Road Rage
As I have only told you about a dozen times by now, I drive 107 miles to get to work. The journey is a varied route involving urban and country roads, dual carriageways and motorways, so it’s pretty fair to say that I experience a wide cross-section of road users doing their best to slow me down. The bastards.
In no particular order, the following should face instant, painful extermination, or, at the very least, their accelerator pedal foot cut off and force fed to them in a bun. And I’d not be out of order:
* Caravans
* Holders of the international symbol of bad drivers
* Nissan Micra drivers
* Rover drivers (What are Rover drivers going to do now that you can no longer buy Rovers? Answer: Proton drivers)
* People who throw cigarette ends out of the car window. You’ve got an ashtray for that you FUCKS.
* Lorries. I know! Let’s link about forty of your slow-moving vehicles together, put them on a special road we shall call a “railway” and we can get YOUR HUNK OF SHITTY METAL OUT OF MY WAY.
* All other road users
To celebrate the fact that I will be allowed onto Her Majesty's road network at some stage this evening, who else, should we be wiping off the face of the planet?
Early comment from Gary, which shows I'm amongst friends here: "These people should simply be executed at the side of the road without trial." ...and their bodies hung from road signs as an example to others...
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
On Mirth, Woe
On Mirth, Woe
I wrote some time last year on the origin of the term "Tales of Mirth and Woe" on this site, a phrase that usually leads to an enormous ear-ripping explosion, or something terrible happening to my bottom. Or somebody else's bottom, whilst naked people run around screaming.
The name comes from a Peanuts cartoon I saw many, many years ago, lost in the mists of time. Lost, until excellent finder-of-all-things Misty remarked "I've got loads of Charlie Brown books", and set off, armed with a scanner, into the night, searching out her copy of 'Snoopy features as The Literary Ace'.
I can hardly contain my joy.
["Peanuts" is copyright United Feature Syndicate, Inc, who almost certainly protect their property with mind-numbingly expensive man-eating lawyers. "Hello!"]
Operation Manky Garden, again
So, are you in, or what?
This is the cutting edge of discovery, and in an age of creationism and junk science, we cannot let The Forces of Stupid defeat us. I went out yesterday and bought a trowel an' everything, so we can't back out now.
"I don't blog about work"
I have been in this job for seventeen years today. And I only ever wanted to be a lumberjack.
Updated my Flickr-me-do.
I wrote some time last year on the origin of the term "Tales of Mirth and Woe" on this site, a phrase that usually leads to an enormous ear-ripping explosion, or something terrible happening to my bottom. Or somebody else's bottom, whilst naked people run around screaming.
The name comes from a Peanuts cartoon I saw many, many years ago, lost in the mists of time. Lost, until excellent finder-of-all-things Misty remarked "I've got loads of Charlie Brown books", and set off, armed with a scanner, into the night, searching out her copy of 'Snoopy features as The Literary Ace'.
I can hardly contain my joy.
["Peanuts" is copyright United Feature Syndicate, Inc, who almost certainly protect their property with mind-numbingly expensive man-eating lawyers. "Hello!"]
Operation Manky Garden, again
So, are you in, or what?
This is the cutting edge of discovery, and in an age of creationism and junk science, we cannot let The Forces of Stupid defeat us. I went out yesterday and bought a trowel an' everything, so we can't back out now.
"I don't blog about work"
I have been in this job for seventeen years today. And I only ever wanted to be a lumberjack.
Updated my Flickr-me-do.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Operation Manky Garden
Operation Manky Garden
Friday's story on the use of human poo - sourced from my own fair bottom by unscrupulous, manky farmers - to fertilize local fields, and its resulting bowk-making by-product that was a rich tomato crop, drew this reply from my sister:
Me: Nobody could quite bring themselves to pick any...
She: Hold up though - wasn't there one person that picked those tomatoes? Our mother, to serve them up as part of the salad that accompanied the inevitable Monday tea-time cold meats. God only knows how many generations of tomato plants our family 'sowed'. Yes indeed. You (and I) ate poo tomatoes.
AAAAARGH! I say. AAAAARGH!!! It is, perhaps, about twenty years too late to shave my tongue, but the damage has, indeed, been done. Now, all that is left is a terrible desire for blind revenge on an unsuspecting society.
And revenge shall be mine. Served cold. With salad.
So, I bring you Operation Manky Garden, a seven-step plan to world domination.
Here's what we do. No time like the present, I say, so get out there and get sowing.
1. Eat tomatoes. Loads of them, over a period of several days, just to be on the safe side. Alan Titchmarsh recommends the "Gardener's Delight" variety, which also comes with the Soil(ed) Association's Seal of Approval. If you are feeling particularly adventurous, why not try radishes, a pumpkin, or some nice runner beans?
2. Dig a hole in your garden. Or, if you have the gardening bug, get hold of one of those Fisons grow-bags and stick it in your greenhouse.
3. Done a poo. In the hole. You may need several attempts if your aim isn't so hot. And mind you don't step in it.
4. Cover over and water regularly. You probably won't need to feed your crop, because it's come ready-fertilized. And there lies the beauty.
5. Bookmark this page, and come back in six months to compare notes.
6. When the time, and the fruit, is ripe, donate your bulging crop to a grateful vicar for this year's Harvest Festival.
7. Laugh evilly, because revenge is yours.
Are you with me? Are you? Yes! This plan is absolutely 100 per cent fool-proof. What could possibly go wrong? I will actually offer real cash money prizes to any reader who can provide genuine bum tomatoes. Photographic evidence need not be necessary.
This is a genuine scientific experiment in botany, biology and, of course, scatology; and the more participants the better. Just don't let your significant other catch you crapping in the garden without a reasonable excuse. "Some chap on the internet told me to" is not a reasonable excuse. I know. I've tried it.
B3ta people! Click-me-do for the front page and more of this mank, including a nice story about bollocks.
Friday's story on the use of human poo - sourced from my own fair bottom by unscrupulous, manky farmers - to fertilize local fields, and its resulting bowk-making by-product that was a rich tomato crop, drew this reply from my sister:
Me: Nobody could quite bring themselves to pick any...
She: Hold up though - wasn't there one person that picked those tomatoes? Our mother, to serve them up as part of the salad that accompanied the inevitable Monday tea-time cold meats. God only knows how many generations of tomato plants our family 'sowed'. Yes indeed. You (and I) ate poo tomatoes.
AAAAARGH! I say. AAAAARGH!!! It is, perhaps, about twenty years too late to shave my tongue, but the damage has, indeed, been done. Now, all that is left is a terrible desire for blind revenge on an unsuspecting society.
And revenge shall be mine. Served cold. With salad.
So, I bring you Operation Manky Garden, a seven-step plan to world domination.
Here's what we do. No time like the present, I say, so get out there and get sowing.
1. Eat tomatoes. Loads of them, over a period of several days, just to be on the safe side. Alan Titchmarsh recommends the "Gardener's Delight" variety, which also comes with the Soil(ed) Association's Seal of Approval. If you are feeling particularly adventurous, why not try radishes, a pumpkin, or some nice runner beans?
2. Dig a hole in your garden. Or, if you have the gardening bug, get hold of one of those Fisons grow-bags and stick it in your greenhouse.
3. Done a poo. In the hole. You may need several attempts if your aim isn't so hot. And mind you don't step in it.
4. Cover over and water regularly. You probably won't need to feed your crop, because it's come ready-fertilized. And there lies the beauty.
5. Bookmark this page, and come back in six months to compare notes.
6. When the time, and the fruit, is ripe, donate your bulging crop to a grateful vicar for this year's Harvest Festival.
7. Laugh evilly, because revenge is yours.
Are you with me? Are you? Yes! This plan is absolutely 100 per cent fool-proof. What could possibly go wrong? I will actually offer real cash money prizes to any reader who can provide genuine bum tomatoes. Photographic evidence need not be necessary.
This is a genuine scientific experiment in botany, biology and, of course, scatology; and the more participants the better. Just don't let your significant other catch you crapping in the garden without a reasonable excuse. "Some chap on the internet told me to" is not a reasonable excuse. I know. I've tried it.
B3ta people! Click-me-do for the front page and more of this mank, including a nice story about bollocks.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Mirth and Woe: Fields of Brown
Fields of Brown
Four ninety-eight... four ninety-nine... five pounds. I squeezed the last drops of petrol into my throbbing beast of a car, paid all the money in my possession to the bored girl in the kiosk, and hit the Bath Road with less than a mile to home.
In the throbbing majesty of a Renault Four, that could take anything up to five minutes, especially with a brimming tank of fuel.
So it was with some dismay that, as I crunched the gearbox at the Twyford roundabout, a tractor should pull out in front of me.
Six minutes, then.
The tractor was hauling a huge cylindrical trailer with the words "Thames Water" on its side, and could only have come from one place - Wargrave Sewage Works, just down the road. What it contained was anybody's guess, but I could be pretty sure it wasn't Eau de Cologne.
It wasn't. Even with the windows shut and the bucket-sized air-vents closed, the whole affair, trundling along at 20mph in front of me, the entire world stunk of shit. Freshly laid turds of the highest standard, with no quality control except for having all the paper picked out by hand.
Still, there was every chance they were going to turn right into the side entrance of the sewage works and dump it back where it belonged.
No.
Still, there was every chance they were going to turn right into the farm entrance and do whatever they do with turds on farms before becoming part of the EEC Poo Mountain and a nourishing part of our food chain.
No.
Then they'd be taking it up our road and spraying raw human shite all over the field behind our house and everything within a 500 yard radius, wouldn't they?
That'd be it, then.
And what a cheek these people had! I had only just finished with that crap, and there they were, spraying it all over our garden fence, the dog and the naked guy next door. That'll teach 'em for being naked nudists with a caravan. The corn field got a right old spattering too, in a manner that some people would pay good money for.
I (or rather, my parents) paid my water rates, which meant good money going to Thames Water to take all my turds away, not expecting to see them again. And here they were, every big job I'd done in the last month, coming straight back at us without even the merest whiff of a rebate.
Shit. That's what it was. Really, really shit.
The whole episode made walking the dog a tad more adventurous, and we couldn't get near Kenny Everett
's house for weeks. Not that we ever wanted to. You could hear the screams for miles. There was precious little rounding up, putting in fields and the bombing of bastards that summer, I can tell you.
Autumn brought a superb tomato crop amongst the corn.
"See those tomatoes?" Naked Nudist Neighbour said from the relative safety of his shed, "They've been up your arse."
Nobody could quite bring themselves to pick any...
Four ninety-eight... four ninety-nine... five pounds. I squeezed the last drops of petrol into my throbbing beast of a car, paid all the money in my possession to the bored girl in the kiosk, and hit the Bath Road with less than a mile to home. In the throbbing majesty of a Renault Four, that could take anything up to five minutes, especially with a brimming tank of fuel.
So it was with some dismay that, as I crunched the gearbox at the Twyford roundabout, a tractor should pull out in front of me.
Six minutes, then.
The tractor was hauling a huge cylindrical trailer with the words "Thames Water" on its side, and could only have come from one place - Wargrave Sewage Works, just down the road. What it contained was anybody's guess, but I could be pretty sure it wasn't Eau de Cologne.
It wasn't. Even with the windows shut and the bucket-sized air-vents closed, the whole affair, trundling along at 20mph in front of me, the entire world stunk of shit. Freshly laid turds of the highest standard, with no quality control except for having all the paper picked out by hand.
Still, there was every chance they were going to turn right into the side entrance of the sewage works and dump it back where it belonged.
No.
Still, there was every chance they were going to turn right into the farm entrance and do whatever they do with turds on farms before becoming part of the EEC Poo Mountain and a nourishing part of our food chain.
No.
Then they'd be taking it up our road and spraying raw human shite all over the field behind our house and everything within a 500 yard radius, wouldn't they?
That'd be it, then.
And what a cheek these people had! I had only just finished with that crap, and there they were, spraying it all over our garden fence, the dog and the naked guy next door. That'll teach 'em for being naked nudists with a caravan. The corn field got a right old spattering too, in a manner that some people would pay good money for.
I (or rather, my parents) paid my water rates, which meant good money going to Thames Water to take all my turds away, not expecting to see them again. And here they were, every big job I'd done in the last month, coming straight back at us without even the merest whiff of a rebate.
Shit. That's what it was. Really, really shit.
The whole episode made walking the dog a tad more adventurous, and we couldn't get near Kenny Everett
's house for weeks. Not that we ever wanted to. You could hear the screams for miles. There was precious little rounding up, putting in fields and the bombing of bastards that summer, I can tell you.Autumn brought a superb tomato crop amongst the corn.
"See those tomatoes?" Naked Nudist Neighbour said from the relative safety of his shed, "They've been up your arse."
Nobody could quite bring themselves to pick any...
Thursday, February 23, 2006
In which the author adds references to midget sex, Simon Bates and WD40
Obi
Something dreadful has happened. Mrs Duck has confessed a girlie crush on Ewan McGregor, woe cemented by a huge DVD splurge in our local MVC closing down sale.
That's Ewan "Him out of Star Wars" McGregor, the fine Scottish actor, and not, I should point out, Ewan "Him out of Trainspotting" McGregor, his evil, sweary, wasted twin.
"But… but… but…" I protest, "you do realize he's a ginger?"
But she is having none of this, preferring to drool over a 3-disc set of "Long Way Round", in which evil, sweary, wasted twin acts a Obi's stunt double., and you can count actual Jedi mind tricks on the fingers of one bloody stump.
It is almost too much to bear. She's insisting on an improvised light-sabre and an Alec Guinness accent at bed-times.
Good thing she doesn't know about the Kirstie Allsopp thing, then. And the Sarah Beeny thing. And the baby oil. Said too much.
In which the author adds references to midget sex, Simon Bates and WD40
Hell's teeth - Thursday already, and this site is heaving under the weight of record number of comments. It's almost as if you people really don't have anything better to do except to invent superb new ways of applying swear words onto the English language. Jolly well done!
Any road up, time for regular vote-o for tomorrow's Tale of Mirth and Woe. You may or may not be intrigued to learn that one of this week's vote-o quote-os was actually spoken to me yesterday by a real, live living person. Extra points if you can work out which one it is.
Dibs: "God I hate him. He uses WD40 as an anal lubricant, and he KNOWS I'm allergic."
Pickle: "My answerphone message is the sound of a pig being violated by Joe Pasquale. For twelve minutes."
Party III: "We're not giving the customers enough value-added. Do you think you could show them your penis?"
Meat: "So, I waited until the bastard was out cold and pissed on his face. And that's the only good thing about being in hospital."
Gaylord: "Believe me - being the subject of a Simon Bates 'Our Tune' is nothing to be proud of. Especially when the tune is 'Crazy Horses'. I just wish he'd get over it."
Fields of Brown: "Midget sex is better, because if they under-perform you can just throw them out the window or seal them in a tin can."
Get in there! Vote. Me. Do.
Degree of difficulty: All comments should contain the word "zebra" or "turd". Or both, even. Because I say so.
Something dreadful has happened. Mrs Duck has confessed a girlie crush on Ewan McGregor, woe cemented by a huge DVD splurge in our local MVC closing down sale.That's Ewan "Him out of Star Wars" McGregor, the fine Scottish actor, and not, I should point out, Ewan "Him out of Trainspotting" McGregor, his evil, sweary, wasted twin.
"But… but… but…" I protest, "you do realize he's a ginger?"
But she is having none of this, preferring to drool over a 3-disc set of "Long Way Round", in which evil, sweary, wasted twin acts a Obi's stunt double., and you can count actual Jedi mind tricks on the fingers of one bloody stump.
It is almost too much to bear. She's insisting on an improvised light-sabre and an Alec Guinness accent at bed-times.
Good thing she doesn't know about the Kirstie Allsopp thing, then. And the Sarah Beeny thing. And the baby oil. Said too much.
In which the author adds references to midget sex, Simon Bates and WD40
Hell's teeth - Thursday already, and this site is heaving under the weight of record number of comments. It's almost as if you people really don't have anything better to do except to invent superb new ways of applying swear words onto the English language. Jolly well done!Any road up, time for regular vote-o for tomorrow's Tale of Mirth and Woe. You may or may not be intrigued to learn that one of this week's vote-o quote-os was actually spoken to me yesterday by a real, live living person. Extra points if you can work out which one it is.
Dibs: "God I hate him. He uses WD40 as an anal lubricant, and he KNOWS I'm allergic."
Pickle: "My answerphone message is the sound of a pig being violated by Joe Pasquale. For twelve minutes."
Party III: "We're not giving the customers enough value-added. Do you think you could show them your penis?"
Meat: "So, I waited until the bastard was out cold and pissed on his face. And that's the only good thing about being in hospital."
Gaylord: "Believe me - being the subject of a Simon Bates 'Our Tune' is nothing to be proud of. Especially when the tune is 'Crazy Horses'. I just wish he'd get over it."
Fields of Brown: "Midget sex is better, because if they under-perform you can just throw them out the window or seal them in a tin can."
Get in there! Vote. Me. Do.
Degree of difficulty: All comments should contain the word "zebra" or "turd". Or both, even. Because I say so.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Teh Intarnets
Teh Intarnets
You know you're old when:
You have to tell your 11-year-old daughter that, after a quick go on Google, "Chocolate Thunda" is perhaps not the best screen name she could use, as the name has already been taken. Taken by [and I quote] "the caramel 48DDD XXX fetish queen" with her own retina-peeling website. [No linky - you'll have to look it up for yourself. But be warned - EXTREMELY Not Safe For Work. Or home, even.]
I had to go back to check whether my eyes were deceiving me. Sixteen times.
Why can't Scaryduckling just be an AnGeL G1Rl or D@nC1nG D1Va like normal kids? I'd even settle for Sc@rYdUcKlInG, but then I would have to put her up for adoption. Again.
So, dear reader, loathe to lose yesterday's sweary momentum - from which dank corner of teh intarnets did you get your online handle?
As a Brucie Bonus: Blog Pie partner-in-crime Misty asks if you can guess where she got her intarnets name from. She promises not to kill, maim or disembowel the winner with a spoon.
You know you're old when:
You have to tell your 11-year-old daughter that, after a quick go on Google, "Chocolate Thunda" is perhaps not the best screen name she could use, as the name has already been taken. Taken by [and I quote] "the caramel 48DDD XXX fetish queen" with her own retina-peeling website. [No linky - you'll have to look it up for yourself. But be warned - EXTREMELY Not Safe For Work. Or home, even.]
I had to go back to check whether my eyes were deceiving me. Sixteen times.
Why can't Scaryduckling just be an AnGeL G1Rl or D@nC1nG D1Va like normal kids? I'd even settle for Sc@rYdUcKlInG, but then I would have to put her up for adoption. Again.
So, dear reader, loathe to lose yesterday's sweary momentum - from which dank corner of teh intarnets did you get your online handle?
As a Brucie Bonus: Blog Pie partner-in-crime Misty asks if you can guess where she got her intarnets name from. She promises not to kill, maim or disembowel the winner with a spoon.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Offensive Productions Present, Again Again
Offensive Productions Present, Again Again
It's no good, you've got me on a roll. The Nazi TV listing was a fine, fine thing. Soviet TV was a triumph of bad taste over sanity. And this time, tired of watching my potty-mouth, we're delving right into TV Go Home territory with my most mature, cerebral TV listing yet.
So: BBC Director General Mark Thompson has developed an unfortunate case of Tourette's Syndrome and will only commission programmes that swear like a drunken nun. As the switchboard at Television Centre (actually, the complaints desk is at Broadcasting House in Belfast, but why spoil the cosy image with reality?) lights up like a Christmas tree, what's in the first ever top shelf edition of Radio Times?
* Sea of Arseholes
* Life on Bras
* Northern Shites
* EastBenders
* Stars Inner Thighs (geddit?)
* Balderdash and Nipples
* Big Cook, Little Cock (starring Ainsley Harriot)
* Rubber Johnny and the Bomb
* Slagpuss
* Celebrity Swears
* Fist it Lucky
* On The Cusses
* Little Whore On The Prairie
* Doctor Poo
* Rimjobs for the Girls
* Cuntryfile
* CSI: Cunt Shit Investigation
* Lactation Lactation Lactation
* Keeping Up Our Penises
* Home and a Gay
* Thomas The Wank Engine
According to Wikipedia, the great Mozart may have had Tourette's. What tosh. How could the composer of such delightful pieces as Eine Kleine Cockmuzik and The Marriage of Fellatio suffer from such a terrible, terrible plight.
Please send your donation to the National Association for Tourette's Research (WANKER) so we can look for a cure for this terrible condition.
Or, you could just suggest-me-up.
It's no good, you've got me on a roll. The Nazi TV listing was a fine, fine thing. Soviet TV was a triumph of bad taste over sanity. And this time, tired of watching my potty-mouth, we're delving right into TV Go Home territory with my most mature, cerebral TV listing yet.
So: BBC Director General Mark Thompson has developed an unfortunate case of Tourette's Syndrome and will only commission programmes that swear like a drunken nun. As the switchboard at Television Centre (actually, the complaints desk is at Broadcasting House in Belfast, but why spoil the cosy image with reality?) lights up like a Christmas tree, what's in the first ever top shelf edition of Radio Times?
* Sea of Arseholes
* Life on Bras
* Northern Shites
* EastBenders
* Stars Inner Thighs (geddit?)
* Balderdash and Nipples
* Big Cook, Little Cock (starring Ainsley Harriot)
* Rubber Johnny and the Bomb
* Slagpuss
* Celebrity Swears
* Fist it Lucky
* On The Cusses
* Little Whore On The Prairie
* Doctor Poo
* Rimjobs for the Girls
* Cuntryfile
* CSI: Cunt Shit Investigation
* Lactation Lactation Lactation
* Keeping Up Our Penises
* Home and a Gay
* Thomas The Wank Engine
According to Wikipedia, the great Mozart may have had Tourette's. What tosh. How could the composer of such delightful pieces as Eine Kleine Cockmuzik and The Marriage of Fellatio suffer from such a terrible, terrible plight.
Please send your donation to the National Association for Tourette's Research (WANKER) so we can look for a cure for this terrible condition.
Or, you could just suggest-me-up.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Strobes
Strobes
"Dear Private Eye,
I wonder if any of your readers have noticed the striking resemblance between Colin Hunt, the amusingly coiffured office annoyance from the popular television programme The Fast Show; and Chris Martin, the amusingly coiffured musical annoyance from the popular beat combo Coldplay?
I wonder, if by chance, they are related.
Yrs etc
Dan Prick"
Ticker Ticker Timex
I got a watch for my birthday. It is the biggest, heaviest wristwatch in the world and has the look and feel of having a coffin strapped to your arm.
Luckily for me, it was engineered by Q Division of the British Secret Service, and has features that are so secret and mind-bogglingly excellent, that I would have to activate the built-in memory eraser if I ever told you.
Needless to say, the See-Through-Ladies-Clothes function is a firm favourite, but really sucks up battery power. I have yet to attempt "Renew Library Books" and "Fidel Castro-a-like" yet.
It is the best watch, ever, and reminds me of this poor quality joke I once saw in a poor quality jokebook:
Dad: "What happened to the shock-proof, water-proof, bullet-proof, lightning-proof, radiation-proof, acid-proof wristwatch I gave you for your birthday?"
Son: "I lost it."
I will never lose this watch. Because it's as big as Basingstoke.
"Dear Private Eye,
I wonder if any of your readers have noticed the striking resemblance between Colin Hunt, the amusingly coiffured office annoyance from the popular television programme The Fast Show; and Chris Martin, the amusingly coiffured musical annoyance from the popular beat combo Coldplay? I wonder, if by chance, they are related.
Yrs etc
Dan Prick"
Ticker Ticker Timex
I got a watch for my birthday. It is the biggest, heaviest wristwatch in the world and has the look and feel of having a coffin strapped to your arm. Luckily for me, it was engineered by Q Division of the British Secret Service, and has features that are so secret and mind-bogglingly excellent, that I would have to activate the built-in memory eraser if I ever told you.
Needless to say, the See-Through-Ladies-Clothes function is a firm favourite, but really sucks up battery power. I have yet to attempt "Renew Library Books" and "Fidel Castro-a-like" yet.
It is the best watch, ever, and reminds me of this poor quality joke I once saw in a poor quality jokebook:
Dad: "What happened to the shock-proof, water-proof, bullet-proof, lightning-proof, radiation-proof, acid-proof wristwatch I gave you for your birthday?"
Son: "I lost it."
I will never lose this watch. Because it's as big as Basingstoke.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Mirth and Woe: 10cc
10cc
“I can do it seven times in a day”, Roger Finn claimed, as we lounged across the back five seats of the coach on a school trip to I know not where. It might even have been an away match for the chess club. Hardcore, that's us.
"Oh yeah, Chinny Reckon", we replied, knowing full well that Roger Finn hadn't even reached puberty, and probably didn't even possess a penis.
Ju-Vid, who owned vast quantities of pornography, and once came to school claiming that he'd got "three fingers up a girl in the upper sixth" the night before and hadn't washed his hands to prove it, reckoned he had done thirteen in one 24 hour period. It’s nice when someone gets a hobby. Ju-Vid's was that of a congenital liar who fingered raw fish.
Intrigued by my contemporaries' boasts of solo record breaking, I decided to go straight home and try it out myself. As you do when you're fourteen years old, and are free for an entire evening.
The only one-handed literature I possessed at that time was the autumn/winter 1980 Great Universal catalogue, and between pages 180-210 there were certain scantily clad young ladies wearing frilly things that were almost - but not quite - entirely see through. The fact that I would be reaching the vinegar strokes just as I got to the type of undergarment which had alternative uses in the shipbuilding industry may have, in retrospect, led to years of psychological problems which are only just being addressed through large doses of Zoe Salmon.
I got to three, and grimly tugging away, my bell-end felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. I also found out for the first time that, no matter how hard you beat it, you eventually get to a point when nothing would come out. Any subsequent, agonising attempts to reach double figures resulted in nothing but fresh air and dust, like the last gasp of a punctured tyre.
The next morning, the school playground was filled with teenage brags of manly prowess resulting from the previous night's manipulations. I heard with my own ears someone claiming that he'd achieved a full twenty pulls "and the last one was at least a quarter of a pint", while friends looked on in awe. His laundry must have been awful.
"Six", I said, lying and far to exhausted to argue.
Members of the School Wanking Club were - that very evening - planning a full-scale assault on the record. Eye-sight would be wrecked irretrievably, and palms would be so hairy as to become King Kong's stunt doubles. Oh, that their hobby should end in such extreme woe.
On a subsequent school trip, as we drove to Woodley to give the creeps from Waingel's Copse School (otherwise known as Wanker's Cock) their annual thrashing at the hands of the County Champions (ie, us) the back-seat-of-the-coach banter got to such a stage that Paul Hackett boasted that he could make himself come "just by thinking about it".
We should have been mightily impressed with this feat of mind over matter. We weren't.
From that day he was known as "Hair Trigger".
I went home and tried it. Smugly, I did not possess a hair trigger, but returned to school the next day to claim nineteen for the night.
It was on that same fateful coach trip, that poor, poor Roger Finn cemented his position as the latest of late developers. Forgetting his previous seven-a-night boast from the week before, he blurted out: "So, this wanking business - how do you do it then?"
Even Mr Delaney, at the wheel of the school bus, was disgusted.
“I can do it seven times in a day”, Roger Finn claimed, as we lounged across the back five seats of the coach on a school trip to I know not where. It might even have been an away match for the chess club. Hardcore, that's us."Oh yeah, Chinny Reckon", we replied, knowing full well that Roger Finn hadn't even reached puberty, and probably didn't even possess a penis.
Ju-Vid, who owned vast quantities of pornography, and once came to school claiming that he'd got "three fingers up a girl in the upper sixth" the night before and hadn't washed his hands to prove it, reckoned he had done thirteen in one 24 hour period. It’s nice when someone gets a hobby. Ju-Vid's was that of a congenital liar who fingered raw fish.
Intrigued by my contemporaries' boasts of solo record breaking, I decided to go straight home and try it out myself. As you do when you're fourteen years old, and are free for an entire evening.
The only one-handed literature I possessed at that time was the autumn/winter 1980 Great Universal catalogue, and between pages 180-210 there were certain scantily clad young ladies wearing frilly things that were almost - but not quite - entirely see through. The fact that I would be reaching the vinegar strokes just as I got to the type of undergarment which had alternative uses in the shipbuilding industry may have, in retrospect, led to years of psychological problems which are only just being addressed through large doses of Zoe Salmon.
I got to three, and grimly tugging away, my bell-end felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. I also found out for the first time that, no matter how hard you beat it, you eventually get to a point when nothing would come out. Any subsequent, agonising attempts to reach double figures resulted in nothing but fresh air and dust, like the last gasp of a punctured tyre.
The next morning, the school playground was filled with teenage brags of manly prowess resulting from the previous night's manipulations. I heard with my own ears someone claiming that he'd achieved a full twenty pulls "and the last one was at least a quarter of a pint", while friends looked on in awe. His laundry must have been awful.
"Six", I said, lying and far to exhausted to argue.
Members of the School Wanking Club were - that very evening - planning a full-scale assault on the record. Eye-sight would be wrecked irretrievably, and palms would be so hairy as to become King Kong's stunt doubles. Oh, that their hobby should end in such extreme woe.
On a subsequent school trip, as we drove to Woodley to give the creeps from Waingel's Copse School (otherwise known as Wanker's Cock) their annual thrashing at the hands of the County Champions (ie, us) the back-seat-of-the-coach banter got to such a stage that Paul Hackett boasted that he could make himself come "just by thinking about it".
We should have been mightily impressed with this feat of mind over matter. We weren't.
From that day he was known as "Hair Trigger".
I went home and tried it. Smugly, I did not possess a hair trigger, but returned to school the next day to claim nineteen for the night.
It was on that same fateful coach trip, that poor, poor Roger Finn cemented his position as the latest of late developers. Forgetting his previous seven-a-night boast from the week before, he blurted out: "So, this wanking business - how do you do it then?"
Even Mr Delaney, at the wheel of the school bus, was disgusted.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The Wednesday Thursday Vote-o of A Week Last Tuesday
On Turning Forty
I may as well face it. Despite the fact that Sir Stanley Matthews was playing top level football in his fifties, I've reached a point in my life when I can no longer hope to play up front for the Arsenal.
I'm might, at a pinch, get a game at left back this week, though.
The Wednesday Thursday Vote-o of A Week Last Tuesday
A new concept in Thursday vote-o technology, as the vote-o meets the Misty Double Entendre Wednesday, where the finest minds of this generation meet on in polite society and talk utter, utter filth.
All the vote-o quote-os, if you're still following this, relate to the caption competition surrounding the charming image of suburban life you see below. There's just no privacy for a Prince of the Realm these days.
Vote-me-up, then, for Friday's story of mirth and woe with a Thursday vote-o from a Wednesday picture competition. I think I may need to lie down for a bit.
* Dibs: "As the final model coasted down the catwalk, the audience went wild with drug-fuelled delight. Yes, it had been another London Fashion Week triumph for Vivienne Westwood. If only the reaction at Tehran Fashion Week had been the same..."
* Pickle: "It would go down as Ken Livingstone's finest achievement as Mayor of London. They had finally found a use for the last empty plinth in Trafalgar Square.
* Party III: "As Charles Kennedy came to several hours later, he realised with trouser-shattering horror that he'd missed a crucial Commons vote yet again."
* 10cc: "Hunger twisted inside him, and he knew that he would have to eat soon. Instinctively, his muscles relaxed, knowing that in a few minutes there would be enough for a small pond. And then the ducks would come. Oh yes, the ducks would come."
* Meat: "Despite the best of intentions, Foul Ole Ron succumbed to the curse of the Special Brew and had that dream again. As he reached the part when the small boy said "Your mother licks tramps", he couldn't help himself. He knew there and then it would be another night rummaging through the Salvation Army bins."
* Gaylord: "With old age catching up with him, the intrepid explorer Sir Scary Twistleton-Duck finally made the discovery that has eluded mankind for centuries: the legendary Fountain of Youth. What the gentlemen of the Royal Geographic Society didn't know, he decided, wouldn't hurt them."
Now, get out there and vote-me-up, or I'll send Misty round with her biggest axe. And you wouldn't want that.
I may as well face it. Despite the fact that Sir Stanley Matthews was playing top level football in his fifties, I've reached a point in my life when I can no longer hope to play up front for the Arsenal.
I'm might, at a pinch, get a game at left back this week, though.
The Wednesday Thursday Vote-o of A Week Last Tuesday
A new concept in Thursday vote-o technology, as the vote-o meets the Misty Double Entendre Wednesday, where the finest minds of this generation meet on in polite society and talk utter, utter filth.
All the vote-o quote-os, if you're still following this, relate to the caption competition surrounding the charming image of suburban life you see below. There's just no privacy for a Prince of the Realm these days.
Vote-me-up, then, for Friday's story of mirth and woe with a Thursday vote-o from a Wednesday picture competition. I think I may need to lie down for a bit.
* Dibs: "As the final model coasted down the catwalk, the audience went wild with drug-fuelled delight. Yes, it had been another London Fashion Week triumph for Vivienne Westwood. If only the reaction at Tehran Fashion Week had been the same..."
* Pickle: "It would go down as Ken Livingstone's finest achievement as Mayor of London. They had finally found a use for the last empty plinth in Trafalgar Square.
* Party III: "As Charles Kennedy came to several hours later, he realised with trouser-shattering horror that he'd missed a crucial Commons vote yet again."
* 10cc: "Hunger twisted inside him, and he knew that he would have to eat soon. Instinctively, his muscles relaxed, knowing that in a few minutes there would be enough for a small pond. And then the ducks would come. Oh yes, the ducks would come."
* Meat: "Despite the best of intentions, Foul Ole Ron succumbed to the curse of the Special Brew and had that dream again. As he reached the part when the small boy said "Your mother licks tramps", he couldn't help himself. He knew there and then it would be another night rummaging through the Salvation Army bins."
* Gaylord: "With old age catching up with him, the intrepid explorer Sir Scary Twistleton-Duck finally made the discovery that has eluded mankind for centuries: the legendary Fountain of Youth. What the gentlemen of the Royal Geographic Society didn't know, he decided, wouldn't hurt them."
Now, get out there and vote-me-up, or I'll send Misty round with her biggest axe. And you wouldn't want that.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Great Shack!
Great Shack!
I've always been fascinated by the great polar adventurers. Scott, Nansen, Amundsen, Peary, and in the modern era, the unique Ranulph Fiennes, who has put himself through every agony the Edwardian explorers did, only without the actual dying encased in a block of ice.
These are men who have risked - and lost - their lives exploring the most inhospitable places on the planet, not forgetting to name the best parts after their main sponsors while they were out there. Nansen once walked across Greenland because no-one else had done so. Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, I suspect, walked to both poles to avoid having to tile the bathroom.
One man exemplifies the spirit of the age - Sir Ernest Shackleton.
I've written about Shackleton before as a personal hero, and with good cause. Utterly woeful with money, he spent as much time as possible trudging around Antarctica in order to put as much distance between himself and his creditors as humanly possible. He came within miles of the South Pole years before Amundsen did, before turning back through lack of rations.
Eschewing such modern technology as "skis" and "dogs", which the Edwardians saw as going against the whole British spirit of human adventure, Shackleton walked south and walked back. They didn't even get to eat the horse, which fell down a crevass. Or is it a crevice? A whopping great hole.
Dead livestock aside, Shackleton was able to say that he never lost a man under his command on his adventures. A boast he could repeat on his Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914. A typical British tale of the ability to turn disaster to triumph, they never actually got to cross Antarctica, their ship crushed by the pack-ice at an early stage, Shackleton and his party had to walk and row to the relative safety of Elephant Island, where they sat out a second winter living of the remains of their rations, and any unfortunate seals or penguins they could capture.
As the weather cleared, Shackleton led a small party in the lifeboat James Caird, and they rowed 800 miles in two weeks across the Southern Atlantic to find help on South Georgia. It remains once of the great feats of seamanship. The slightest of deviations of course, and they would have missed their target completely, and they would almost certainly have been lost at sea.
All hands were rescued. Shackleton's reward: public indifference. His crew - all experienced sailors had missed the first two years of the Great War, and several were not to survive until 1918.
Naturally, Shackleton, heading south on yet another adventure - almost certainly devised to escape crushing debts - died in the South Atlantic. Antarctica didn't kill him - a heart condition did.
A bloody Anglo-Irish hero. Dedicated, deeply flawed, skint. I can identify with that, but then, I have never had toes frozen off, nor have I lived under an upturned rowing boat for a year. And today it is his 132nd birthday.
Oh, and I'm forty today, as well. Whoop. Send pie.
I've always been fascinated by the great polar adventurers. Scott, Nansen, Amundsen, Peary, and in the modern era, the unique Ranulph Fiennes, who has put himself through every agony the Edwardian explorers did, only without the actual dying encased in a block of ice.These are men who have risked - and lost - their lives exploring the most inhospitable places on the planet, not forgetting to name the best parts after their main sponsors while they were out there. Nansen once walked across Greenland because no-one else had done so. Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, I suspect, walked to both poles to avoid having to tile the bathroom.
One man exemplifies the spirit of the age - Sir Ernest Shackleton.
I've written about Shackleton before as a personal hero, and with good cause. Utterly woeful with money, he spent as much time as possible trudging around Antarctica in order to put as much distance between himself and his creditors as humanly possible. He came within miles of the South Pole years before Amundsen did, before turning back through lack of rations.
Eschewing such modern technology as "skis" and "dogs", which the Edwardians saw as going against the whole British spirit of human adventure, Shackleton walked south and walked back. They didn't even get to eat the horse, which fell down a crevass. Or is it a crevice? A whopping great hole.
Dead livestock aside, Shackleton was able to say that he never lost a man under his command on his adventures. A boast he could repeat on his Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914. A typical British tale of the ability to turn disaster to triumph, they never actually got to cross Antarctica, their ship crushed by the pack-ice at an early stage, Shackleton and his party had to walk and row to the relative safety of Elephant Island, where they sat out a second winter living of the remains of their rations, and any unfortunate seals or penguins they could capture.
As the weather cleared, Shackleton led a small party in the lifeboat James Caird, and they rowed 800 miles in two weeks across the Southern Atlantic to find help on South Georgia. It remains once of the great feats of seamanship. The slightest of deviations of course, and they would have missed their target completely, and they would almost certainly have been lost at sea.
All hands were rescued. Shackleton's reward: public indifference. His crew - all experienced sailors had missed the first two years of the Great War, and several were not to survive until 1918.
Naturally, Shackleton, heading south on yet another adventure - almost certainly devised to escape crushing debts - died in the South Atlantic. Antarctica didn't kill him - a heart condition did.
A bloody Anglo-Irish hero. Dedicated, deeply flawed, skint. I can identify with that, but then, I have never had toes frozen off, nor have I lived under an upturned rowing boat for a year. And today it is his 132nd birthday.
Oh, and I'm forty today, as well. Whoop. Send pie.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Love (true meaning of)
Love (true meaning of)
My love for you burns
Like the Danish Embassy in Tehran
Valentine's Day is, as we all know, a big pile of bollocks, as far removed from the concept of love as is entirely possible. The only love springing from 14th February is that of Mr Hallmark and his big pile of money, and I am in no way insanely jealous of this fact.
So, in the spirit of rescuing the day from the money men, I ask you, beloved readers, to come up with appropriate verse to celebrate the true meaning of love.
For example:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Take all your clothes off
And jump up and down on this trampoline while I take photographs for a specialist website, there's a dear.
Now, name me one woman who would refuse that sort of offer, eh?
Our love is like a red, red rose
And also like your blood
That runs down the specially carved channels and into the public water system
As I feast on your still-warm entrails
Who'd have thought there was
A sacrificial stone in this neck of the woods, eh?
Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Hot, naked and disgustingly sweaty
Dirtier than Zeta-Jones in the Darling Buds of May,
And all that business with the restraining orders.
I'm a dreadful romantic at heart, really.*
And just to prove that I'm not the only l33t po3t on the internets, I was sent this gem:
In the ocean of love
I'm ever-swimming
I'd love to give you
A right good rimming
Roll on the 15th.
* No. No, I'm not.
My love for you burns
Like the Danish Embassy in Tehran
Valentine's Day is, as we all know, a big pile of bollocks, as far removed from the concept of love as is entirely possible. The only love springing from 14th February is that of Mr Hallmark and his big pile of money, and I am in no way insanely jealous of this fact.
So, in the spirit of rescuing the day from the money men, I ask you, beloved readers, to come up with appropriate verse to celebrate the true meaning of love.
For example:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Take all your clothes off
And jump up and down on this trampoline while I take photographs for a specialist website, there's a dear.
Now, name me one woman who would refuse that sort of offer, eh?
Our love is like a red, red rose
And also like your blood
That runs down the specially carved channels and into the public water system
As I feast on your still-warm entrails
Who'd have thought there was
A sacrificial stone in this neck of the woods, eh?
Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Hot, naked and disgustingly sweaty
Dirtier than Zeta-Jones in the Darling Buds of May,
And all that business with the restraining orders.
I'm a dreadful romantic at heart, really.*
And just to prove that I'm not the only l33t po3t on the internets, I was sent this gem:
In the ocean of love
I'm ever-swimming
I'd love to give you
A right good rimming
Roll on the 15th.
* No. No, I'm not.
Monday, February 13, 2006
The Risk Business
The Risk Business
This week, I am currently hating insurance companies. If I catch up with that More Than dog, I'm going to shove that annoying phone on wheels right where the sun don't shine. And that'll be more than lucky.
So: ring-sir?
Me: "Yes, it's about the renewal quote you sent me for my home insurance."
Direct Fucking Line, the bastards: "Yeeeess...."
Me: "Last year it was 240 pouns, and now you want over three hundred. What's up?"
DFL, tb: "We've increased our premiums in line with inflation,sir."
Me: "What ? Inflation? Jesus, I live in Brazil now?"
DFL, tb: "Ha ha, no sir, we've increased your cover as well, sir."
Me: "Yes, I noticed. I get 10p more if my house is hit by a meteor, and you've introduced Penguin Attack Insurance because of my proximity to a fishing port."
DFL, tb: "Company policy, sir. Do you want to take up our excellent cover?"
+++CLICK+++
Phone-call the second:
Me: "Yes, it's about the renewal quote you sent me for my car insurance."
Fucking More Than, the bastards: "Yeeeess…."
Me: "Last year it was 170 pouns fully comp, ten years no-claims. This year, I couldn't help but notice the quote going up to 490."
FMT, tb: "That'll be because of your accidents, sir."
Me: "Accidents. What accidents?"
FMT, tb: "The one in January 2002 and the other one in June 2004."
Me: "Hang on a cotton-pickin'… the first one was the other guy's fault. His insurance company paid in full, and he was done for driving without due care…"
FMT, tb: "Yes sir, but…"
Me: [now ranting] "And the second one was when an old lady drove her car into mine while I was parked on my own drive. I was actually over one hundred miles away at the time. You couldn't pin that one on me if you tried. She admitted careless driving, and she should know - she's the local schools Tufty Club lady*."
FMT, tb: "Yes sir, but…"
Me: "You are, if I might hazard some personal abuse here, having a giraffe."
FMT, tb: "Yes sir, but [here it comes] it's company policy sir. Do you want to take up our excellent cover? For an extra five pounds a month we can also cover you for road rage**."
+++CLICK+++
In summary: GAAAAHHHHH!
* True!
** Also true.
This week, I am currently hating insurance companies. If I catch up with that More Than dog, I'm going to shove that annoying phone on wheels right where the sun don't shine. And that'll be more than lucky.
So: ring-sir?
Me: "Yes, it's about the renewal quote you sent me for my home insurance."
Direct Fucking Line, the bastards: "Yeeeess...."
Me: "Last year it was 240 pouns, and now you want over three hundred. What's up?"
DFL, tb: "We've increased our premiums in line with inflation,sir."
Me: "What ? Inflation? Jesus, I live in Brazil now?"
DFL, tb: "Ha ha, no sir, we've increased your cover as well, sir."
Me: "Yes, I noticed. I get 10p more if my house is hit by a meteor, and you've introduced Penguin Attack Insurance because of my proximity to a fishing port."
DFL, tb: "Company policy, sir. Do you want to take up our excellent cover?"
+++CLICK+++
Phone-call the second:
Me: "Yes, it's about the renewal quote you sent me for my car insurance."
Fucking More Than, the bastards: "Yeeeess…."
Me: "Last year it was 170 pouns fully comp, ten years no-claims. This year, I couldn't help but notice the quote going up to 490."
FMT, tb: "That'll be because of your accidents, sir."
Me: "Accidents. What accidents?"
FMT, tb: "The one in January 2002 and the other one in June 2004."
Me: "Hang on a cotton-pickin'… the first one was the other guy's fault. His insurance company paid in full, and he was done for driving without due care…"
FMT, tb: "Yes sir, but…"
Me: [now ranting] "And the second one was when an old lady drove her car into mine while I was parked on my own drive. I was actually over one hundred miles away at the time. You couldn't pin that one on me if you tried. She admitted careless driving, and she should know - she's the local schools Tufty Club lady*."
FMT, tb: "Yes sir, but…"
Me: "You are, if I might hazard some personal abuse here, having a giraffe."
FMT, tb: "Yes sir, but [here it comes] it's company policy sir. Do you want to take up our excellent cover? For an extra five pounds a month we can also cover you for road rage**."
+++CLICK+++
In summary: GAAAAHHHHH!
* True!
** Also true.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Mirth and Woe: The Operator
The Operator
These stories have been told in fragments over the space of several years. Now, the time has come to bite the bullet, and admit the full, shameful tale of my short career as a computer operator. It was a time filled with woe, a desire to make as much money as possible by doing very little work, and the hope that once day, with a following wind, I might actually end up doing something worthwhile. This has yet to happen.
Enough time has passed for me to name names. And the name is: Motorway Tyres and Accessories, a company green with envy at Sir Tom Farmer and his Kwik Fit fitters. I worked in the company's head office, a rather low quality office block just outside Reading town centre, just handy for Whitley and a constant supply of weed for Wayne, my Rastafarian supervisor. This job came courtesy of my brother, who had resigned to become something medium-sized in the city, and they were thrashing around looking for someone, anyone to work their aging computer system.
I knew my way around a QWERTY keyboard, appeared to have very few mental defects and didn't smell like a corpse, so I was in. And at a whopping nine grand a year, I was on easy street.
Unfortunately, having left the cushy nine-to-five life as a civil servant behind me, I was actually forced to work for my fortune, and this meant working evenings. Still, once I knew what I was doing, I was able to set up the largest batch jobs possible, slip over the road and rack up the hours in The Crown public house, with handy diversions to a rather good Chinese fish and chip shop just down the road, and a local newsagent that had a top shelf so large, it actually filled three shelves, with a tiny second rack for all your other non-porny needs.
After any session at The Crown, I tended to forget the most important rule of drinking: "What goes in, must come out" - and lacking the usual judgement whilst slightly pished whilst undertaking the company pay run and a huge stock-taking job, I would urinate into a paper cup and set it on my desk meaning to pour it down the bog on the way out.
You know how things go when you're in a hurry at the end of a long working week.
And you're bladdered.
And the pub is still there, over the road, beckoning.
I forgot.
It was a Bank Holiday Weekend.
On Tuesday, I arrived to find the cleaners complaining about the huge "coffee" stain on my desk after the acidic piss had eaten through the paper cup and gone everywhere.
You would have thought I had learned, but I did it again the very same week. However, I had the presence of mind to use a plastic cup this time, which I threw out of the window as I arrived the next morning, pre-empting pointed questions from the terrifyingly large-chested cleaning supervisor, who had got the job by having the largest chest and an enormous collection of Elizabeth Duke jewellery.
My office was above a bus stop.
Doom.
Still, as this little episode closes, I made a vow. Never, ever, if working late at the office - internet access or filthy newsagents round the corner notwithstanding - attempt a quick one-off-the-wrist in the computer room if you suspect that you are the only person in the building, because there may, on the floor above you, be a long-running board meeting just breaking up, with the directors deciding to tour the building on the way out. Because it never happened, right?
Moving on, and a new job. I lied through my teeth and managed to get another computer operating job, earning the princely sum of twelve thousand a year. Coining it in, and once again, not smelling like a corpse and the ability not to attempt sexual innuendo with the interviewers swung it for me.
This job was a completely different kettle of fish. From a computer system dying on its arse, held together by sellotape and semen, this was a brand-new start-up with a cutting-edge operating system (one of only two in the world, and it stayed that way right up to the day they switched it off again) and a staff of several, some of whom actually did some work every now and then. I am not at liberty to name this company, as some of the people are still there and remain on speaking terms with me. Those terms being "blab about us on your website and we set the Bumming Dogs loose." Which is fair enough, all told.
As with all new systems, the whole thing was incredibly flaky, and would come crashing down if you so much as breathed heavily in the computer room. In fact, one crash was rumoured to be caused by passionate thrashing between two of my former colleagues who had taken rather a shine to each other, and had, in their lust rogered the big red "power off" button.
So, we suffered a major system crash, and spent several hours, as usual, running round swearing until the monster was fixed.
All you can do is keep your head down and fix the thing, and then let the punters know they might be able to log back on and rescue the remnants of their work.
The Boss sticks his head round the door and says "Scary - do us a favour - send an on-screen message to all users to let 'em know the computer's no longer fucked."
So I did.
"ALL USERS: COMPUTER NO LONGER FUCKED"
We laughed.
Then, I dropped my coffee mug. It landed on the Enter key.
Our network had several hundred users in many varied locations round the world.
Doom.
After hardly any time out of work, I landed a new job. There's lucky.
These stories have been told in fragments over the space of several years. Now, the time has come to bite the bullet, and admit the full, shameful tale of my short career as a computer operator. It was a time filled with woe, a desire to make as much money as possible by doing very little work, and the hope that once day, with a following wind, I might actually end up doing something worthwhile. This has yet to happen.
Enough time has passed for me to name names. And the name is: Motorway Tyres and Accessories, a company green with envy at Sir Tom Farmer and his Kwik Fit fitters. I worked in the company's head office, a rather low quality office block just outside Reading town centre, just handy for Whitley and a constant supply of weed for Wayne, my Rastafarian supervisor. This job came courtesy of my brother, who had resigned to become something medium-sized in the city, and they were thrashing around looking for someone, anyone to work their aging computer system.
I knew my way around a QWERTY keyboard, appeared to have very few mental defects and didn't smell like a corpse, so I was in. And at a whopping nine grand a year, I was on easy street.
Unfortunately, having left the cushy nine-to-five life as a civil servant behind me, I was actually forced to work for my fortune, and this meant working evenings. Still, once I knew what I was doing, I was able to set up the largest batch jobs possible, slip over the road and rack up the hours in The Crown public house, with handy diversions to a rather good Chinese fish and chip shop just down the road, and a local newsagent that had a top shelf so large, it actually filled three shelves, with a tiny second rack for all your other non-porny needs.
After any session at The Crown, I tended to forget the most important rule of drinking: "What goes in, must come out" - and lacking the usual judgement whilst slightly pished whilst undertaking the company pay run and a huge stock-taking job, I would urinate into a paper cup and set it on my desk meaning to pour it down the bog on the way out.
You know how things go when you're in a hurry at the end of a long working week.
And you're bladdered.
And the pub is still there, over the road, beckoning.
I forgot.
It was a Bank Holiday Weekend.
On Tuesday, I arrived to find the cleaners complaining about the huge "coffee" stain on my desk after the acidic piss had eaten through the paper cup and gone everywhere.
You would have thought I had learned, but I did it again the very same week. However, I had the presence of mind to use a plastic cup this time, which I threw out of the window as I arrived the next morning, pre-empting pointed questions from the terrifyingly large-chested cleaning supervisor, who had got the job by having the largest chest and an enormous collection of Elizabeth Duke jewellery.
My office was above a bus stop.
Doom.
Still, as this little episode closes, I made a vow. Never, ever, if working late at the office - internet access or filthy newsagents round the corner notwithstanding - attempt a quick one-off-the-wrist in the computer room if you suspect that you are the only person in the building, because there may, on the floor above you, be a long-running board meeting just breaking up, with the directors deciding to tour the building on the way out. Because it never happened, right?
Moving on, and a new job. I lied through my teeth and managed to get another computer operating job, earning the princely sum of twelve thousand a year. Coining it in, and once again, not smelling like a corpse and the ability not to attempt sexual innuendo with the interviewers swung it for me.
This job was a completely different kettle of fish. From a computer system dying on its arse, held together by sellotape and semen, this was a brand-new start-up with a cutting-edge operating system (one of only two in the world, and it stayed that way right up to the day they switched it off again) and a staff of several, some of whom actually did some work every now and then. I am not at liberty to name this company, as some of the people are still there and remain on speaking terms with me. Those terms being "blab about us on your website and we set the Bumming Dogs loose." Which is fair enough, all told.
As with all new systems, the whole thing was incredibly flaky, and would come crashing down if you so much as breathed heavily in the computer room. In fact, one crash was rumoured to be caused by passionate thrashing between two of my former colleagues who had taken rather a shine to each other, and had, in their lust rogered the big red "power off" button.
So, we suffered a major system crash, and spent several hours, as usual, running round swearing until the monster was fixed.
All you can do is keep your head down and fix the thing, and then let the punters know they might be able to log back on and rescue the remnants of their work.
The Boss sticks his head round the door and says "Scary - do us a favour - send an on-screen message to all users to let 'em know the computer's no longer fucked."
So I did.
"ALL USERS: COMPUTER NO LONGER FUCKED"
We laughed.
Then, I dropped my coffee mug. It landed on the Enter key.
Our network had several hundred users in many varied locations round the world.
Doom.
After hardly any time out of work, I landed a new job. There's lucky.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Meeting Famous People
Meeting Famous People
I met Timmy Mallett the other day.
Awestruck by his utterly brilliant presence, I told him of the time I started a chant of "Wacaday Wacaday Wacaday" during an England football match at Wembley, which, after a couple of choruses, had gone from a couple of sad bastards singing on their own to some 80,000 filling the night sky with gibberish.
Mr Mallett was hugely impressed by my finest hour, and I got a big double thumbs up in return. I did not see his Pinky Punky.
Which borderline / past-it celebrities have you met, eh?
Not a vote-o
I'm feeling like toilet this morning, and thussly I am lacking the hummus to hold a Thursday vote-o this week. In which case, tomorrow's tale of mirth and woe will be one that you lot never vote for, and it serves you right:
* The Operator: "It was the worst possible scenario. The four-minute warning was sounding, and here he was in a Turkish bath-house. In for a Turkish New Lira..."
So mote it be.
I met Timmy Mallett the other day.
Awestruck by his utterly brilliant presence, I told him of the time I started a chant of "Wacaday Wacaday Wacaday" during an England football match at Wembley, which, after a couple of choruses, had gone from a couple of sad bastards singing on their own to some 80,000 filling the night sky with gibberish.
Mr Mallett was hugely impressed by my finest hour, and I got a big double thumbs up in return. I did not see his Pinky Punky.
Which borderline / past-it celebrities have you met, eh?
Not a vote-o
I'm feeling like toilet this morning, and thussly I am lacking the hummus to hold a Thursday vote-o this week. In which case, tomorrow's tale of mirth and woe will be one that you lot never vote for, and it serves you right:
* The Operator: "It was the worst possible scenario. The four-minute warning was sounding, and here he was in a Turkish bath-house. In for a Turkish New Lira..."
So mote it be.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
PC: Woe
PC: Woe
The worst thing that could possibly happen to your computer: letting other people use it.
Wife: "I've got a new screensaver."
Me: "Oh yes?"
Wife: "Something popped-up while I was shopping and said I could have a free Valentine's screen-saver. So I did."
Me: "Ah."
Wife: "It's really, really good. Look!"
* Switches on computer, it is like running through treacle. After ten minutes, we finally crawl onto the internet. The homepage is now www.superwazoosexsearch.cz *
Me: "Oh God."
Wife: "And there's another thing. Something's wrong with the computer. I bet you did it."
The worst thing that could possibly happen to your computer: letting other people use it.
Wife: "I've got a new screensaver."
Me: "Oh yes?"
Wife: "Something popped-up while I was shopping and said I could have a free Valentine's screen-saver. So I did."
Me: "Ah."
Wife: "It's really, really good. Look!"
* Switches on computer, it is like running through treacle. After ten minutes, we finally crawl onto the internet. The homepage is now www.superwazoosexsearch.cz *
Me: "Oh God."
Wife: "And there's another thing. Something's wrong with the computer. I bet you did it."
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
"A picture of a man's willy!"
Tuesday Stuffpile
A load of old rubbish that wouldn't fit anywhere else. And a picture of a man's willy.
Piss/Ear
Chemists!
Those eardrops they advertise on the TV - the ones they boast contain Urea Hydrogen Peroxide - it's wee, isn't it?
You're paying good money to have someone wee in your ear.
People: I don't care what they say - you're safer with a blunt instrument.
Referrer logs - slight return
Normally, I heart my referrer logs. However, I have just seen the worst referrer log entry ever seen on my website stats: "Ben Elton Blessed torrent".
Oh, and "Vanessa Feltz Topless Pictures".
Time to switch the internet off.
Worst. Pun. Ever.
I hear one of London's top hotels is doing a special offer in its restaurant - buy two courses, get the third free.
"Pudding on the Ritz"
I'll get me top hat.
Boswelox (Pile of)
I've just found out that all that biffidus digestivum and L. Casei Immunitas malarkey they use to advertise those good bacteria yoghurty drink things are a complete load of bollocks made up by advertising agencies. They don't in fact, exist.
Stunned by this news, I have made a vow: If I find that Good Bacteria geek, I'm going to punch him up and punch him up GOOD. That'll serve him right for using his terrible science lies to pick up girls.
Big pile of Boswelox.
Txt
This week I am mostly loving the new BT Text-to-Voice-me-do.
Y'know - the thing where you can send a text to a landline number and Tom Baker - chained to a desk somewhere in Central London - reads out all your best swears.
"Does it work for photo messages?" Mrs Duck asks.
"Tell you what - I'll send you a picture, and if Doctor Who rings up and says 'A PICTURE OF A MAN'S WILLY!', then that's a big yes."
No, it doesn't.
Blog. Pie.
We made a new thing.
Blog Pie!
A load of old rubbish that wouldn't fit anywhere else. And a picture of a man's willy.
Piss/Ear
Chemists!
Those eardrops they advertise on the TV - the ones they boast contain Urea Hydrogen Peroxide - it's wee, isn't it?
You're paying good money to have someone wee in your ear.
People: I don't care what they say - you're safer with a blunt instrument.
Referrer logs - slight return
Normally, I heart my referrer logs. However, I have just seen the worst referrer log entry ever seen on my website stats: "Ben Elton Blessed torrent".
Oh, and "Vanessa Feltz Topless Pictures".
Time to switch the internet off.
Worst. Pun. Ever.
I hear one of London's top hotels is doing a special offer in its restaurant - buy two courses, get the third free.
"Pudding on the Ritz"
I'll get me top hat.
Boswelox (Pile of)
I've just found out that all that biffidus digestivum and L. Casei Immunitas malarkey they use to advertise those good bacteria yoghurty drink things are a complete load of bollocks made up by advertising agencies. They don't in fact, exist.
Stunned by this news, I have made a vow: If I find that Good Bacteria geek, I'm going to punch him up and punch him up GOOD. That'll serve him right for using his terrible science lies to pick up girls.
Big pile of Boswelox.
Txt
This week I am mostly loving the new BT Text-to-Voice-me-do.
Y'know - the thing where you can send a text to a landline number and Tom Baker - chained to a desk somewhere in Central London - reads out all your best swears.
"Does it work for photo messages?" Mrs Duck asks.
"Tell you what - I'll send you a picture, and if Doctor Who rings up and says 'A PICTURE OF A MAN'S WILLY!', then that's a big yes."
No, it doesn't.
Blog. Pie.
We made a new thing.
Blog Pie!
Monday, February 06, 2006
A Blogday Swearing Special
A Blogday Swearing Special
Today is the fourth anniversary of this site. And to mark this auspicious occasion, I will be mostly swearing like a bastard.
The world is full of terrible cunts. Far too many of them - and let's pull a name out of the ether at random here - James Blunt - are unaware of their utter cuntiness. And there is a very good reason for this. They are in denial.
In all his years as The Worst Person Ever, Phil Collins never once took a couple of steps back and thought to himself "Hmmm, you know, I really am the most enormous cunt", even when he was divorcing his wife by fax, or smugging it up in Buster. I am of the firm opinion that this is because there is no organization that these people can turn to in order to confront the obvious cuntish turn their lives have taken.
There's all the obvious Alcoholics-, Gamblers- and Narcotics- Anonymous groups which assist people with these terrible, life-destroying problems, where they confront their demons head-on, and do what they can to help themselves, and more importantly, those around them. But there is no network of support for the most devastating of these horrors. The celebrity cunt.
And here's were we come in. Cunts Anonymous. A twelve-step plan that allows the Blunts of this world to confront their innate cuntiness, and work to improve their world - and that of those around them - one day at a time. For sure, he is a cunt today, but if he comes to us, he may be reduced to a mere pointless tosser.
The first step in this journey away from cunthood, of course, is always the most important. If Blunt gave us a little less of that "You're beautiful" whining, and a bit more "Hello, my name is James, and I am a cunt", we could be making a bit of progress. Naturally, this admission would be followed by either a hearty round of applause or a damn good kicking. I haven't decided yet.
Although it would be tempting to lock P. Collins and J. Blunt in a room and leg it, surely there are many, many others who should be encouraged to attend regular CA meetings. Kate Moss and Jade Goody for two, showing that gender is no bar to being an annoying celebrity cunt. If we can get enough, we can pack them all onto a bus for the CA Mystery Coach Trip. No mystery: it's Beachy Head again.
Go on - suggest-o-cunt! A list of their crimes would come in handy, just in case I dump this whole idea in the bin, and plump for good old-fashioned Stalinist show-trials and a firing squad.
Today is the fourth anniversary of this site. And to mark this auspicious occasion, I will be mostly swearing like a bastard.
The world is full of terrible cunts. Far too many of them - and let's pull a name out of the ether at random here - James Blunt - are unaware of their utter cuntiness. And there is a very good reason for this. They are in denial.In all his years as The Worst Person Ever, Phil Collins never once took a couple of steps back and thought to himself "Hmmm, you know, I really am the most enormous cunt", even when he was divorcing his wife by fax, or smugging it up in Buster. I am of the firm opinion that this is because there is no organization that these people can turn to in order to confront the obvious cuntish turn their lives have taken.
There's all the obvious Alcoholics-, Gamblers- and Narcotics- Anonymous groups which assist people with these terrible, life-destroying problems, where they confront their demons head-on, and do what they can to help themselves, and more importantly, those around them. But there is no network of support for the most devastating of these horrors. The celebrity cunt.
And here's were we come in. Cunts Anonymous. A twelve-step plan that allows the Blunts of this world to confront their innate cuntiness, and work to improve their world - and that of those around them - one day at a time. For sure, he is a cunt today, but if he comes to us, he may be reduced to a mere pointless tosser.
The first step in this journey away from cunthood, of course, is always the most important. If Blunt gave us a little less of that "You're beautiful" whining, and a bit more "Hello, my name is James, and I am a cunt", we could be making a bit of progress. Naturally, this admission would be followed by either a hearty round of applause or a damn good kicking. I haven't decided yet.
Although it would be tempting to lock P. Collins and J. Blunt in a room and leg it, surely there are many, many others who should be encouraged to attend regular CA meetings. Kate Moss and Jade Goody for two, showing that gender is no bar to being an annoying celebrity cunt. If we can get enough, we can pack them all onto a bus for the CA Mystery Coach Trip. No mystery: it's Beachy Head again.
Go on - suggest-o-cunt! A list of their crimes would come in handy, just in case I dump this whole idea in the bin, and plump for good old-fashioned Stalinist show-trials and a firing squad.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Spaced
Spaced
In recent weeks, my journey to work has been starting at 5.30am with a 110-mile drive from Weymouth to Reading. One thing I've sort-of-noticed on my arrival is the complete loss of the section between Andover and Basingstoke. "Complete loss" as in no memory of a twenty mile stretch of A303. I suppose that's Hampshire for you.
At first, I thought I was merely asleep at the wheel. After all, this foot-to-the-floor dual carriageway comes after about eighty minutes of technical driving along single carriageway roads, and I relax into something less demanding, going BAAAAAARN! past all the forty ton Tesco trucks I've been stuck behind since Salisbury. And who on Earth could blame me? I could drive that stretch of road with my eyes shut, and by way of experiment, I'll give it a go this afternoon.
However, regaining consciousness as I sailed past the Basingstoke Tower of Terror this morning, my caffeine-riddled brain, on checking that I still had a functioning car and the requisite number of limbs, realized that no time had passed at all since Andover, and this can only mean one thing.
Aliens.
Zillons from the Planet Tharg have been routinely picking me up at the end of the A343, disguised as scantily-clad hitchhikers, performing evil, unnecessary surgery on me and wanton acts of other-worldly lust, before dumping me in the arsehole of the South: Basingstoke.
It's logical when you think about it. And also explains why I've been forced to go out and by a catering-sized tube of Anusol.
I want to believe*.
* That I am not mad.
In recent weeks, my journey to work has been starting at 5.30am with a 110-mile drive from Weymouth to Reading. One thing I've sort-of-noticed on my arrival is the complete loss of the section between Andover and Basingstoke. "Complete loss" as in no memory of a twenty mile stretch of A303. I suppose that's Hampshire for you.
At first, I thought I was merely asleep at the wheel. After all, this foot-to-the-floor dual carriageway comes after about eighty minutes of technical driving along single carriageway roads, and I relax into something less demanding, going BAAAAAARN! past all the forty ton Tesco trucks I've been stuck behind since Salisbury. And who on Earth could blame me? I could drive that stretch of road with my eyes shut, and by way of experiment, I'll give it a go this afternoon.
However, regaining consciousness as I sailed past the Basingstoke Tower of Terror this morning, my caffeine-riddled brain, on checking that I still had a functioning car and the requisite number of limbs, realized that no time had passed at all since Andover, and this can only mean one thing.
Aliens.
Zillons from the Planet Tharg have been routinely picking me up at the end of the A343, disguised as scantily-clad hitchhikers, performing evil, unnecessary surgery on me and wanton acts of other-worldly lust, before dumping me in the arsehole of the South: Basingstoke.
It's logical when you think about it. And also explains why I've been forced to go out and by a catering-sized tube of Anusol.
I want to believe*.
* That I am not mad.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Mirth and Woe: Driving Test
Driving Test
I have a confession. I may be the concrete, bullet-proof, invincible duck of your dreams, but there's one thing I've got to tell you. I failed my driving test. Badly. Horribly, horribly badly.
There was, you will be pleased to hear, woe involved. Woe, but hardly any mirth.
If it's any excuse, I was eighteen, arrogant and expecting the entire world on a plate. My parents had fronted a series of hideously expensive lessons with a very nice lady and her Mini Metro, which I hardly drove off a bridge in Henley-on-Thames, at all, scattering frightened pedestrians in my wake. I really was a most excellent driving student, right up to the moment I got behind the wheel of a car. Then I became as David Blunkett in a Ferrari.
I would pass my driving test first time, oh yes.
Written tests?
Interactive bollocks on CD-ROMs to test your reaction speeds?
Feh. Feh, to all that I say.
Back in my day we had a miserable old bastard with a clipboard, with the power of life and death over your future ownership of a green Renault 4 sitting, rusting, on a driveway in Charvil. You drove, he ticked the boxes, and if the body count was less than double figures, you were allowed out on your own.
He was called W H Smith.
“Like the shop?”
“Shut up.”
Now, that was a good start. Perhaps I'd like to start the car and turn right out of the test centre. So I did, maiming hardly anyone in the process.
Safari - so goodie! And only the u-turn, the reverse-round-the-corner, the hill start and the try-not-to-seriously-maim-anyone to go. And let's not forget the emergency stop.
"Quick! There's a child in the road!" W H Smith shouted.
Knowing my Spike Milligan, I replied "No there isn't" and drove on.
"No, no, no. Let me explain. When I hit my clipboard against the dashboard, I want you to assume there is a child in the road and make an emergency stop."
"Riiiiight."
So, I spent so long watching the clipboard as I navigated around Henley, that only three cats, a dog and an unfortunate pigeon disappeared under the front wheels of the Mini Metro before the clipboard finally whumped against the dashboard.
Time to act!
My right foot slammed down on the brake.
At least I thought it was the brake.
Wrong pedal.
"BAAAAAAARRRRRN!" said the Mini Metro.
"AAAAARGH!" said W H Smith.
"MWEEEEEGH!" I said.
"BAAAAAAARRRRRN!" said the Mini Metro, again, hurtling towards a bus queue, which helpfully scattered, giving me a free run at the Town Hall.
I missed.
I failed.
In fact, I had already failed for a number of reasons.
In particular, shouting “get your fucking truck out of the road!” to a lorry driver who had jack-knifed in the centre of Henley, as I allowed the Mini Metro to roll back slowly under the front axle of a dust cart.
Also: trying to go the wrong way round the one way system to avoid said dust cart and jack-knifed lorry.
Also also: Beeping and waving at a mate, whilst shouting "Oi oi Marteeee!" out of the window.
Things, I admit, could have gone better.
I passed second time round, mainly because W H Smith had previously - and totally accidentally - fallen down the stairs of the test centre. You can't prove anything.
I have a confession. I may be the concrete, bullet-proof, invincible duck of your dreams, but there's one thing I've got to tell you. I failed my driving test. Badly. Horribly, horribly badly.There was, you will be pleased to hear, woe involved. Woe, but hardly any mirth.
If it's any excuse, I was eighteen, arrogant and expecting the entire world on a plate. My parents had fronted a series of hideously expensive lessons with a very nice lady and her Mini Metro, which I hardly drove off a bridge in Henley-on-Thames, at all, scattering frightened pedestrians in my wake. I really was a most excellent driving student, right up to the moment I got behind the wheel of a car. Then I became as David Blunkett in a Ferrari.
I would pass my driving test first time, oh yes.
Written tests?
Interactive bollocks on CD-ROMs to test your reaction speeds?
Feh. Feh, to all that I say.
Back in my day we had a miserable old bastard with a clipboard, with the power of life and death over your future ownership of a green Renault 4 sitting, rusting, on a driveway in Charvil. You drove, he ticked the boxes, and if the body count was less than double figures, you were allowed out on your own.
He was called W H Smith.
“Like the shop?”
“Shut up.”
Now, that was a good start. Perhaps I'd like to start the car and turn right out of the test centre. So I did, maiming hardly anyone in the process.
Safari - so goodie! And only the u-turn, the reverse-round-the-corner, the hill start and the try-not-to-seriously-maim-anyone to go. And let's not forget the emergency stop.
"Quick! There's a child in the road!" W H Smith shouted.
Knowing my Spike Milligan, I replied "No there isn't" and drove on.
"No, no, no. Let me explain. When I hit my clipboard against the dashboard, I want you to assume there is a child in the road and make an emergency stop."
"Riiiiight."
So, I spent so long watching the clipboard as I navigated around Henley, that only three cats, a dog and an unfortunate pigeon disappeared under the front wheels of the Mini Metro before the clipboard finally whumped against the dashboard.
Time to act!
My right foot slammed down on the brake.
At least I thought it was the brake.
Wrong pedal.
"BAAAAAAARRRRRN!" said the Mini Metro.
"AAAAARGH!" said W H Smith.
"MWEEEEEGH!" I said.
"BAAAAAAARRRRRN!" said the Mini Metro, again, hurtling towards a bus queue, which helpfully scattered, giving me a free run at the Town Hall.
I missed.
I failed.
In fact, I had already failed for a number of reasons.
In particular, shouting “get your fucking truck out of the road!” to a lorry driver who had jack-knifed in the centre of Henley, as I allowed the Mini Metro to roll back slowly under the front axle of a dust cart.
Also: trying to go the wrong way round the one way system to avoid said dust cart and jack-knifed lorry.
Also also: Beeping and waving at a mate, whilst shouting "Oi oi Marteeee!" out of the window.
Things, I admit, could have gone better.
I passed second time round, mainly because W H Smith had previously - and totally accidentally - fallen down the stairs of the test centre. You can't prove anything.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
A Celebrity Special
Loompa-de-do
I've been getting about a bit in the last few weeks, and have found myself swilling like a pig in the trough of C-List celebrity. Having met a few of the minor talents that do their best to make our lives as mediocre as possible, I am astonished at the number of famous people who are, and let's be blunt about this, orange.
It's dreadful, and clearly the result of an all-Sunny D diet, with the side effect that it turns each and every one of these people into a complete and utter tosser.
Let us examine the evidence:
* Vanessa Feltz
* The lovely Debbie MacGee
* Judith Chalmers
* Dale Winton
* David Dickinson
* Cliff Richard
* Max Clifford
* Katie "Jordan" Price and Peter Andre
M. Clifford, from personal and unpleasant experience is also the Worst Person Ever, taking the crown from Phil Collins, head and orange shoulders above the rest of the competition. Which goes to prove my point, really.
Now that K. Price and P. Andre are the first two orange celebrities to breed, it will be intriguing (terrifying) to see how their offspring turns out. My money : "red".
Orange: No.
The Celebrity Vote-o
So, it's mirth AND woe, you're after, then? I can do that, and so, it seems does regular reader GW, who tells us a rather good tale of Celebrity Mirth and Woe.
And by way of marking this auspicious event, I've asked all of my celebrity mates to come along and help out with this week's Thursday vote-o. Wonderful, wonderful people, the lot of them. Luckily, I couldn't be arsed to write anything new this week, so there's only four of them:
* The Operator: "Snort!" went Kate, "Snooo-oooorrrt!", and the manager of the supermarket was forced to put a sign in the window: "Sorry. No Vim."
* Driving Test: Natasha smiled. Buying a nail-gun and a gross of badgers was the most fun she'd had since Strictly Come Dancing. The Six O'clock News had barely finished, and the BBC's switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree.
* Dibs: It was the country's darkest hour - parliament in jeopardy from a heavily-armed rodent army, and not a single MP knew how to impersonate a cat. Gorgeous George was missing again.
* Pickle: "Hello, my name is James, and I'm an annoying cunt." At last, young Blunt had found a support group that would help him with his problem.
Vote, and indeed, me-do!
I've been getting about a bit in the last few weeks, and have found myself swilling like a pig in the trough of C-List celebrity. Having met a few of the minor talents that do their best to make our lives as mediocre as possible, I am astonished at the number of famous people who are, and let's be blunt about this, orange.
It's dreadful, and clearly the result of an all-Sunny D diet, with the side effect that it turns each and every one of these people into a complete and utter tosser.
Let us examine the evidence:
* Vanessa Feltz
* The lovely Debbie MacGee
* Judith Chalmers
* Dale Winton
* David Dickinson
* Cliff Richard
* Max Clifford
* Katie "Jordan" Price and Peter Andre
M. Clifford, from personal and unpleasant experience is also the Worst Person Ever, taking the crown from Phil Collins, head and orange shoulders above the rest of the competition. Which goes to prove my point, really.
Now that K. Price and P. Andre are the first two orange celebrities to breed, it will be intriguing (terrifying) to see how their offspring turns out. My money : "red".
Orange: No.
The Celebrity Vote-o
So, it's mirth AND woe, you're after, then? I can do that, and so, it seems does regular reader GW, who tells us a rather good tale of Celebrity Mirth and Woe.
And by way of marking this auspicious event, I've asked all of my celebrity mates to come along and help out with this week's Thursday vote-o. Wonderful, wonderful people, the lot of them. Luckily, I couldn't be arsed to write anything new this week, so there's only four of them:
* The Operator: "Snort!" went Kate, "Snooo-oooorrrt!", and the manager of the supermarket was forced to put a sign in the window: "Sorry. No Vim."
* Driving Test: Natasha smiled. Buying a nail-gun and a gross of badgers was the most fun she'd had since Strictly Come Dancing. The Six O'clock News had barely finished, and the BBC's switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree.
* Dibs: It was the country's darkest hour - parliament in jeopardy from a heavily-armed rodent army, and not a single MP knew how to impersonate a cat. Gorgeous George was missing again.
* Pickle: "Hello, my name is James, and I'm an annoying cunt." At last, young Blunt had found a support group that would help him with his problem.
Vote, and indeed, me-do!
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
"Do you remember the first time?"
"Do you remember the first time?"
I've spent much of my adult life telling people that the first record I ever bought was the none-more-cool "Pop Muzik" by M. This, alas, is an outrageous lie. The truth of the matter is somewhat different, and not a little shameful.
I remember the day well: my brother, sister and I took money earned over the Easter holidays to WH Smiths in Henley and made the following vinyl purchases:
Jill: "Pop Muzik" - M
Nigel: "Sunday Girl" - Blondie
And here comes the woe…
Self: "Nice Legs, Shame about the Face" - The Monks
Christ on a bike - no wonder I spent all those years lying to all and sundry about such a pivotal moment in my life. In the same circumstances, I'm pretty sure you would too.
At least my first album "Kings of the Wild Frontier" by Adam and the Ants had a certain street cred to it at the time, and possession of A. Ant's finest work earned me temporary promotion to Emperor of Cool with my schoolyard contemporaries. Then came Prince Charming, and the old order was resumed once more. And alas for my first album, it didn't survive my brother scratching it, and it was a good twenty years before it was replaced by a nostalgic CD purchase. He also did for my second album - "Dare!" by the Human League. Cheers, bruv.
[I am, at this point, brushing over parental purchases by way of birthday and Christmas presents, which in the great scheme of things don't really count. We're talking The Muppet Show Album, which may possess a certain retro chic these days, but arrived at a time when my best friend was hammering his head to his newly-acquired Deep Purple discs. A present from his parents, it turned out.]
It was also in this twenty year period that my memory was jogged by a startling discovery at my father's house.
Rummaging through an old bookshelf - never touched for years - was a box of mostly sleeveless records. The majority were purchased in the 60s when my parents were medical students who spent most of their time at toga parties; but there, at the bottom, in its stiff card sleeve, was a disc I'd completely forgotten about. Rolf Harris. Two Little Boys. And under that, one I'd bought.
Purchased with saved pocket money from Hickie's Music Shop on Friar Street in Reading, while my mother waited patiently: "The Ying Tong Song" by The Goons.
My first ever single. In your face, The Monks! Coolness totally restored by Spine Milligna, the famous spelling mistake, mayherestinpeace.
And, seeing as I've just spent 433 words telling of my musical redemption, it's now time to tell me yours. Cool or crap? Confess-me-up!
I've spent much of my adult life telling people that the first record I ever bought was the none-more-cool "Pop Muzik" by M. This, alas, is an outrageous lie. The truth of the matter is somewhat different, and not a little shameful.
I remember the day well: my brother, sister and I took money earned over the Easter holidays to WH Smiths in Henley and made the following vinyl purchases:
Jill: "Pop Muzik" - M
Nigel: "Sunday Girl" - Blondie
And here comes the woe…
Self: "Nice Legs, Shame about the Face" - The Monks
Christ on a bike - no wonder I spent all those years lying to all and sundry about such a pivotal moment in my life. In the same circumstances, I'm pretty sure you would too.
At least my first album "Kings of the Wild Frontier" by Adam and the Ants had a certain street cred to it at the time, and possession of A. Ant's finest work earned me temporary promotion to Emperor of Cool with my schoolyard contemporaries. Then came Prince Charming, and the old order was resumed once more. And alas for my first album, it didn't survive my brother scratching it, and it was a good twenty years before it was replaced by a nostalgic CD purchase. He also did for my second album - "Dare!" by the Human League. Cheers, bruv.
[I am, at this point, brushing over parental purchases by way of birthday and Christmas presents, which in the great scheme of things don't really count. We're talking The Muppet Show Album, which may possess a certain retro chic these days, but arrived at a time when my best friend was hammering his head to his newly-acquired Deep Purple discs. A present from his parents, it turned out.]
It was also in this twenty year period that my memory was jogged by a startling discovery at my father's house.
Rummaging through an old bookshelf - never touched for years - was a box of mostly sleeveless records. The majority were purchased in the 60s when my parents were medical students who spent most of their time at toga parties; but there, at the bottom, in its stiff card sleeve, was a disc I'd completely forgotten about. Rolf Harris. Two Little Boys. And under that, one I'd bought.
Purchased with saved pocket money from Hickie's Music Shop on Friar Street in Reading, while my mother waited patiently: "The Ying Tong Song" by The Goons.
My first ever single. In your face, The Monks! Coolness totally restored by Spine Milligna
, the famous spelling mistake, mayherestinpeace.And, seeing as I've just spent 433 words telling of my musical redemption, it's now time to tell me yours. Cool or crap? Confess-me-up!
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