the original.
Shagger
David "Shagger" Blunkett - where do you start with this excuse for a man? I'm not going to take the piss out of his disability - anyone can kick a guide dog when it's down - but the writing's on the wall for his political career. In huge red, six foot high letters. With a handy braille translation.
But when a cabinet minister is caught shagging a married woman, gets her pregnant - possibly giving birth to a whole tribe of Mini Blunketts - how is it, according to The Sun, the woman's fault when she goes back to her husband for forgiveness? After all, any politician caught up to his balls in trouble has done the decent thing. Even Cecil Parkinson.
The merest whiff of shagging about was enough to see off Boris Johnson, and poor old Paddy Ashdown dropped his trousers and was exiled to Bosnia in return. However, if there is nothing more vengeful, less honourable than an enraged New Labourite, Shagger Blunkett's hissed "Stop harrassing me" when doorstepping journalists managed a whole two questions of him on the affair doesn't bode well for the future of a free press.
And what of the Filipino maid business, with the sight of a Home Secretary launching an inquiry into his own behaviour, which will, naturally, absolve him of any blame? If I'd have got involved with fiddling the books for the Au Pair, I'd at least have made sure she was a looker.
Speaking as a repentant shagger, my message to Blunkett is simple - if you don't like it up you, then don't stick it up her. A bit late for that, isn't it?
I do, however, look forward to seeing Shagger chaining himself to the railings outside Buckingham Palace as part of a Fathers 4 Justice stunt.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Monday, November 29, 2004
On Hunting
On Hunting
Now that they've finally gone and banned hunting, I can already see a giant loophole that you could drive a pack of dogs through. Any huntmaster worth his salt would be wise to exploit such a glaring ommission should this *cough* fine country tradition of chinless wonders shouting "Tally Ho!" and killing things continue into the new millennium.
The law bans hunting with dogs - what's to stop any hunt using the three months they've got got to train up other animals to do the job?
Cats: But only if they can be arsed, and if there's a scratchy pole and a saucer of something at the end.
Piranha: Imagine the results if you could drive a fox toward a river - carnage enough to bring joy to any watching member of the Royal Family.
Lions: Might be a bit tricky, but I firmly believe that the Longleat Hunt will clear up on this one.
Killer Whales: A system of pulleys and milk floats is a sure-fire winner if these blood-thirsty bastards are anything to go by.
Japanese Spider Crabs: Six feet across, armour-plated, bullet-proof, invincible. If this one comes off, it'll be the Terminator of the countryside.
Penguins: By cunningly tying a fish onto the back of any fox you meet, a well-trained pack of penguins will provide hours of sport and knockabout comedy that'd make any hunting trip a day to remember. The only problem is being cunning enough to tie said fish to the foxes, who are, in fact, known for their cunning. Might be a bit difficult.
Other Foxes: Specially bred Judas foxes, dressed up in sexy lingerie, luring sex-starved males to their doom. How cunning is that?
Now that they've finally gone and banned hunting, I can already see a giant loophole that you could drive a pack of dogs through. Any huntmaster worth his salt would be wise to exploit such a glaring ommission should this *cough* fine country tradition of chinless wonders shouting "Tally Ho!" and killing things continue into the new millennium.
The law bans hunting with dogs - what's to stop any hunt using the three months they've got got to train up other animals to do the job?
Cats: But only if they can be arsed, and if there's a scratchy pole and a saucer of something at the end.
Piranha: Imagine the results if you could drive a fox toward a river - carnage enough to bring joy to any watching member of the Royal Family.
Lions: Might be a bit tricky, but I firmly believe that the Longleat Hunt will clear up on this one.
Killer Whales: A system of pulleys and milk floats is a sure-fire winner if these blood-thirsty bastards are anything to go by.
Japanese Spider Crabs: Six feet across, armour-plated, bullet-proof, invincible. If this one comes off, it'll be the Terminator of the countryside.
Penguins: By cunningly tying a fish onto the back of any fox you meet, a well-trained pack of penguins will provide hours of sport and knockabout comedy that'd make any hunting trip a day to remember. The only problem is being cunning enough to tie said fish to the foxes, who are, in fact, known for their cunning. Might be a bit difficult.
Other Foxes: Specially bred Judas foxes, dressed up in sexy lingerie, luring sex-starved males to their doom. How cunning is that?
Saturday, November 27, 2004
Dogs and Cats! Living Together!
Dogs and Cats! Living Together!
I can't be the only person in the world disturbed by the fact that George W Bush hasfinally interested himself in the Northern Ireland peace process, with a phone call to the not-barking-mad-at-all DUP leader Ian Paisley.
Aside from a mutual interest in burning heretics, I can't imagine for a moment what the pair had to talk about.
The only parallel I can think of right now is that of the Keyholder and the Gatekeeper from Ghostbusters meeting up, paving the way for Gozer the Destroyer to walk the Earth, smiting the wailing millions in the shape of Gerry Adams.
We're doomed, aren't we?
I can't be the only person in the world disturbed by the fact that George W Bush hasfinally interested himself in the Northern Ireland peace process, with a phone call to the not-barking-mad-at-all DUP leader Ian Paisley.
Aside from a mutual interest in burning heretics, I can't imagine for a moment what the pair had to talk about.
The only parallel I can think of right now is that of the Keyholder and the Gatekeeper from Ghostbusters meeting up, paving the way for Gozer the Destroyer to walk the Earth, smiting the wailing millions in the shape of Gerry Adams.
We're doomed, aren't we?
Friday, November 26, 2004
Octopus: Fairground woe
Octopus
We rode the Octopus.
These days it would be seen as a fairground ride for whimps, but back then it a test of hardness to the youth of Twyford as the funfair made its twice yearly visit to the village.
The big question was "How long could you stay on?" It was a trial by g-force that lasted as long as your money did, until you were thrown off or you could take it no more. Stories were told of those who managed five, six, ten rides in a row and hardly needing hospital treatment at all.
Melanie (known as Melon-y for two reasons I cannot even begin to express here) looked well set for a mammoth ride. With a wink to the ride operator, she was allowed to stay on for as long as she wanted, and every time the ride finished, she dipped into what seemed a bottomless purse for another fare and another ride on the swirling behemoth.
Quite a crowd built up underneath. Not simply because the entire fair consisted of a whole four rides and every bugger and their dog had had enough of the merry-go-round, the dodgems and the other whirly-round thing whose name escapes me and wanted a go on the Octopus - word of Mel's impending triumph was getting around. She had been in flight for the best part of 45 minutes, and records were being set.
It was rumoured that one year, car eight hadn't been bolted on properly and it had flown off at the top of its arc, killing some friend-of-a-friend's aunt as it plunged into a nearby back garden. Mel - Cthulhu save her - was in car eight. Surely history wouldn't repeat?
We watched in awe as the ride started up again. Somebody was keeping count, and great cheers went up everytime our heroine hove into view. Round and round went the bloody great wheel, up and down went the cars, spinning the occupants this way and that in a dizzying dance to thumping rock music and flashing lights.
"Hey Mel! What's the weather like up there?"
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!"
Raining.
She could have least waited until she was round the back, or on the bottom of a swing. But no, car eight was at its highest point, right above our heads as Mel's stomach decided enough was enough and the words "projectile vomiting" entered my vocabulary for the first time in my young life.
Half digested hotdog, candy floss and cheap cider flew in a graceful arc and rained down on the attendant crowds to shrieks of great woe and gnashing of teeth. This, unfortunately, unleashed a domino effect of vomiting, as those who had also been overdoing it on the supermarket own-brand cider, junk food sourced from at least one named animal and consecutive rides on the Octopus decided to join in with the chorus of Rolf and Huey.
I've been on some rough Irish Sea ferry crossings, but the devastation below the Octopus that night made them look like a ride on the boating lake at Regent's Park. Days of chunder, indeed.
As the ride came to a halt, Mel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and with a nod to the ride operator said "Again, please."
The next day, the fair left and the seagulls came.
We rode the Octopus.
These days it would be seen as a fairground ride for whimps, but back then it a test of hardness to the youth of Twyford as the funfair made its twice yearly visit to the village.
The big question was "How long could you stay on?" It was a trial by g-force that lasted as long as your money did, until you were thrown off or you could take it no more. Stories were told of those who managed five, six, ten rides in a row and hardly needing hospital treatment at all.
Melanie (known as Melon-y for two reasons I cannot even begin to express here) looked well set for a mammoth ride. With a wink to the ride operator, she was allowed to stay on for as long as she wanted, and every time the ride finished, she dipped into what seemed a bottomless purse for another fare and another ride on the swirling behemoth.
Quite a crowd built up underneath. Not simply because the entire fair consisted of a whole four rides and every bugger and their dog had had enough of the merry-go-round, the dodgems and the other whirly-round thing whose name escapes me and wanted a go on the Octopus - word of Mel's impending triumph was getting around. She had been in flight for the best part of 45 minutes, and records were being set.
It was rumoured that one year, car eight hadn't been bolted on properly and it had flown off at the top of its arc, killing some friend-of-a-friend's aunt as it plunged into a nearby back garden. Mel - Cthulhu save her - was in car eight. Surely history wouldn't repeat?
We watched in awe as the ride started up again. Somebody was keeping count, and great cheers went up everytime our heroine hove into view. Round and round went the bloody great wheel, up and down went the cars, spinning the occupants this way and that in a dizzying dance to thumping rock music and flashing lights.
"Hey Mel! What's the weather like up there?"
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!!!!!"
Raining.
She could have least waited until she was round the back, or on the bottom of a swing. But no, car eight was at its highest point, right above our heads as Mel's stomach decided enough was enough and the words "projectile vomiting" entered my vocabulary for the first time in my young life.
Half digested hotdog, candy floss and cheap cider flew in a graceful arc and rained down on the attendant crowds to shrieks of great woe and gnashing of teeth. This, unfortunately, unleashed a domino effect of vomiting, as those who had also been overdoing it on the supermarket own-brand cider, junk food sourced from at least one named animal and consecutive rides on the Octopus decided to join in with the chorus of Rolf and Huey.
I've been on some rough Irish Sea ferry crossings, but the devastation below the Octopus that night made them look like a ride on the boating lake at Regent's Park. Days of chunder, indeed.
As the ride came to a halt, Mel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and with a nod to the ride operator said "Again, please."
The next day, the fair left and the seagulls came.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Rules of Blogging no.23
Rules of Blogging no.23
"Never blog whilst drunk."
Look, we had a wonderful leaving do for six of the lovliest ladies who ever filed video tapes for the Corporation, one thing led to another, and the White Horse in Emmer Green is now the legal owner of the contents of my wallet.
And you want a Thursday vote-o, even if I can barely focus on the keyboard, do you? If you insist, then.
Just to be different, I have selected a random line from the six Scary stories available and you may cast your vote for any one of these. Simple, eh, and what could possibly go wrong?
1. A domino effect of vomiting
2. "But usually he's got clothes on."
3. I think I might have said "Fuck" at some stage
4. Teenage boys in uniform
5. And they wouldn't even let me finish "Buster Gonad" either
6. "Look, just fuck off, will you?"
Vote! Vote! Vote! But what do I care? I'll have a hangover by the time I see this page again.
"Never blog whilst drunk."
Look, we had a wonderful leaving do for six of the lovliest ladies who ever filed video tapes for the Corporation, one thing led to another, and the White Horse in Emmer Green is now the legal owner of the contents of my wallet.
And you want a Thursday vote-o, even if I can barely focus on the keyboard, do you? If you insist, then.
Just to be different, I have selected a random line from the six Scary stories available and you may cast your vote for any one of these. Simple, eh, and what could possibly go wrong?
1. A domino effect of vomiting
2. "But usually he's got clothes on."
3. I think I might have said "Fuck" at some stage
4. Teenage boys in uniform
5. And they wouldn't even let me finish "Buster Gonad" either
6. "Look, just fuck off, will you?"
Vote! Vote! Vote! But what do I care? I'll have a hangover by the time I see this page again.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Ten ...err.. Eleven things I'd like to be remembered by
Ten ...err.. Eleven things I'd like to be remembered by
Life is short and fame is fleeting. If I want to get into the next life as something decent (I'm hoping to come back as a girls' bicycle saddle), I'd better start working on my account at the Bank of Karma. Looks like I've got a bit of work to do...
1. The unfortunate incident of the prime ministerial wedgie. Well - I never knew she wore incontinence pants.
2. That three-up with Mother Teresa and Princess Di. Before they were famous.
3. My camerawork on the moon landings.
4. My Royal Warrant: "Supplier of live rodents to HM the Queen".
5. The Nobel Prize for eradicating the scourge of Dhobi's Itch from the underpants of the world.
6. Composing the ice cream van jingle that inspired "Do they know it's Christmas".
7. Writing the infamous last episode of the Flintstones, where evolution and a hungry sabre-toothed tiger finally catch up with Fred.
8. Author of the best-selling pamphlet "What to do when you return from 'travelling' in India - a gap-year student's guide". Full text: "Shut up about it, you boring cunt."
9. Brought the word "flunge" into common usage.
10. The Victoria Cross awarded for running into the middle of Cornwall, shouting "You're a bunch of in-bred wankers!" and escaping with my life.
11. The tracking down, chastising, torturing and killing of those behind the new South West Trains timetable, leaving their broken bodies rotting on the streets of Fallujah. Defence: justifiable homocide.
*The wobble of flesh that protrudes between the waistband of hipster trousers and the hem of a too-short t-shirt. Barely acceptable in normal circumstances, rendered X-certificate outside a fish and chip shop at the seedy end of town.
Life is short and fame is fleeting. If I want to get into the next life as something decent (I'm hoping to come back as a girls' bicycle saddle), I'd better start working on my account at the Bank of Karma. Looks like I've got a bit of work to do...
1. The unfortunate incident of the prime ministerial wedgie. Well - I never knew she wore incontinence pants.
2. That three-up with Mother Teresa and Princess Di. Before they were famous.
3. My camerawork on the moon landings.
4. My Royal Warrant: "Supplier of live rodents to HM the Queen".
5. The Nobel Prize for eradicating the scourge of Dhobi's Itch from the underpants of the world.
6. Composing the ice cream van jingle that inspired "Do they know it's Christmas".
7. Writing the infamous last episode of the Flintstones, where evolution and a hungry sabre-toothed tiger finally catch up with Fred.
8. Author of the best-selling pamphlet "What to do when you return from 'travelling' in India - a gap-year student's guide". Full text: "Shut up about it, you boring cunt."
9. Brought the word "flunge" into common usage.
10. The Victoria Cross awarded for running into the middle of Cornwall, shouting "You're a bunch of in-bred wankers!" and escaping with my life.
11. The tracking down, chastising, torturing and killing of those behind the new South West Trains timetable, leaving their broken bodies rotting on the streets of Fallujah. Defence: justifiable homocide.
*The wobble of flesh that protrudes between the waistband of hipster trousers and the hem of a too-short t-shirt. Barely acceptable in normal circumstances, rendered X-certificate outside a fish and chip shop at the seedy end of town.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Irrational Fears
Irrational Fears
Many kids are scared of monsters under the bed, ogres and bogeymen lurking in wardrobes and the cupboard under the stairs. Some of these unfortunates have even given a name to their fear as the screams ring out deep into the night. In Scaryduckling's case, it is Wigglewig.
"Wigglewig coming." Two words to strike at the heart of a nervous little girl that won't sleep with the light off, wouldn't go upstairs without adult company. Thank God, then, for the downstairs toilet.
The Great Fear of Wigglewig got to the point that a good night's sleep could noly be guaranteed with the re-training of Scaryduckling's favourite friend - Robber Rabbit - as Kung Fu Bunny, a third dan capable of fighting off the Wigglewig menace. He may look cute and fluffy, but he'll kick your face off for a carrot given half the chance.
And the source of her fear? The monster that had Scaryduckling screaming in the night, the mooncalf that still has her unable to sleep without a night light? Wigglewig is the toilet brush. And Christ on a bike, I don't blame her.
Mine was buttons. Going to the panto at Christmas was a nightmare.
Many kids are scared of monsters under the bed, ogres and bogeymen lurking in wardrobes and the cupboard under the stairs. Some of these unfortunates have even given a name to their fear as the screams ring out deep into the night. In Scaryduckling's case, it is Wigglewig.
"Wigglewig coming." Two words to strike at the heart of a nervous little girl that won't sleep with the light off, wouldn't go upstairs without adult company. Thank God, then, for the downstairs toilet.
The Great Fear of Wigglewig got to the point that a good night's sleep could noly be guaranteed with the re-training of Scaryduckling's favourite friend - Robber Rabbit - as Kung Fu Bunny, a third dan capable of fighting off the Wigglewig menace. He may look cute and fluffy, but he'll kick your face off for a carrot given half the chance.
And the source of her fear? The monster that had Scaryduckling screaming in the night, the mooncalf that still has her unable to sleep without a night light? Wigglewig is the toilet brush. And Christ on a bike, I don't blame her.
Mine was buttons. Going to the panto at Christmas was a nightmare.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Just your regular everyday hero, ma'am
Just your regular everyday hero, ma'am
Hooray for me! I just saved our hamster (the evil-hearted Ryan Minogue) from dying from hypothermia after he'd been left out in the shed for too long.
The poor little fella had been shunted out of the house for the summer while building site chaos ensued indoors. Then it turned cold, and I was presented with what appeared to be a furry little golf ball.
I had to warm up his fluffy little body by sticking him in a tube up my ar...err... blowing on him until he came to.
And then the little turd bit my finger because I'd woken him out of hibernation. Serves me right for feeding him after midnight.
I am utterly pissed off with the whole affair, as it happens.
I was rather looking forward to a good viking funeral.
Hooray for me! I just saved our hamster (the evil-hearted Ryan Minogue) from dying from hypothermia after he'd been left out in the shed for too long.
The poor little fella had been shunted out of the house for the summer while building site chaos ensued indoors. Then it turned cold, and I was presented with what appeared to be a furry little golf ball.
I had to warm up his fluffy little body by sticking him in a tube up my ar...err... blowing on him until he came to.
And then the little turd bit my finger because I'd woken him out of hibernation. Serves me right for feeding him after midnight.
I am utterly pissed off with the whole affair, as it happens.
I was rather looking forward to a good viking funeral.
Friday, November 19, 2004
The Great Chair Race
The Great Chair Race
I'm old enough to remember the days when schools used to have chairs made out of wood. You know, the brown stuff that grows on trees. You know, squirrels. None of that cheapo metal-and-plastic rubbish - our school had top quality wooden seating, lovingly crafted by prisoners of war in the 1940s.
After decades of misuse, it was pretty safe to say that our chairs were falling to pieces, and with Thatcher stealing everything from milk to library books from our schools, Berkshire County Council simply couldn't afford to replace them. Every lesson was like Russian roulette as students gingerly placed their bottoms onto their seats in case it finally gave up the ghost and left them sprawling on the floor to hoots of laughter.
Those of us in the know would attend lessons with a screwdriver, tightening or loosening screws as necessary. After all, you didn't want to be the one with matching bruises on both arse and ego.
But it wasn't all fear and loathing in the classroom. By sitting facing backwards on one of these wooden chairs, and working the seat-back like a rowing machine, we found you could walk the chair across the finely polished floors, reaching terrifying speeds if the chair was knackered enough and you had muscles on your forearms like Schwarzenegger.
We were kids. We were competitive. When two or more are gathered in the name of dossing about, you're going to have a race.
Wet breaks are great, because you've got whole classes to yourself without any form of adult supervision. Any teacherless moment can be used for the latest round of the World Championship of chair racing - the aim being to hold a race in every room in the school and beat the crap out of the person who wins the most.
I have seen with my own eyes, in Room 4 of the Old School as rain trickled down the windows, all the desks pushed back and a dozen drivers going hell-for-leather for the blackboard.
I have heard with my own ears the sound of a portakabin falling to pieces as a not-so-secret race meeting got out of control.
It couldn't last.
There we were, just before the end of the school day, waiting for our tutor to come and fill out the register, and we would be free for another day. Just time enough for Ju-Vid and I to race down the gap between the desks in round 27 of the World Championship, then.
Go! Working our chair backs like crazy, we skated across the wooden floor to the finish line where Ernie waited with a makeshift chequered flag we'd knocked up out of an old towel whipped from the lost property basket.
Neck and neck, the crowd roared us on, and girls rolled their eyes to the ceiling.
Two things happened.
One: "What the bloody hell's going on here then?"
Oh, spoons. Mrs Gibson.
Two: SNAP!
Oh, spoons. Ju-Vid.
He landed with a clatter at Mrs Gibson's feet, performing a neat half twist to enable him to see right up her skirt. He was still clutching the back of his chair which had snapped off in his hands, all the evidence she needed to convict the two of us.
As you'd expect, deathly silence. The only movement was Ernie quietly concealing the chequered flag in his school bag.
Mrs Gibson was normally, friendly, quiet, reserved, blonde and the owner of a number of tight jumpers. I think the description I am scrabbling for her on this occasion would be "fucking ape-shit ballistic".
Caught like a pair of Treens in a disabled space cruiser, Ju-Vid and I were marched off to Mr Marcus, the world's hairiest man and middle school head. We were forced to confess our involvement in the illicit chair-racing cartel, which was apparantly destroying the morality of the school thanks to small quantities of tuck money changing hands in side bets.
Marcus sat on the corner of his desk, legs akimbo in a shiny Man-at-Burtons suit, hair spilling out of every orifice, as he laid down the law to the pair of us. We swore he put socks down the front of his trousers. Disturbing was not the word for it.
By way of punishment, we were to spend every day after school for a whole two weeks tightening up the screws on every single chair in the establishment, and hammering home wooden wedges to ensure that wobbliness was a thing of the past.
Not so Marcus's desk, which collapsed one afternoon as he perched on one corner whilst teaching geography. I swear on my dog's life I had nothing to do with it.
The day the plastic chairs arrived was a black one in the history of our school.
I'm old enough to remember the days when schools used to have chairs made out of wood. You know, the brown stuff that grows on trees. You know, squirrels. None of that cheapo metal-and-plastic rubbish - our school had top quality wooden seating, lovingly crafted by prisoners of war in the 1940s.
After decades of misuse, it was pretty safe to say that our chairs were falling to pieces, and with Thatcher stealing everything from milk to library books from our schools, Berkshire County Council simply couldn't afford to replace them. Every lesson was like Russian roulette as students gingerly placed their bottoms onto their seats in case it finally gave up the ghost and left them sprawling on the floor to hoots of laughter.
Those of us in the know would attend lessons with a screwdriver, tightening or loosening screws as necessary. After all, you didn't want to be the one with matching bruises on both arse and ego.
But it wasn't all fear and loathing in the classroom. By sitting facing backwards on one of these wooden chairs, and working the seat-back like a rowing machine, we found you could walk the chair across the finely polished floors, reaching terrifying speeds if the chair was knackered enough and you had muscles on your forearms like Schwarzenegger.
We were kids. We were competitive. When two or more are gathered in the name of dossing about, you're going to have a race.
Wet breaks are great, because you've got whole classes to yourself without any form of adult supervision. Any teacherless moment can be used for the latest round of the World Championship of chair racing - the aim being to hold a race in every room in the school and beat the crap out of the person who wins the most.
I have seen with my own eyes, in Room 4 of the Old School as rain trickled down the windows, all the desks pushed back and a dozen drivers going hell-for-leather for the blackboard.
I have heard with my own ears the sound of a portakabin falling to pieces as a not-so-secret race meeting got out of control.
It couldn't last.
There we were, just before the end of the school day, waiting for our tutor to come and fill out the register, and we would be free for another day. Just time enough for Ju-Vid and I to race down the gap between the desks in round 27 of the World Championship, then.
Go! Working our chair backs like crazy, we skated across the wooden floor to the finish line where Ernie waited with a makeshift chequered flag we'd knocked up out of an old towel whipped from the lost property basket.
Neck and neck, the crowd roared us on, and girls rolled their eyes to the ceiling.
Two things happened.
One: "What the bloody hell's going on here then?"
Oh, spoons. Mrs Gibson.
Two: SNAP!
Oh, spoons. Ju-Vid.
He landed with a clatter at Mrs Gibson's feet, performing a neat half twist to enable him to see right up her skirt. He was still clutching the back of his chair which had snapped off in his hands, all the evidence she needed to convict the two of us.
As you'd expect, deathly silence. The only movement was Ernie quietly concealing the chequered flag in his school bag.
Mrs Gibson was normally, friendly, quiet, reserved, blonde and the owner of a number of tight jumpers. I think the description I am scrabbling for her on this occasion would be "fucking ape-shit ballistic".
Caught like a pair of Treens in a disabled space cruiser, Ju-Vid and I were marched off to Mr Marcus, the world's hairiest man and middle school head. We were forced to confess our involvement in the illicit chair-racing cartel, which was apparantly destroying the morality of the school thanks to small quantities of tuck money changing hands in side bets.
Marcus sat on the corner of his desk, legs akimbo in a shiny Man-at-Burtons suit, hair spilling out of every orifice, as he laid down the law to the pair of us. We swore he put socks down the front of his trousers. Disturbing was not the word for it.
By way of punishment, we were to spend every day after school for a whole two weeks tightening up the screws on every single chair in the establishment, and hammering home wooden wedges to ensure that wobbliness was a thing of the past.
Not so Marcus's desk, which collapsed one afternoon as he perched on one corner whilst teaching geography. I swear on my dog's life I had nothing to do with it.
The day the plastic chairs arrived was a black one in the history of our school.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
A travesty of the democratic process
A travesty of the democratic process
I'm a bit busy with legal people this week, so in lieu of the Thursday vote-o, I have asked regular readers Joy and Ionicus to select a tale of mirth and woe for me. Spurning offers of sexual favours, a low-denomination coin was flipped and we have decided on The Great Chair Race.
So mote it be.
Brushes with Fame
The height of my worldwide fame came at the end of the Cold War when I was interviewed at length by an extremely hairy camera crew from Russian Television news.
It was a report on the state news programme "Vesti" about Russian news media and the problems it faces in a commercial world (total daily viewing fixures: about sixty squillion, most of those being desperate single women, if my spam folder is anything to go by).
I was captioned "Aleksandr Ivanovich Kolmanov, British Spy".
Well, that's just bloody typical of The Service, isn't it? No bastard bothered to tell me I'd been recruited. I gather that's the way they do things these day - on a "need-to-know" basis.
I have yet to be issued with my Walther PPK and magnetic wristwatch that makes young ladies' clothes fall off. However, that Rosa Kleb keeps giving me the come-to-bed eyes, the filthy old tart.
So, instead of vote-o-ing why not tell us how (in)famous you are.
I'm a bit busy with legal people this week, so in lieu of the Thursday vote-o, I have asked regular readers Joy and Ionicus to select a tale of mirth and woe for me. Spurning offers of sexual favours, a low-denomination coin was flipped and we have decided on The Great Chair Race.
So mote it be.
Brushes with Fame
The height of my worldwide fame came at the end of the Cold War when I was interviewed at length by an extremely hairy camera crew from Russian Television news.
It was a report on the state news programme "Vesti" about Russian news media and the problems it faces in a commercial world (total daily viewing fixures: about sixty squillion, most of those being desperate single women, if my spam folder is anything to go by).
I was captioned "Aleksandr Ivanovich Kolmanov, British Spy".
Well, that's just bloody typical of The Service, isn't it? No bastard bothered to tell me I'd been recruited. I gather that's the way they do things these day - on a "need-to-know" basis.
I have yet to be issued with my Walther PPK and magnetic wristwatch that makes young ladies' clothes fall off. However, that Rosa Kleb keeps giving me the come-to-bed eyes, the filthy old tart.
So, instead of vote-o-ing why not tell us how (in)famous you are.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
The Diary of RSM Albert O'Balsam, DSC and Bar
The Diary of RSM Albert O'Balsam, DSC and Bar
Having just emerged from up some mountain where he claims to have been fighting some unnamed foe, this last bastion of the British Empire, Regimental Sergeant Major to Her Majesty's 13th Goat Brigade Albert O'Balsam DSC and Bar, is now able to reveal his unique experiences of great savagery, his conversion to an obscure branch of Christianity, the secrets of the "Craft" and nubile Swedish former virgins via these very pages. We are, indeed, not worthy:
"I arrive here, exhausted, after a long trek over the mountains of the Hindu Kush and the north-west face of Konnie Huq. Through ice, snow and gale have I travelled merely because the bus services up there insist on a concept these foreign johnnies refer to as 'exact fare only please'.
It has taken me thirty-seven years to cover a mere three hundred yards, thanks, mainly to the virgins who have thrown their nubile young bodies at me in order to attain salvation in the eyes of the Lord. Salvation, that can only be achieved through what what we, the initiates to the secret ways of the "Craft" refer to as 'The Sacred Ceremony of Three-Up.'
I gather other, less enlightened branches of the church, know this most saintly of practices as 'a damn good spit-roasting', and it is lucky that I pilfered the One, True Strap-on of Thimppu from the body of a recently expired, and extremely happy Man of God, what with me being the only male in those remote mountain parts.
Some may say that I have dallied on my trek, enjoying the company of sixteen and seventeen year old Swedish ladies in expensive lingerie, but nothing can be further from the truth. It has been Hell, HELL, I tell you, and I arrive a man broken in both spirit and body.
And now we turn to today's scripture from the Book of Razzle, chapter XXVII, verses 1 to 69: 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe the most amazing thing that happened to me the other day...'"
More of this filth at Robber Rabbit
With thanks to Col Horace Streeb Greebling, DSO (no relation)
Having just emerged from up some mountain where he claims to have been fighting some unnamed foe, this last bastion of the British Empire, Regimental Sergeant Major to Her Majesty's 13th Goat Brigade Albert O'Balsam DSC and Bar, is now able to reveal his unique experiences of great savagery, his conversion to an obscure branch of Christianity, the secrets of the "Craft" and nubile Swedish former virgins via these very pages. We are, indeed, not worthy:
"I arrive here, exhausted, after a long trek over the mountains of the Hindu Kush and the north-west face of Konnie Huq. Through ice, snow and gale have I travelled merely because the bus services up there insist on a concept these foreign johnnies refer to as 'exact fare only please'.
It has taken me thirty-seven years to cover a mere three hundred yards, thanks, mainly to the virgins who have thrown their nubile young bodies at me in order to attain salvation in the eyes of the Lord. Salvation, that can only be achieved through what what we, the initiates to the secret ways of the "Craft" refer to as 'The Sacred Ceremony of Three-Up.'
I gather other, less enlightened branches of the church, know this most saintly of practices as 'a damn good spit-roasting', and it is lucky that I pilfered the One, True Strap-on of Thimppu from the body of a recently expired, and extremely happy Man of God, what with me being the only male in those remote mountain parts.
Some may say that I have dallied on my trek, enjoying the company of sixteen and seventeen year old Swedish ladies in expensive lingerie, but nothing can be further from the truth. It has been Hell, HELL, I tell you, and I arrive a man broken in both spirit and body.
And now we turn to today's scripture from the Book of Razzle, chapter XXVII, verses 1 to 69: 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe the most amazing thing that happened to me the other day...'"
More of this filth at Robber Rabbit
With thanks to Col Horace Streeb Greebling, DSO (no relation)
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
The Curse of the Black Finger
The Curse of the Black Finger - A Catharsis Special
Kids! Be careful when carrying out DIY in the comfort of your own home. Better still, get a grown-up to do it for you instead. However, when you pay large quantities of money to some lazy, chain-smoking, tea-guzzling bullshitter to build an extension on your house, you would be best advised to go to any reasonable means short of crapping through their letterbox to ensure they finish the job.
This may well prevent them from fucking off when they get bored, leaving you to finish the job yourself, crushing your mouse-dobbing finger under a two-pound lump hammer, leaving a mess reminiscent of a car crash in a wine gum factory.
Speaking as a minor internet celebrity, this finger is the key to my fame and fortune, and its subsequent loss of use (I am now officially "special") means that I only alternative is to trawl ebay for a head-dobber. Damn you lazy, chain-smoking, tea-guzzling bullshitter!
Builders! When you decide to leave your customers in the lurch by fucking off before the end of a job, make sure that you haven't gone and signed any sort of binding contract, allowing your black-fingered client to a) write firm yet legally sound letters asking for restitution and b) whup your arse through the courts until it hurts.
And when you go whinging to a random solicitor about it, do make sure you show him said binding contract before he rattles out a letter threatening your client with all kinds of financial and legal nastiness. When he finally gets to see the contract, he will, in all probability, laugh as much as I did.
Have I forgot anything? Ah yes. Doors. When you cut holes for doors a) don't use a sledgehammer because you'll bring the whole fucking wall down and b) don't make the hole exactly the same size as the wood because you CAN'T GET THE FUCKING THING OPEN. Three words: Fawlty. Fucking. Towers.
And there is a subtle difference between "retired stone mason in the final throes of Parkinsons" and "professional plasterer" that even I noticed after two days trying to skim one wall.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Sale of Goods and Services Act 1982, and long may she sail.
And - relax...
Arse-covering corner: This blog entry is the personal opinion of the author and is in no way legally binding.
Kids! Be careful when carrying out DIY in the comfort of your own home. Better still, get a grown-up to do it for you instead. However, when you pay large quantities of money to some lazy, chain-smoking, tea-guzzling bullshitter to build an extension on your house, you would be best advised to go to any reasonable means short of crapping through their letterbox to ensure they finish the job.
This may well prevent them from fucking off when they get bored, leaving you to finish the job yourself, crushing your mouse-dobbing finger under a two-pound lump hammer, leaving a mess reminiscent of a car crash in a wine gum factory.
Speaking as a minor internet celebrity, this finger is the key to my fame and fortune, and its subsequent loss of use (I am now officially "special") means that I only alternative is to trawl ebay for a head-dobber. Damn you lazy, chain-smoking, tea-guzzling bullshitter!
Builders! When you decide to leave your customers in the lurch by fucking off before the end of a job, make sure that you haven't gone and signed any sort of binding contract, allowing your black-fingered client to a) write firm yet legally sound letters asking for restitution and b) whup your arse through the courts until it hurts.
And when you go whinging to a random solicitor about it, do make sure you show him said binding contract before he rattles out a letter threatening your client with all kinds of financial and legal nastiness. When he finally gets to see the contract, he will, in all probability, laugh as much as I did.
Have I forgot anything? Ah yes. Doors. When you cut holes for doors a) don't use a sledgehammer because you'll bring the whole fucking wall down and b) don't make the hole exactly the same size as the wood because you CAN'T GET THE FUCKING THING OPEN. Three words: Fawlty. Fucking. Towers.
And there is a subtle difference between "retired stone mason in the final throes of Parkinsons" and "professional plasterer" that even I noticed after two days trying to skim one wall.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Sale of Goods and Services Act 1982, and long may she sail.
And - relax...
Arse-covering corner: This blog entry is the personal opinion of the author and is in no way legally binding.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Bank woe
Bank woe
It's Monday morning, you're in a hurry to get to the station, but you've also got to pay some money into the bank, because you don't fancy paying out another twenty quid for a computer-generated overdraft letter.
The Gods of Bank smile upon you. There are only three people in front of you.
Doom! The Gods of Bank like a good laugh as much as the next deity, and it's not often that you see a wheelbarrow full of small change in a bank.
Alas, all three in the queue appear to be the socially and financially inept change booth ladies from local amusement arcades, cashing up for the entire summer.
Ah yes, as much fun as you can eat for a sackful of 2p pieces. I even won a nice key ring in the shape of TV's Wellard from EastEnders, that's how classy these establishments are. And these are the only places in the world were people get genuinely exicted to win a knock-off cuddly Pokemon on one of those crane machines.
Remind me - why, exactly did I think moving to a seaside resort would be A Good Thing?
Al-Falluja
Relief agencies are being denied access to the civilians of Falluja by US armed forces.
Says an American spokesman [Marine Colonel Mike Shupp, you too your name is going in ze book] : "There is no need to bring supplies in because we have supplies of our own for the people."
In other words, they'd rather the Red Crescent [Red Cross] were not involved.
By happy coincidence, Baghdad Airport has just re-opened, once more allowing foreign journalists and observers into Iraq. It closed just before the Falluja offensive kicked-off.
Something to hide, Uncle Sam?
It's Monday morning, you're in a hurry to get to the station, but you've also got to pay some money into the bank, because you don't fancy paying out another twenty quid for a computer-generated overdraft letter.
The Gods of Bank smile upon you. There are only three people in front of you.
Doom! The Gods of Bank like a good laugh as much as the next deity, and it's not often that you see a wheelbarrow full of small change in a bank.
Alas, all three in the queue appear to be the socially and financially inept change booth ladies from local amusement arcades, cashing up for the entire summer.
Ah yes, as much fun as you can eat for a sackful of 2p pieces. I even won a nice key ring in the shape of TV's Wellard from EastEnders, that's how classy these establishments are. And these are the only places in the world were people get genuinely exicted to win a knock-off cuddly Pokemon on one of those crane machines.
Remind me - why, exactly did I think moving to a seaside resort would be A Good Thing?
Al-Falluja
Relief agencies are being denied access to the civilians of Falluja by US armed forces.
Says an American spokesman [Marine Colonel Mike Shupp, you too your name is going in ze book] : "There is no need to bring supplies in because we have supplies of our own for the people."
In other words, they'd rather the Red Crescent [Red Cross] were not involved.
By happy coincidence, Baghdad Airport has just re-opened, once more allowing foreign journalists and observers into Iraq. It closed just before the Falluja offensive kicked-off.
Something to hide, Uncle Sam?
Friday, November 12, 2004
The Kate Winslet Story
The Kate Winslet Story
In fact, on the cusp of fame, she was a well-known face in the *cough* lively *cough* west of Reading, where sane men know not to walk and the knocking shop on the Oxford Road hasn't even bothered to disguise itself as a respectable establishment. It was clear that La Winslet was going to be a huge, huge star despite her habits of swearing like a trooper and smoking like a chimney.
Well, I didn't know, did I?
I had an absolutely valid 100 per cent cast-iron excuse for going down that end of Reading that Thursday evening.
I was buying pornography.
A young man's got needs, and the Oxford Road has a number of newsagents with impressive top shelves catering for just about every pecadillo and perversion known to humankind. All strictly legal, you understand. And this month's Big and Fruity, the magazine for greengrocer fetishists and lovers of root vegetables had just come out.
Me, I was after a copy of Fiesta and this week's Auto Trader. Honest.
I always went to the same shop, a) because of the astounding selection and b) it was right next to a side street which was good for a quick getaway should the worst come to the worst and people started looking at you in a funny way in the midst of your jazz purchase.
Scene set? Good. The trouser itch activatedand wearing my best flasher mac, I headed for the Oxford Road to make a small purchase. The coast clear, I dived into Mr Khan's emporium of fags, booze and smut and scanned the upper shelves (yes - plural) for suitable one-handed reading material. And Lordy, he knew how to hide the specialist stuff from view.
It would be several minutes before I could locate this month's edition of "Melons" and head for the counter. And I would have made it too, if it wasn't for the fact that the act of pulling this celebration of the juxaposition of fruit and incredibly naked female flesh from the shelf and making for the till hadn't have brought me into direct collision with a Hollywood starlet, popping out to the corner shop for twenty Lambert and Butler.
In normal, comedic circumstances, you'd fully expect an explosion of pornography, the centre-spread fluttering to the floor between us. Happily, this didn't happen.
I merely prodded her in the left tit with a scud mag. A tit which, one day, would be painted by Leonardo di Caprio. The bastard.
"Ooh," she said. Unfortunately, this was not followed by the line "It's so hot in here", which, I gather, is obligatory in certain genres of filmed entertainment. "Ooh!"
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Winslet" I said, "I appear to have assaulted you in a rather tender area with a partially-folded adult publication. I'm related to a doctor, perhaps you'd allow me to see to the wound." Which came out like this:
"Gneep."
I dropped my spoils back amongst the motor magazines and fled, heading up the side-street towards the handily parked Scary-mobile. Leaning against the door, I breathed a huge sigh of relief following my brush with disaster. She had a stare that could sink ships, and would one day do so.
And there she was, following me up the road, cancer stick between her lips, puffing away in the provocative manner that only an habitually naked star of stage and screen can manage.
Sid James stirred inside me.
As she passed your humble scribe toward Winslet Mansions, she gave me a pitiful smirk.
"Gneep."
I don't know about you, but I think I might still be in with a chance there.
 Get your clothes on Winslet, I'm a married man | Ah, Kate, how do we love you? It's a well-known fact that Berkshire-born actress Kate Winslet has got her baps out in every single film she has worked on, including the ones where the script stipulated that she remain fully clothed, the filthy slattern. But that's what you get when you come from a part of Reading where nudity is virtually obligatory in her part of town. They've even built a block of flats in her honour down the Oxford Road, with a removable roof.
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In fact, on the cusp of fame, she was a well-known face in the *cough* lively *cough* west of Reading, where sane men know not to walk and the knocking shop on the Oxford Road hasn't even bothered to disguise itself as a respectable establishment. It was clear that La Winslet was going to be a huge, huge star despite her habits of swearing like a trooper and smoking like a chimney.
Well, I didn't know, did I?
I had an absolutely valid 100 per cent cast-iron excuse for going down that end of Reading that Thursday evening.
I was buying pornography.
A young man's got needs, and the Oxford Road has a number of newsagents with impressive top shelves catering for just about every pecadillo and perversion known to humankind. All strictly legal, you understand. And this month's Big and Fruity, the magazine for greengrocer fetishists and lovers of root vegetables had just come out.
Me, I was after a copy of Fiesta and this week's Auto Trader. Honest.
I always went to the same shop, a) because of the astounding selection and b) it was right next to a side street which was good for a quick getaway should the worst come to the worst and people started looking at you in a funny way in the midst of your jazz purchase.
Scene set? Good. The trouser itch activatedand wearing my best flasher mac, I headed for the Oxford Road to make a small purchase. The coast clear, I dived into Mr Khan's emporium of fags, booze and smut and scanned the upper shelves (yes - plural) for suitable one-handed reading material. And Lordy, he knew how to hide the specialist stuff from view.
It would be several minutes before I could locate this month's edition of "Melons" and head for the counter. And I would have made it too, if it wasn't for the fact that the act of pulling this celebration of the juxaposition of fruit and incredibly naked female flesh from the shelf and making for the till hadn't have brought me into direct collision with a Hollywood starlet, popping out to the corner shop for twenty Lambert and Butler.
In normal, comedic circumstances, you'd fully expect an explosion of pornography, the centre-spread fluttering to the floor between us. Happily, this didn't happen.
I merely prodded her in the left tit with a scud mag. A tit which, one day, would be painted by Leonardo di Caprio. The bastard.
"Ooh," she said. Unfortunately, this was not followed by the line "It's so hot in here", which, I gather, is obligatory in certain genres of filmed entertainment. "Ooh!"
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Winslet" I said, "I appear to have assaulted you in a rather tender area with a partially-folded adult publication. I'm related to a doctor, perhaps you'd allow me to see to the wound." Which came out like this:
"Gneep."
I dropped my spoils back amongst the motor magazines and fled, heading up the side-street towards the handily parked Scary-mobile. Leaning against the door, I breathed a huge sigh of relief following my brush with disaster. She had a stare that could sink ships, and would one day do so.
And there she was, following me up the road, cancer stick between her lips, puffing away in the provocative manner that only an habitually naked star of stage and screen can manage.
Sid James stirred inside me.
As she passed your humble scribe toward Winslet Mansions, she gave me a pitiful smirk.
"Gneep."
I don't know about you, but I think I might still be in with a chance there.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Witty Thursday vote-o headline
Jings! It's the William MacGonagall memorial Thursday vote-o!
It's a little known fact that Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat can trace his family roots back exactly one generation to a tenement block in Glasgow. Alas, "Jimmy" McArafat, ye shall ne'er know freedom for your beloved Scotch people. The noo.
Ah, what the hell, there's always the Thursday McVote-o to look forward to. And as I'm feeling particularly generous, there's a whole seven stories to choose from:
The Celebrity Collection
* The Elton John story - Mary had a little lamb
* The Kate Winslet story - And it was always gruntin'
* The Duke of Kent story - So she tied it to a five-bar gate
* The Uri Geller story - And kicked the little ...umm... runt in
Scaryduck Gold
* Octopus - I hope you people realise how difficult it is
* Diet Club - to think of funny crap to stick here every week
* The Great Chair Race - Send. More. Fish.
Vote, sir, or FEAR THE WELLO!
It's a little known fact that Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat can trace his family roots back exactly one generation to a tenement block in Glasgow. Alas, "Jimmy" McArafat, ye shall ne'er know freedom for your beloved Scotch people. The noo.
Ah, what the hell, there's always the Thursday McVote-o to look forward to. And as I'm feeling particularly generous, there's a whole seven stories to choose from:
The Celebrity Collection
* The Elton John story - Mary had a little lamb
* The Kate Winslet story - And it was always gruntin'
* The Duke of Kent story - So she tied it to a five-bar gate
* The Uri Geller story - And kicked the little ...umm... runt in
Scaryduck Gold
* Octopus - I hope you people realise how difficult it is
* Diet Club - to think of funny crap to stick here every week
* The Great Chair Race - Send. More. Fish.
Vote, sir, or FEAR THE WELLO!
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
First date woe
Scary's First Date Woe
A promise is a promise, so here you go:
Thrown together like two fishing boats in a storm (or rather, two minor civil servants in charge of counting the UK's population of cows), your hero found himself somewhat romantically attracted to the womanly charms of Ms A, administrative assistant and underling-in-charge of the official Cow Counting Department brown felt-tip pens.
I'll be first to admit that we didn't get on from the start, our first meetings essentially involved her stealing my much-coveted window desk, and my standing on her foot in a lift, acts that still have not been forgiven seventeen years on.
But cruel fate kept throwing us together and after a long hard day of counting cows and recording the figures in brown felt-tip, it was suggested that we might like to share some quiet, intimate time together. And I hardly stared at her ladybumps, at all.
Desperate for somewhere to take the lovely Ms A for a first date in the cultural desert that is the town of Reading, I took her to the flicks to see that delightful romantic comedy, Platoon.
Blood, guts, gore, young men in the prime of life having vital parts of their anatomies blown off, it was the grimmest slab of celluloid I have ever paid money to see. Apart from Spaceballs.
After that meeting her parents would be a doodle. I marched into their living room where Luther Vandross was playing loudly on the stereo and announced the immortal opening gambit to her mother: "What's this crap then?"
Only Mrs A's favourite performing artist. Ah. Still not forgiven, etc.
Having insulted her mother in the most spectacular fashion on our first meeting, I tried to act utterly cool and non-plussed by the whole affaire de Madamoiselle A to my drinking buddies by describing her as "a bit of a dog". This being a phrase they were only too pleased to pass on at a later date, with hilarious results. Still not forgiven.
We are now married.
More?: An almost, but not quite, entirely serious Scary post on Robber Rabbit. And Lordy! Pengor's begging for money again.
A promise is a promise, so here you go:
Thrown together like two fishing boats in a storm (or rather, two minor civil servants in charge of counting the UK's population of cows), your hero found himself somewhat romantically attracted to the womanly charms of Ms A, administrative assistant and underling-in-charge of the official Cow Counting Department brown felt-tip pens.
I'll be first to admit that we didn't get on from the start, our first meetings essentially involved her stealing my much-coveted window desk, and my standing on her foot in a lift, acts that still have not been forgiven seventeen years on.
But cruel fate kept throwing us together and after a long hard day of counting cows and recording the figures in brown felt-tip, it was suggested that we might like to share some quiet, intimate time together. And I hardly stared at her ladybumps, at all.
Desperate for somewhere to take the lovely Ms A for a first date in the cultural desert that is the town of Reading, I took her to the flicks to see that delightful romantic comedy, Platoon.
Blood, guts, gore, young men in the prime of life having vital parts of their anatomies blown off, it was the grimmest slab of celluloid I have ever paid money to see. Apart from Spaceballs.
After that meeting her parents would be a doodle. I marched into their living room where Luther Vandross was playing loudly on the stereo and announced the immortal opening gambit to her mother: "What's this crap then?"
Only Mrs A's favourite performing artist. Ah. Still not forgiven, etc.
Having insulted her mother in the most spectacular fashion on our first meeting, I tried to act utterly cool and non-plussed by the whole affaire de Madamoiselle A to my drinking buddies by describing her as "a bit of a dog". This being a phrase they were only too pleased to pass on at a later date, with hilarious results. Still not forgiven.
We are now married.
More?: An almost, but not quite, entirely serious Scary post on Robber Rabbit. And Lordy! Pengor's begging for money again.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
TWAT Update
TWAT update
Joan Collins shut your big, fat whinging UKIP-supporting gob. It's no use complaining that you keep getting singled out for security searches whenever you travel.
It's people like you that the authorities should be keeping a special eye on. Perhaps, and this is just a guess, you should stop dressing like a terrorist whenever you go to the airport. Don't you realise there's a war on? The world's war president said so.
I've read Glamorama - a Brett Easton Ellis tale of global terrorism, where the protagonists live above suspicion thanks you their lives as international jet-setting supermodels. It's also got the filthiest sex scene of any book ever - Joan could do better than showing it to her sister in the hope that she might finally see the light and give up writing. And Joan should also note that it is listed as non-fiction*.
Any road up, we all know by now that Al Qaeda is a myth concocted by US hawks to instill fear and loathing on a terrified population - which means that somebody famous has got to be strip-searched in public to keep The War Against Terror in the news, and it might as well be you, Joan.
You don't hear David Bowie complaining, and he gets the latex glove treatment every time he boards a 747. As a matter of fact, he makes a scene if he doesn't get his usual "personal treatment".
If you ask me, we should treat all travelling celebrities with the utmost suspicion. In this age of global satellite links, there should be no reason for anyone famous to travel anywhere except between Notting Hill, Gstaad and the old peoples' home they dumped their mum the second she became embarrassing.
And if they do feel the need to go anywhere, it should be under a universal "Don't You Know Who I Am" passport the size of a novelty birthday card, entitling the holder to free drugs, booze and a joyless, lubricant-free bunk-up with Kate Moss.
Kate Moss**, you'll be pleased to learn will get special supermodel treatment under the new regime. She can fuck herself.
* May not be entirely true.
** "The world's stupidest person" - Popbitch
Joan Collins shut your big, fat whinging UKIP-supporting gob. It's no use complaining that you keep getting singled out for security searches whenever you travel.
It's people like you that the authorities should be keeping a special eye on. Perhaps, and this is just a guess, you should stop dressing like a terrorist whenever you go to the airport. Don't you realise there's a war on? The world's war president said so.
I've read Glamorama - a Brett Easton Ellis tale of global terrorism, where the protagonists live above suspicion thanks you their lives as international jet-setting supermodels. It's also got the filthiest sex scene of any book ever - Joan could do better than showing it to her sister in the hope that she might finally see the light and give up writing. And Joan should also note that it is listed as non-fiction*.
Any road up, we all know by now that Al Qaeda is a myth concocted by US hawks to instill fear and loathing on a terrified population - which means that somebody famous has got to be strip-searched in public to keep The War Against Terror in the news, and it might as well be you, Joan.
You don't hear David Bowie complaining, and he gets the latex glove treatment every time he boards a 747. As a matter of fact, he makes a scene if he doesn't get his usual "personal treatment".
If you ask me, we should treat all travelling celebrities with the utmost suspicion. In this age of global satellite links, there should be no reason for anyone famous to travel anywhere except between Notting Hill, Gstaad and the old peoples' home they dumped their mum the second she became embarrassing.
And if they do feel the need to go anywhere, it should be under a universal "Don't You Know Who I Am" passport the size of a novelty birthday card, entitling the holder to free drugs, booze and a joyless, lubricant-free bunk-up with Kate Moss.
Kate Moss**, you'll be pleased to learn will get special supermodel treatment under the new regime. She can fuck herself.
* May not be entirely true.
** "The world's stupidest person" - Popbitch
Monday, November 08, 2004
The Saga Continues
The Saga Continues
File under "Wrong".
Broke, and desperate to take a holiday that did not include Spanis beaches, I once went on an old peoples' coach tour of Switzerland and Italy. There were a whole four young people on the bus. One of these was the driver, who managed to shag a different granny every night.
Caught en flagrante behind the pedalos on Lake Lugano, witnesses tell of a woman of advanced years to playing a solo on his pink oboe while he planned the next day's route in a road atlas.
We ran a book on when he would get round to the incredibly fat woman who took up two seats. He held out until Milan, the classy devil.
It was like predatory grooming, only with wrinklies. I was disgusted at his lack of loyalty, hammering away at their sandpaper-dry flanges, then discarding them with nothing to look forward to but their own funerals.
But now, I'm rapidly approaching the same age group and thinking envious thoughts such as "Get in there!", "Where do I sign up?" and "It's community service, isn't it?"
But then, I realised that this is Daniel O'Donnell's job, and I felt ill again. And strangely aroused.
File under "Wrong".
Broke, and desperate to take a holiday that did not include Spanis beaches, I once went on an old peoples' coach tour of Switzerland and Italy. There were a whole four young people on the bus. One of these was the driver, who managed to shag a different granny every night.
Caught en flagrante behind the pedalos on Lake Lugano, witnesses tell of a woman of advanced years to playing a solo on his pink oboe while he planned the next day's route in a road atlas.
We ran a book on when he would get round to the incredibly fat woman who took up two seats. He held out until Milan, the classy devil.
It was like predatory grooming, only with wrinklies. I was disgusted at his lack of loyalty, hammering away at their sandpaper-dry flanges, then discarding them with nothing to look forward to but their own funerals.
But now, I'm rapidly approaching the same age group and thinking envious thoughts such as "Get in there!", "Where do I sign up?" and "It's community service, isn't it?"
But then, I realised that this is Daniel O'Donnell's job, and I felt ill again. And strangely aroused.
Friday, November 05, 2004
The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story
The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story
Following my recent post about Jimmmy Hill's pecker, I feel I should even things up with the time I saw a pop star's front bottom under exceptionally trying circumstances. It's only fair.
You don't turn down a freebie to Reading Festival, especially if it involves a backstage pass, allowing you to ignore all sorts of self-important people.
Every now and then, the rich and famous would emerge from their champagne-flavoured cocoon to go and see their mates play on the main stage. This involved negotiating a rather small gate "manned", for the want of a better word, by a pair of extremely hairy bouncers, whose sole mission in life was to ensure that the great unwashed remained on the right side of the fence.
I forget which band was on stage, but a large number of celebrities felt the need to get round the front and frug away like mad, drug-addled dervishes to the vogueish young sounds that make today's youth do the hippy-hippy shake. Or something.
Suddenly, the heavens opened and there followed a rainstorm of biblical proportions. These may have been hip young sounds, but the massed celebs weren't going to get their 501s wet if they could help it. Oh no, there was a lovely, dry VIP area backstage with all the marijuana they could eat.
Cue massed scramble for the tiny gate, where the gorillas slowly checked each and every VIP pass to cries of "Don't you know who I am?"
It was at that point that much of the talent had had enough and started to scale the ten foot fence that separated the plebs from the world of celebrity. There was an unseemly scramble as the rain pelted down on muddy VIPs, presenting a scene that would not be out of place on Takeshi's Castle.
Someone pointed out to me what could only be the delightful singer of the popular beat combo Saint Etienne scaling the fence in an energetic fashion, wearing a mini dress which left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She had obviously either got dressed in a hurry that morning, or had forgotten to pack any underwear for the weekend. She could have caught her death.
Any road up, teetering on top of a ten foot high fence revealing your parts to the world is hardly the height of sophistication.
Mmmm.... Brazilian.....
With a final heave, she and her initimate particles disappeared from view to a large cheer from the spectating hundreds.
Yes, dear reader, I can honestly say that I have seen Sarah Cracknell's crack, and I shall go to hell for it.
Following my recent post about Jimmmy Hill's pecker, I feel I should even things up with the time I saw a pop star's front bottom under exceptionally trying circumstances. It's only fair.
You don't turn down a freebie to Reading Festival, especially if it involves a backstage pass, allowing you to ignore all sorts of self-important people.
Every now and then, the rich and famous would emerge from their champagne-flavoured cocoon to go and see their mates play on the main stage. This involved negotiating a rather small gate "manned", for the want of a better word, by a pair of extremely hairy bouncers, whose sole mission in life was to ensure that the great unwashed remained on the right side of the fence.
I forget which band was on stage, but a large number of celebrities felt the need to get round the front and frug away like mad, drug-addled dervishes to the vogueish young sounds that make today's youth do the hippy-hippy shake. Or something.
Suddenly, the heavens opened and there followed a rainstorm of biblical proportions. These may have been hip young sounds, but the massed celebs weren't going to get their 501s wet if they could help it. Oh no, there was a lovely, dry VIP area backstage with all the marijuana they could eat.
Cue massed scramble for the tiny gate, where the gorillas slowly checked each and every VIP pass to cries of "Don't you know who I am?"
It was at that point that much of the talent had had enough and started to scale the ten foot fence that separated the plebs from the world of celebrity. There was an unseemly scramble as the rain pelted down on muddy VIPs, presenting a scene that would not be out of place on Takeshi's Castle.
Someone pointed out to me what could only be the delightful singer of the popular beat combo Saint Etienne scaling the fence in an energetic fashion, wearing a mini dress which left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She had obviously either got dressed in a hurry that morning, or had forgotten to pack any underwear for the weekend. She could have caught her death.
Any road up, teetering on top of a ten foot high fence revealing your parts to the world is hardly the height of sophistication.
Mmmm.... Brazilian.....
With a final heave, she and her initimate particles disappeared from view to a large cheer from the spectating hundreds.
Yes, dear reader, I can honestly say that I have seen Sarah Cracknell's crack, and I shall go to hell for it.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
The only vote-o that counts
The only vote-o that counts
In these dark, dark days, we mere mortals need to be reminded that we are on a higher evolutionary plane that our so-called betters. Celebrities may have all the column inches and the money, but this is due entirely to a genetic flaw that renders them completely unable to go to the toilet without getting the hired help to wipe their bottom for them.
To recognise the superiority of homo sapiens over homo fuckwitus I present a short series of Scary Stories based on my limited encounters with the cult of celebrity, which will also be serialised in fortcoming editions of Hello! magazine*. Naturally, if you've got any tales of celebrity encounters, please feel free to share.
* The Elton John story - "Boys! I must have boys! And baby oil!"
* The Kate Winslet story - "Going down like the Titanic"
* The Duke of Kent story - "It's Cockney rhyming slang, see?"
* The Uri Geller story - "And that's the only reason you can justify a Tabasco enema"
* The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story which involves an actual first-hand account of genuine celebrity nudity
I could also recount the time a John Redwood radio interview ended with a brief car park scuffle and the mysterious disappearance of his parliamentary pen, but it's been so embellished with every re-telling, that since his re-invention as an entirely charming shagger of research assistants it's hardly even worth writing up. The manky old devil.
*May not be true, at all.
Stupid things to do if you get bored today
1. Call 0800 587 6587, ask to join the UK Independence Party and insist on paying in Euros. You may wish to inform them - if they haven't already hung up - that at the current exchange rate, they should be charging E28.75 to your credit card.
2. Call 020 7822 4100, and tell The Sun of your figging parties with Stan Collymore and Charlotte Church. They'd have kittens.
3. Call 08705 900 200** and ask those lovely Labour Party folks to pass your congratulations to Tony for helping George get re-elected. If, by some chance, they refuse, you may wish to call Tony's Sedgefield constituency office on 01429 882202.
4. Call 00 1 330 490 4000*** ask offer similar congratulations to Mr Diebold and his marvellous mechanical voting machines. And while you're in the US, dial 00 1 713 759 2600 and get Mr Halliburton to pass his congrats on to Dick. Fantastic job all round, boys! The embassies of Canada on 202-682-1740, Mexico (202 728 1600) or Cuba (202 797-8518) will be able to answer any political asylum questions that may arise.
5. ???
6. Profit!
By this stage, the security services should have a file on you half an inch thick. Congratulations!
** Calls charged at National rate
*** International rates apply
In these dark, dark days, we mere mortals need to be reminded that we are on a higher evolutionary plane that our so-called betters. Celebrities may have all the column inches and the money, but this is due entirely to a genetic flaw that renders them completely unable to go to the toilet without getting the hired help to wipe their bottom for them.
To recognise the superiority of homo sapiens over homo fuckwitus I present a short series of Scary Stories based on my limited encounters with the cult of celebrity, which will also be serialised in fortcoming editions of Hello! magazine*. Naturally, if you've got any tales of celebrity encounters, please feel free to share.
* The Elton John story - "Boys! I must have boys! And baby oil!"
* The Kate Winslet story - "Going down like the Titanic"
* The Duke of Kent story - "It's Cockney rhyming slang, see?"
* The Uri Geller story - "And that's the only reason you can justify a Tabasco enema"
* The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story which involves an actual first-hand account of genuine celebrity nudity
I could also recount the time a John Redwood radio interview ended with a brief car park scuffle and the mysterious disappearance of his parliamentary pen, but it's been so embellished with every re-telling, that since his re-invention as an entirely charming shagger of research assistants it's hardly even worth writing up. The manky old devil.
*May not be true, at all.
Stupid things to do if you get bored today
1. Call 0800 587 6587, ask to join the UK Independence Party and insist on paying in Euros. You may wish to inform them - if they haven't already hung up - that at the current exchange rate, they should be charging E28.75 to your credit card.
2. Call 020 7822 4100, and tell The Sun of your figging parties with Stan Collymore and Charlotte Church. They'd have kittens.
3. Call 08705 900 200** and ask those lovely Labour Party folks to pass your congratulations to Tony for helping George get re-elected. If, by some chance, they refuse, you may wish to call Tony's Sedgefield constituency office on 01429 882202.
4. Call 00 1 330 490 4000*** ask offer similar congratulations to Mr Diebold and his marvellous mechanical voting machines. And while you're in the US, dial 00 1 713 759 2600 and get Mr Halliburton to pass his congrats on to Dick. Fantastic job all round, boys! The embassies of Canada on 202-682-1740, Mexico (202 728 1600) or Cuba (202 797-8518) will be able to answer any political asylum questions that may arise.
5. ???
6. Profit!
By this stage, the security services should have a file on you half an inch thick. Congratulations!
** Calls charged at National rate
*** International rates apply
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Shit I
GaaaaH! Damn you Nestle!
I've just realised why they no longer spell out the letters Y - O - R - K - I - E on the squares of Yorkie bars any more. The bastards have reduced the numbers of blocks of chocolate from six to five.
I suggest they change the name of my favourite guilty chocolate confection to "Nestle are a bunch of thieving baby-killing cock-heads". Then I'd end up with a bastard huge bar. Sorted.
Shit II
"There's only one language these people understand," is a bit of a standing motto of mine, "Crap through their letterbox!" Regular readers will also know that the arse/mail box interface is a regular, scatalogical theme on this site.
At last, the days of getting caught by the plod, trousers round your ankles, with your bare arse pressed against your sworn enemy's front door, are now over, thanks to the wonderful people at Fecalgram.
For a mere $24.95, a freshly squeezed turd will wing its way across the U S of A to the member of the Supreme Court of your choice.
Alas, on reading the FAQ, I find that poop-by-mail is still illegal in America (despite the fact that is is covered by the First Amendment, or something) and these are, in fact, faux turds.
Ah well, back to the cold, cold nights standing on the orange box and the all-sweetcorn diet.
Shit III
Every country gets the leadership it deserves. Oh God, America, you really fell for it, didn't you?
For those of you who share the world's despair, you may wish to consider a move to Canada.
GaaaaH! Damn you Nestle!
I've just realised why they no longer spell out the letters Y - O - R - K - I - E on the squares of Yorkie bars any more. The bastards have reduced the numbers of blocks of chocolate from six to five.
I suggest they change the name of my favourite guilty chocolate confection to "Nestle are a bunch of thieving baby-killing cock-heads". Then I'd end up with a bastard huge bar. Sorted.
Shit II
"There's only one language these people understand," is a bit of a standing motto of mine, "Crap through their letterbox!" Regular readers will also know that the arse/mail box interface is a regular, scatalogical theme on this site.
At last, the days of getting caught by the plod, trousers round your ankles, with your bare arse pressed against your sworn enemy's front door, are now over, thanks to the wonderful people at Fecalgram.
For a mere $24.95, a freshly squeezed turd will wing its way across the U S of A to the member of the Supreme Court of your choice.
Alas, on reading the FAQ, I find that poop-by-mail is still illegal in America (despite the fact that is is covered by the First Amendment, or something) and these are, in fact, faux turds.
Ah well, back to the cold, cold nights standing on the orange box and the all-sweetcorn diet.
Shit III
Every country gets the leadership it deserves. Oh God, America, you really fell for it, didn't you?
For those of you who share the world's despair, you may wish to consider a move to Canada.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Election Latest
Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse split over Kerry endorsement
Dan Prick, Foreign Correspondent
Leading portent of the end of the world, Famine, has been sensationally dumped by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse over his endorsement of Democratic challenger Senator John Kerry in today's US presidential election, reports Dan Prick.
"It's true," said the former Horseman from the kitchen of 'Fifteen', the restaurant he jointly owns with celebrity chef Jamie Oliver, "we had a bit of a falling-out."
The reason for the split is a simple one, Famine told our reporter in his exclusive first interview since he left the phenomenally successful foursome.
"I can see their point. The lads had a great four years working with Bush, but when I look at America, I see nothing but fat people. Where do I start?
"Kerry's people have promised me a return to the dust-bowl years of the Depression. I'd vote for that, they were great days.
"Bush couldn't bring about the end of the world if he tried. He can't even spell 'apocalypse'."
Liberal Traitor
From their bustling headquarters in Langley, VA, Death, War and Pestilence told us a completely different story.
"We've never had it so good!" boomed War, "Bush is a war president, and he's promised us never-ending global conflict. And he's a great family guy as well."
"Famine's the kind of dangerous liberal traitor this great nation can do without," Death told us, "Bush is the one. I've harvested so many souls thanks to his outstanding presidency, it's got to be good for the economy. I'm paying less tax too - Kerry would put an end to all that."
In a ringing endorsement of Republican healthcare plans, Pestilence has nothing but praise for the President.
"He's letting AIDS run riot in Africa, and only the rich can afford life-saving medication. Why waste the Federal budget on spongers and foreigners? And those daughters of his - they're so HOT!"
Damnation
In order to maintain the accuracy of the biblical prophesies, the three remaining horsemen have moved quickly to recruit a new member, and have managed to tie up a valuable corporate sponsorship into the bargain.
"Four more years!" new recruit Dick Cheney told a rally in Damnation, Ohio, "though we probably won't need more than six months.
"The Halliburton Horsemen are ready to ride out for a stronger, safer, richer nation. God bless America!"
Asked if they had a message for their former collegue Famine, Death was typically blunt:
"We always had you as a weak, liberal, America-bashing LOSER! This is going to be the big one!"
Dan Prick, Foreign Correspondent
Leading portent of the end of the world, Famine, has been sensationally dumped by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse over his endorsement of Democratic challenger Senator John Kerry in today's US presidential election, reports Dan Prick.
"It's true," said the former Horseman from the kitchen of 'Fifteen', the restaurant he jointly owns with celebrity chef Jamie Oliver, "we had a bit of a falling-out."
The reason for the split is a simple one, Famine told our reporter in his exclusive first interview since he left the phenomenally successful foursome.
"I can see their point. The lads had a great four years working with Bush, but when I look at America, I see nothing but fat people. Where do I start?
"Kerry's people have promised me a return to the dust-bowl years of the Depression. I'd vote for that, they were great days.
"Bush couldn't bring about the end of the world if he tried. He can't even spell 'apocalypse'."
Liberal Traitor
From their bustling headquarters in Langley, VA, Death, War and Pestilence told us a completely different story.
"We've never had it so good!" boomed War, "Bush is a war president, and he's promised us never-ending global conflict. And he's a great family guy as well."
"Famine's the kind of dangerous liberal traitor this great nation can do without," Death told us, "Bush is the one. I've harvested so many souls thanks to his outstanding presidency, it's got to be good for the economy. I'm paying less tax too - Kerry would put an end to all that."
In a ringing endorsement of Republican healthcare plans, Pestilence has nothing but praise for the President.
"He's letting AIDS run riot in Africa, and only the rich can afford life-saving medication. Why waste the Federal budget on spongers and foreigners? And those daughters of his - they're so HOT!"
Damnation
In order to maintain the accuracy of the biblical prophesies, the three remaining horsemen have moved quickly to recruit a new member, and have managed to tie up a valuable corporate sponsorship into the bargain.
"Four more years!" new recruit Dick Cheney told a rally in Damnation, Ohio, "though we probably won't need more than six months.
"The Halliburton Horsemen are ready to ride out for a stronger, safer, richer nation. God bless America!"
Asked if they had a message for their former collegue Famine, Death was typically blunt:
"We always had you as a weak, liberal, America-bashing LOSER! This is going to be the big one!"
Monday, November 01, 2004
Paradox
Paradox
Date: Wednesday 27th October 2004
Time: 1945 GMT
Place: Scary is working late at the office, an ornately decorated billiard room in a former stately home to the north of Reading. There is no billard table, alas, only desks.
The phone rings. Caller ID says "Number witheld"
Scary: "Hel-lo, BBC Foreign Media."
Childish yet familiar voice at the other end of the line: "Aaaagh! You've got a fat arse!"
Scary: "......"
-- CLICK --
Of course, I would never, ever have done something like that as a kid. OK, perhaps I did. Thirteen years of age, dialling numbers at random, perhaps I used exactly the same turn of phrase, casting aspersions at the waist size of spluttering victims. It was when we started dialling numbers beginning with "00" that the trouble really started.
In fact, I'd go as far as saying that I should have recognised that immature voice immediately. But then, hearing yourself speak outside the smoothing echo chamber of your own head is just so unnatural. The conclusion is inescapable. I have just received the world's first Time Travel Paradox Prank Phone Call, a phenomenon so important, it gets to have capital letters.
Isaac Asimov would have been so proud. He tried for years, and all he got was a huge phone bill and a filing cabinet stuffed full of restraining orders.
Date: Wednesday 27th October 2004
Time: 1945 GMT
Place: Scary is working late at the office, an ornately decorated billiard room in a former stately home to the north of Reading. There is no billard table, alas, only desks.
The phone rings. Caller ID says "Number witheld"
Scary: "Hel-lo, BBC Foreign Media."
Childish yet familiar voice at the other end of the line: "Aaaagh! You've got a fat arse!"
Scary: "......"
-- CLICK --
Of course, I would never, ever have done something like that as a kid. OK, perhaps I did. Thirteen years of age, dialling numbers at random, perhaps I used exactly the same turn of phrase, casting aspersions at the waist size of spluttering victims. It was when we started dialling numbers beginning with "00" that the trouble really started.
In fact, I'd go as far as saying that I should have recognised that immature voice immediately. But then, hearing yourself speak outside the smoothing echo chamber of your own head is just so unnatural. The conclusion is inescapable. I have just received the world's first Time Travel Paradox Prank Phone Call, a phenomenon so important, it gets to have capital letters.
Isaac Asimov would have been so proud. He tried for years, and all he got was a huge phone bill and a filing cabinet stuffed full of restraining orders.
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