SPANG!

SPANG!

"Excuse me waiter...



...but I asked for Eggs Benedict"

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Big Audio Dynamite: Medicine Show


With the news that BAD are to tour with their original line-up, this is their finest hour. And yeah, that's poor dead Joe Strummer as the fat cop.

"Get three coffins ready"

On Coke and Milk

On Coke and Milk

Coke and milk.

Try it.

It's got a certain Je ne sais quoi about it.

A certain Je ne sais quoi that isn't - surprisingly - the worst thing in the world.

Trust me.

Go now.

Now.

Report back.

This is your homework, and anyone who is sick inna hedge has to stay behind and clear it up.

Things not to do in the driving seat of your car

Things not to do in the driving seat of your car

No.1: Air Guitar

A very short list of things not to do in the driving seat of your car, especially when stuck in a traffic jam on the way to work in a large town in the south of England, your long-suffering lady wife in the passenger seat, a perfect blend of yummy mummy and old-fashioned English embarrassment.

1. Enthusiastically play the air guitar for several minutes whilst waiting for the traffic lights to go green, complete with meticulously fingered air-chords and the ritual banging of the head, while your long-suffering lady wife in the passenger seat, a perfect blend of yummy mummy and old-fashioned English embarrassment looks anywhere - anywhere - but at the scene of the crime

For other drivers will notice. And they will point. They will laugh. They will care not one jot for your attempts at increasing the sum total of human happiness. And you will have that dreadful moment of self-awareness when you suddenly realise what your long-suffering lady wife in the passenger seat, a perfect blend of yummy mummy and old-fashioned English embarrassment is already thinking:

"He's a dick. I've married a dick."

Don't do it.

LYRICAL PEDANTRY

LYRICAL PEDANTRY

Pop stars need to be told that their lyrics are shit.

Write them letters. Write them letters today.

---

Dear Ultravox

I note from your not-quite-number-one-hit Vienna that you sing (repeatedly) "This means nothing to me"

This being the case, why the hell did you write a song about it? We, as loyal fans, want to hear songs about things that actually mean something to you, for example women with huge bosoms.

"This means nothing to me, my arse"

Your pal, etc

---

Dear Heaven 17

On listening to your 1983 song "Come Live With Me", I noted with some interest that the opening lyric is "I was thirty-seven, you were seventeen".

Taking Wikipedia as gospel, it appears that you were actually no more than 25 years old when you committed those particular words to vinyl. This means - with a bit of simple maths - that the object of your desire, would, in fact be five-years-old. By anybody's standards that's (oh-ho!) a bit of a Luxury Gap.

I am disgust.

You pal, etc

---

Dear Cornershop

Congratulations on your superb number one hit "Brimful of Asha"! Unfortunately, I must take issue with your lyric "Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow."

Upon mentioning this to my charming wife, she slapped me round the face for even suggesting that I nestle up between her cleavage, finishing with an eye-watering parting shot, viz: right foot to the nadgers.

Where, I ask, do I send the invoice?

Your pal, etc

---

Dear Depeche Mode,

Big fan. However, I note from one of your songs that you "don't want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that God's got a sick sense of humour."

I think you're getting Him mixed up with Frankie Boyle. Easy mistake to make, because he's a shit-cake as well.

Your pal, etc

---

Dear Gary Numan,

Good grief - where do we start?

Ignoring the fact that "Cars" is about the personal bubble and relative solitude whilst driving on a crowded road experienced by driving on one's own, we really must take issue with the line "Here in my car, I feel safest of all."

According to government statistics, over 6,000 people died on Great Britain's roads in 1979, the year this song was written. Hardly what one would call safe, especially with pop stars crashing their planes all over the place.

We'd be obliged if you'd also remove the line "Here in my car, I can only receive". All we can say on the matter is that you're going to the wrong dogging sites, bloke*.

Get a grip, man.

Your pal, etc

* LEGAL DISCLAIMER: We'd like to point out that we are in no way suggesting that Gary Numan is into dogging.

The ghost of C-3PO in my living room window

The ghost of C-3PO in my living room window

So, there I was, checking out my house on Google Street View:


Holy crap! What's the ghost of C-3PO doing in my living room window?

Immediatedly, two things spring to mind:

1. Holy crap! What's the ghost of C-3PO doing in my living room window?

2. How can I make money out of this?

I fully expect that my living room window will become a centre of worship for Jedis from across both the world and the universe, come to worship The Ghost of The Holy Protocol Droid. Ten … no, twenty … quid a shot.

When it gets too much, we'll leave an honesty box outside (failure to pay is the road to The Dark Side) and lower the blinds.

This time next year, Artoo, we'll be millionaires.

ACTUAL SPICY BRAINS

ACTUAL SPICY BRAINS

As any zombie worth his salt will tell you as he devours your spicy brains, the only brains worth eating are those that are - indeed - spicy.

If only, we ask, there were some way of getting hold of spicy brains before deciding on a career path as a zombie.

Now, in the comfort of your own home, you may prepare, cook and gorge yourself into a frenzy on gourmet spicy brains without having to go through that whole "undead" rigmarole.

May not actually contain brains.

In fact, in order to try out the serving suggestion for myself, I broke up a local BNP meeting with my trusty chainsaw, and a specially sharpened set of golf clubs. Sadly, there was nary a spoonful to be had, and what I'd gleaned from the drooling excuses of humanity were rotten to the core.

My hunger for fresh, lightly curried cerebrum still unsated, I decide that it might be time to rejoin MENSA...

Thanks to fellow member of the undead TRT for the spicy brain sauce

Weekend Video

Weekend Video: Arcade Fire double bill

Arcade Fire - The Sprawl II (Live)



Yeah, they're Canadian, she can't sing live, they're Canadian and they're Canadian from Canada. But does that make it a bad thing?

Arcade Fire and David Bowie - Wake Up



To paraphrase the original YouTube poster: "If you don't like this, you're dead inside"

URBAN FOX

URBAN FOX

Six in the morning, I drive into work.

Traffic lights turn red as I approach a pedestrian crossing in the centre of Caversham.

Grudgingly, I hit the brakes and prepare to let this early-bird cross the road.

A fox.

It is a fox, strutting across the road like it owns the place. Strutting across the road and up the stairs to the library.

A library which is closed, maninly because it is a) six in the morning and b) a bank holiday. In your face, Reynard!

I am impressed. Not because you don't usually see foxes that close up unless it is going for your throat. No, urban foxes are becoming an ever more common phenomenon these days. I am impressed for one reason only:

How, in the name of buggery, did it manage to press the button?

Edit: I wrote a poem about it ---

I saw a fox
and it crossed the road
Bugger me sideways
it used the Green Cross Code.
And now it's gone
To teach its cub
All about
The Tufty Club.

In your face John so-called Betjeman.

On weird dreams, again

On weird dreams, again

Last night I had the weirdest dream ever.

I dreamed that I woke up in the morning and my pillow was gone.

Then I woke up and my pillow was gone.

AND SO WAS MY GIANT MARSHMALLOW.

KIM JONG-BETTER

KIM JONG-BETTER



Click to embiggen

Created by the million-man worker-soldier cadres of the great North Korean Fatherland, their chests puffed out like a human bomb singing "Our hearts explode with joy as we reap the harvests sown by Kim Il-Sung!"

ONLINE BANKING

ONLINE BANKING

"Welcome to NatLloydsMidWest online banking.

"Please enter your user name, password and the fifth, third and sixth characters of your security number to access your accounts.

"Forgotten your user name? Click here to contact our Customer Support team.

"Forgotten your password and/or your security number? Click here for password reset.

"Forgotten your user name, password and security number? You are a disgrace to humanity, my friend. Please enter your bank card number, expiry date and three-figure security code into our secure website located in the Seychelles, and await further instructions which we'll ...err... send to you by post. Yes. By post. From the Seychelles. Which may take several days. And after that, we'll forget this little conversation ever took place.

"Thank you for banking with NatLloydsMidWest"

NUTELLA

NUTELLA

"Dad?" asks the boy, and I am immediately aware that there is idiocy afoot.

"Dad?" he asks, "You know Nutella?"

I am aware of its chocolately nutty excellence.

"Why, yes, I am aware of its chocolately nutty excellence."

"Has it got nuts in it?"

I eventually recover from the inevitable facepalm, and formulate a reply:

"It's not called 'I can't believe it's not Nutella'"

"Oh. Right."

"Or just 'Ella'.

"Or 'No More Nuts'."

"That's what you get when you get kicked in the fork," says the teenage wag, "You get a different brown stuff then."

"You're not wrong. You know how they make it?"

"No, how?"

"You get a squirrel and you squeeze it like a set of bagpipes. Only on an industrial scale. Willy Wonka wasn't a million miles away from the truth, you know..."

"Sod it, I'll have marmite."

SAD PIE

SAD PIE

Weekend Video: Guilty Pleasures Edition

Weekend Video: Guilty Pleasures Edition

Guns'n'Roses - November Rain


Dear Meatloaf, Bonnie Tyler &c - THIS is how you do overblown.

SPOT THE BALL

SPOT THE BALL

Headline in the super soaraway Bournemouth Echo: Nina scores second prize in Spot the Ball competition - and you could win too!

Boy, did I ever read that wrong.

But then, thinking about it for a while, a Ninja would have had no problem at all with using their Ninja skills to win Spot the Ball every week.

Also, we would never have known about Ninjas winning the Bournemouth Echo's Spot the Ball every week, because any Ninja worth their salt would have used their other Ninja skills and ticked the "No Publicity" box.

In fact, when you look at the original Bournemouth Echo Spot the Ball photo, there can be only one reason why the ball is missing from the image: Ninjas using their Ninja skills.

Sort it out, Bournemouth Echo: It's a fix.

On humanity's future depending on toilet paper

On humanity's future depending on toilet paper

I just changed the toilet roll.

In fact, I always change the toilet roll.

I sometimes think I am the only person who changes the toilet roll in this household.

Judging by the number of times I'm faced with both cardboard tubes and half-used rolls piled up on the side of the bath, I'm probably the only person who changes the toilet roll on the entire planet.

And this, dear reader, is why humanity is doomed. If we, as a species, can't even get our shit together to change the toilet roll, who's going to get off their backsides to save the planet when a giant asteroid comes hurtling towards us? Apart from Bruce Willis, that is.

To this end, I've got a plan. I shall start my own business to go into homes and offices, change their toilet rolls and charge them for the privelege. I will also develop a large rocket ship armed with nuclear weapons just in case the giant asteroid menace rears its ugly head.

I know what you're thinking, and the answer is this: The space ship will have some sort of bottom-wiping mechanism, because I can't be in two places at once.

This time next year, Rodders, we'll be millionaires - IF THE WORLD DOES NOT END.

Urban Myths Unmasked: No.1 Is the Frosties Kid dead?

Urban Myths Unmasked: No.1 Is the Frosties Kid dead?

We examine the evidence surrounding the rumours that swept the internet over the reported death of the "They're Gonna Taste Great" kid from the Frosties Advert.

Alive? Dead? See for yourself and decide.

Yep, he's a goner.

LEMSIP

LEMSIP

I've been ill. And when a man's ill, he expects a helping hand from his favoured over-the-counter cold remendies. However, this time, it was not the case, and it made me cross.

Dear Lemsip

Congratulations on your superb paracetamol-and-citrus-fruit based cold remedy, which has served me well in recent bouts of man-flu, girl-flu and real-flu.

HOWEVER, I must draw your attention to the deeply unpleasant experience I encountered at the hands of your products.

Finding myself laid low with a genuine case of the real-flu, I sent my charming wife down to the local shops on a quest for a packet of your finest Lemsip cure-all, for there is nothing like the taste of hot, zesty lemon to make to feel at least ten per cent alive when you are coughing your eyeballs out.

But, I am sad to report that you have given women a choice. A choice of poncy flavours, and as any man will tell you, when given a choice of poncy flavours, a woman WILL buy poncy flavours.

That is why I found myself lying on my sofa forced to choose between Lemsip Blackcurrant flavour (reminiscent of an ill-advised dare involving a Frenchman's jockstrap on a rugby tour) and Lemsip (and I quote) "Wild Berry and Hot Orange". I tried it, and I dare say it's a taste that attracts the likes of Wayne Rooney to grab-a-grany nights, but it made me vow - the moment I was well enough - to service my chainsaw to a level that would allow me to hunt down and punish those responsible for this BLASPHEMY.

Although you and your brand are part of what the tin-foil-helmets call "Big Pharma", happily scraping us and our minor ailments (and life-threatening shit like man-flu) for every penny we have, you are clearly over-stepping the mark with the addition of your Lemsip Ponce range. If I wanted my ineffective cold remedies to taste like cat's piss, I'd grab one of our local Mad Cat Woman's scabby creatures, squeeze it like a set of bagpipes and drink whatever comes out. AND ENJOY IT.

STOP IT, YOU TWATS.

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam, Weymouth

There, I feel better already.

CRICKET

CRICKET

It's official.

Australia is shit at cricket and WE RULE.

After the complete twatting handed out to the Antipodean menace by our brave Barmy Army in the recent Ashes series, we are now entitled - as the best team in the universe - to set the rules for this most graceful of sports.

So, without any messing about, the following Rules of Cricket will now be strictly enforced on any player who dares to take to the pitch in possession of an Australian accent:

- Shouting "IN" every time you do a run

- One-bounce-one-hand counts as a legitimate catch

- Underarm bowling only

- In honour of the 2010/11 series 'Silly Point' to be renamed 'Sad and Lonely Loser Point'

- English players to get first pick of the protective boxes. Australian players to share the one remaining, suspiciously dented and sickeningly stained protective

- Until they can be trusted with the grown-up equipment once again, all Australian cricket must be played using sets purchased from sea-side tat shops, and a tennis ball

- Ricky Ponting to remain Australian captain, forever and the convicts' national anthem to change from "Advance Australia Fair" to a medley comprising "Advance Australia Rubbish" and 10cc's "Dreadlock Holiday". Played on a Stylophone. By Rolf Harris, and his funnier brother, ROFL Harris

- The official title of the sport will have the following words added: "Australia" "is" "shit" "at"

Look, Australia. Just do things you're good at: Chocolate biscuits.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Depeche Mode - Wrong




The first Depeche Mode product I've actually liked for decades. Just say no, kids!

THE HOLY CHURCH OF DON'T BE A DICK

My New Year's resolution for 2011 was a simple one: Don't Be a Dick.

This philosophy seemed to strike a chord with others, and with one thing leading to another, I have accidentally started a new religion.

The Holy Church of Don't Be a Dick.

As a deity-curious atheist, I initially found myself horrified to be at the forefront of a new religious sect, but realised very quickly that this is a religion that does not have to be religious in the slightest.

Religion's major problem is that it attracts religious people, and sooner or later they start acting like dicks. For eg:

- taking their holy books far too seriously and killing people TO DEATH because they disagree with a literal interpretation based on the mistranslation of the Amharic word for "iPhone"

- being scared of (in no particular order) women, homosexuals, foreigners, birth control, other religions and combinations of all four

- deciding that the ritual of chanting a few words over a cream cracker turns it into the actual flesh of a magical sky zombie

- promoting ignorance to keep believers from thinking too hard and blowing the whole scam sky high (see also birth control and AIDS)

- the entire be-good-or-you-burn-in-HELL blackmail thing

- believing that the Earth is 6,000 years old, and fossils were planted by a God that loves us, but lies to us at the same time, because he loves us. Unless you're bad, and he'll KILL YOU TO DEATH, because he loves you

- ridiculous dietary and clothing requirements based on trying not to kill yourself to death if you were living in a desert 2,000 years ago

- not coveting neighbours' oxen

- The concept of Karma, which is nothing but emotional blackmail on a grand scale

- an unending list of human dickishness going back thousands of years to ensure that sun comes up, the sun goes down, crops are bountiful, and the high priest's stabby habits are kept relatively in check

Yeah, that's pretty much the work of People Being a Dick.

Therefore, there will be no churches in the Holy Church of Don't Be a Dick. No rituals. No holy books (not even worthy non-religious stuff by Dawkins, because even atheists can be dicks). No priests. No sexy nuns. No funny hats.

No hierarchy. No emotional blackmail. No collection plate. No celestial auditor watching your every move. You don't even have to actually possess a dick, either.

Just repeat the pledge: "I promise, as a member of the Holy Church of Don't Be a Dick, that I will not be a dick."

If you break your promise and act like a dick, you will be pointed at and ridiculed in public for being a dick.

No heaven. No hell. Just the knowledge that you have been a dick, and other people know.

It's simple. You get Sunday mornings in bed while the less-enlightened are on their knees, grovelling in a freezing building, before going back to their lives of Being a Dick. Instead, you get to spend your life Not Being a Dick, not having to put up with being told you are unworthy by a Dick wearing a dress.

So, how does one live as a member of The Holy Church of Don't Be a Dick? There is no mystery. There is no point wasting years of your life looking for hidden meaning, for there is none . If faced with a moral dilemma, ask yourself one question: What would TV's Wil Wheaton do? And any scholar of Wheaton's Law will tell you, the answer will be "Don't be a dick".

Wheaton died for our sins. Weekly, on Star Trek. He knows about Not Being a Dick.

You are more than welcome to join our church. No dicks. Or Bill and Ted worshippers. Splitters.

EDIT: After a number of complaints, I'm prepared to relent on the sexy nuns. Sexy nuns, everybody!

Line Dancing Evening of CERTAIN DOOM

Line Dancing Evening of CERTAIN DOOM

WARNING: Contains traces of bleakness, murder

I step out onto the small stage in the local village hall, a sea of expectant faces looking up at me.

A sea of expectant faces, belonging to a large crowd of middle-aged people dressed in cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and utterly ridiculous cowboy outfits. I dare say some of the ladies were dressed in cowgirl outfits, but it was all I could do to swallow back the wave of nausea that welled up inside me at the sight of these excuses for humanity.

"Welcome," I say at length, "welcome to this very special evening at the Wyke Regis Memorial Hall."

There is a murmur of appreciation from the crowd, and a barely restrained "Yeee-haaaa!", which earns the skunk-eye from the stage.

"A very special evening,"I continue, lying through my teeth, "That will be spoken about in hushed tones for many years to come."

I've paid a lot of people to hush this up. There will be no tittle-tattle, hushed tones or otherwise.

"And have we got an evening of Lion Dancing for you!"

A hand goes up at the back of the hall.

"Don't you mean 'line dancing'?" asks a Good Ole Boy, "We've paid for line dancing. My doctor says I've got to do-si-do my partner three times a week, or there'll be hell to pay."

Ah.

"Ah. I'm afraid there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. Cold or no cold, my hideously expensive radio adverts clearly said 'An Evening of Lion Dancing followed by all-meat buffet'. "

"So where is the all-meat buffet? I see no all-meat buffet!" shouts one of the rounder cowboys. God help any horse that he ever has to sit on in the remaining two minutes of his life.

"Any. Second. Now."

And outside the heavily soundproofed Memorial Hall, a passer-by might conceivably have heard the roar of several exceedingly hungry wild animals, the screams of the trapped victims, the spatter of arterial blood up the blacked-out windows, and the faintest trace of "Achy Breaky Heart". But there is nobody there. Nobody except the Circus Ringmaster, counting his share of the door money.

The War on Line Dancing: IT HAS BEGUN

VENDING MACHINE

VENDING MACHINE

Do you know what I'd like to see?

We ought to go Japanese and have vending machines on every street corner. When I was in Japan, I saw a machine that a) vended slightly naughty magazines and b) 56kg sacks of rice.

That, however, couldn't hold a candle to one that was just around the corner from our office, selling live fishing bait. Bring your own pot. I saw a man who didn't. Messy.

"But what," you ask, "Would your dream vending machine be?"

And it is this: A vending machine that dispenses other, slightly smaller, vending machines

But what would they vend? Other vending machines? That would be plain STUPID.

They would vend copies of the AMAZING new weekly magazine "Build Your Own Vending Machine".

Week by week, you can build your own fascinating vending machine that you can use to sell rubber johnnies, Class A drugs and dead rodents. Get your first freeze-dried rat and coin slot in issue one. Free binder, wrap of ground-up aspirin in issue two.

I am not mad.

CHAS & DAVE VS DUCK

CHAS & DAVE VS DUCK

"Ere, look at this," says my erstwhile pal and avid reader of this once-funny blog, Spikes Walker.

The Swiss Toni lookalike hands me a flyer for a stage show, currently touring the South before its transfer to London's West End: Stop Dreamin' - Featuring the Music of Chas & Dave

I am intrigued.

"I am intrigued"

And also somewhat disturbed.

"I am intrigued and also somewhat disturbed"

Hot on the heels of musicals featuring the work of other fly-by-night artists - Queen, ABBA, Bigfoot and the Groincrushers - someone decided it was high time that the East End's most loveable Spurs-supporting geezers had their turn in the spotlight. Starring Minty out of EastEnders, Yvette from Allo Allo, and Mr Bannister from Are You Being Served. And a genuine Doctor Who assistant to boot.

"Hilarity ensues," I read from the flyer. I shall be the judge of that.

"Certain to have you dancing in the aisles." I shall also be the judge of that.

"I shall be the judge of that," I say out loud, in the presence of actual, breathing witnesses.

"But that means," Spikes Walker observes, "you actually having to buy a ticket, travel down to Guildford (Twin Town: Gomorrah) and go and watch the thing in all its Cock-er-nee dreadfulness. And then, if you have retained the will to live, drive home again."

Got me. I shall do none of these things.

He's pretty sharp (oh-ho!) is that Spikes.

HOMEOPATHIC WATER

HOMEOPATHIC WATER

There are times when you wake up in the middle of the night with a new idea, where your cries of "Eureka!" wake up the entire household, and you cannot get back to sleep until you commit your brainwave to paper.

And this was one of those nights where I was hit square between the frontal lobes with a concept that will CHANGE THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT.

And it is this: HOMEOPATHIC WATER

You take some water. And you dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it, dilute it and shake it until only the memory of the water reamins. Then you put it in a little sugar pill and sell them for a fiver each.

"Ah-ha!" I hear you say, "What - exactly - do you dilute the water in, clever trousers?"

And I reply: "A really big bucket."

So you facepalm and ask again: "What liquid do you use to dilute the water?"

That, I am afraid, is a professional secret to stop the crooks from BIG PHARMA getting their filthy hands on this landmark product.

Think of the potential:

* People with rabies
* People who are planning on getting stuck in a desert
* Firemen who need access to ALL THE WATER IN THE WORLD but only have very, very small fire engines due to fair and progressive Big Society budget cuts
* The National Association of Homeopathic Swimmers
* Homeopathic coffee drinkers
* Homeopathic Holy Water - two useless concepts for the price of one!

This time next year, Rodders, we'll be homeopathic millionaires.

No, hang on, that's not right.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Human League - Night People



Posted here for one reason and one reason only - the legendary awfulness of Human League lyrics.

From the same brain that brought you:

Dehumanisation - is such a big word
It's been around since - Richard the 3rd

We present:

"Gather up your skirts and trousers
Put on your best frocks and blouses
Time to go out from your houses
Must we creep round like the mouses?"

And:

"Leave your cornflakes in your freezers
Leave your chocolate and your cheeses "


BAN THIS OUTRAGE!