He’ll chase you down with his drill;
then fry your liver on his grill.
With some trepidation, I answered my mobile phone, knowing it was Duncan (not real name).
You see Duncan had been diagnosed with Stephacockaliticus B the terrible viral condition that affects the calf muscles and the gene that controls your ability to speak at socially audible volumes in public.
Today was the day he got the results from the radical therapy he had recently undergone.
We’d first become aware that something was wrong with Duncan when he continually shouted at a small luncheon we had organised for another friend Suze, who was about to move to Africa to work with Médecins Sans Frontières.
At first it was rather embarrassing, especially the time we were almost ejected from Waitrose when Duncan boomed, “Mate, where’s the lemon grass?” Almost giving an elderly customer a heart attack, who had only ever heard some shout once before, during a pathé film about the air raids in London in 1942.
Then came the increased mass in his calf muscles. Dunc swore blind that he wasn’t working out and that the tone the lower part of his leg had developed had occurred over a short period of time.
It was at this point that Dunc got himself checked out by a quack, and the truth was revealed, he did indeed have Stephacockaliticus B.
As my faithful readers will already know, I myself was diagnosed with Stephacockaliticus A (the much more serious and headline grabbing version) earlier this year (here) and have documented my brave battle with it ever since (here and here and a bit here).
Obviously when I heard about Dunc’s condition I was devastated; everyone’s attention and sympathy and been solely focused on me, now I was going to have to share it with Dunc’s frankly less serious dose of Monks (the slang name for Stephacockaliticus).
Dunc never let his condition get him down; he faced the illness with the same inherent middle class grit that you would expect from an ex-rugger bugger and former public school boy. In fact during the initial months he positively prospered and my courageous, annoyingly handsome, vaguely amusing in a calling me a gay all the time way chum friend just got on with things, despite his own so-called ‘transitory’ homosexuality.
In September a Doctor suggested Dunc try a new course of tablets which would blend with his privileged gene, giving it an extra shot of arrogant superiority which would hopefully combat the Stephacockaliticus B bug which it turns out Dunc contracted after a one night fling with one of the townie slappers he claimed to be ‘doing a favour’.
And today was the day Duncan was due the results.
The news is that Dunc has the all clear. Which I am a bit pleased about, but not that much.
I sit he writing this knowing my fate is far less certain. And if the truth be known, I wish it were me that was free and clear and not Duncan.
Does that make me a bad person?
Please don't forget to leave your gushing comments of support for this person you have never meet and can't actually be sure exists.
That is all.
Continuing my advice column, I have recently been written to by a chap who asked me the question;
Should I tell my mate that his girlfriend is all wrong for him?
A particularly thorny issue this one as it involves potentially the loss of a friend, especially if the comment is not welcome - which lets face it, it won't be.
So, as I see it there are two major questions you need to address from the outset;
1. Should you actually say anything at all?
2. If you decided to say something, how should you do it?
Note: Obviously this is seen entirely from the guy/mate dynamic. Speaking frankly for a moment, in my experience women seem to have much less trouble telling their friends that their choice in main squeeze is pitiful. At least it is from my point of view, on the basis that I have never had a girlfriend who had female friends that liked me or tolerated me, or even could bear to hear my name without instantly throwing up a bloodied lung sack.
1. Should you actually say anything at all?
Firstly, remember the old saying that goes something like, 'Once the cat is out of the bag it can shit just about anywhere - which is why it's best to clobber the scratty fur ball with a brick before you ditch it in the canal’.
You must consider long and hard if its worth saying anything, and then only if the following applies;
a) Your mate is about to get engaged to his girlfriend.
b) Your mate has been recently hospitalised because of his girlfriend.
c) Your mates girlfriend took an overdose the first time they argued (which as it happens was over whether to rent either Notting Hill or Amores Perros - she wanted Notting Hill of course - in which case maybe he should have waited a bit longer before calling her an ambulance.)
d) Your mate’s girlfriend has made a pass at you, at one of your other mates, at some homeless guy; at some homeless guy’s mangy mongrel called Bartok (the Third).
e) Your mate no longer pays you the appropriate amount of attention that you deserve.
f) Your mate is dating way below his potential (e.g. his girlfriend is ugly/ thick/ loud in public/ fat/ poor/ doesn't put out enough/ likes Brad Pitt over Johnny Depp)
g) Your mates girlfriend tried to harm/ kill a member of your mates family with an iron or kettle.
h) You secretly fancy your mates girlfriend, want them to break up which will hopefully drive him to suicide, allowing you to hit on her at the funeral.
If any or all situations are in progress, I suggest you immediately move onto Part 2.
If none of these are in progress then I suggest you take yourself to one side and have a word with yourself - go on, ask yourself the question;
"Is the truth of the matter that she is in fact, fine. And that it's I that has the problem here? Am I the cunt?"
N'ah, it's her. After all, you totally rule dude!
2. If you decided to say something, how should you do it?
You have to pick the right moment. Ideally this not during the Monday morning company meeting, round the table during Sunday dinner with both his and her families present, at the stag do, during your wedding reception best man speech or via an anonymous letter wrapped round a brick you threw through his lounge window after a Saturday night out on the beers - with him watching.
You need to go to a safe public place like the local boozer, over a warm pint of draft bitter (I'd suggest 'Old Monkey Blood' or ‘Shrivelled Dinkle', you may prefer 'Squeezed Aborted Foetus Ale' or 'The Curiosity of an Unexpectedly Home Early Husband' (I believe that's from that micro brewery out of Pershore again). Once all settled and warm, calmly explain that despite the fact you are probably about to ruin his entire life, you are doing it because you love him - not in a gay way of course (well unless of course it is in a gay way, which is perfectly acceptable but then you should be reading my other blog - How to tell your bezzie mate he's got a nice bum).
So here goes... take a final gulp of beer, drag from a fag (American Translation: Cigarette), maybe wink at the barmaid for good luck and dive in.
How you should say it;
"Mike, you know you and I have been friends since we were both in short trousers. We've been through a lot together, my father dying, your mother running off with her pilates teacher, my sisters problems with drugs which led to her prostituting herself in that Pop Idol contest on ITV, becoming the girl that wet herself singing an ill advised rendition of ‘Mandy’ and your dad becoming Siobhan. In a lot of ways, I'm closer to you than I am to my own bother, that is if I actually had a brother. You know you are the only guy I can urinate standing next to in the urinal, the only one Mike, the only one. So what I have to tell you now hurts me terribly to do so, like the pain we both felt coming out of the Phantom Menace. Look mate, I'm terrified that you will take it as anything other than what it is, which is a reflection of how much I care for you, your well-being and your future. But the fact is this, I feel very strongly that Maureen is not right for you, and I wanted you to hear that from someone who cares for you a great deal."
Lovely, and if he takes that the wrong way then the problem is with him.
On the other hand, this is how you should not say it;
"Mikey boy, everyone's laughing at you behind your back because you're too pig thick to see that Mo, the fat ugly cow that she is, has tricked you into marrying her. Even your mum thinks she's a cunt and so does your mums girlfriend and Siobhan. So for fucks sake, wake up and dump the whore - look here's a nice warm pint of 'Nocturnal Emission'. I promise you if you drink enough of these you'll soon be so numbed to the world and you just won't care anymore - that's the healing properties of booze for you son".
Moreover, if that doesn't work you can always just get a new mate.
There you go, another problem licked.
Next: "I have a fetish for leg warmers" We speak to fellow blogger edwaado.
I am very drunk. Very drunk indeed.
And here's how I did it.
11.00am I started drinking as soon as the doors opened at 'The Wanked Pig' which is my local tavern.
I drank 3 pints of Old Weasel Juice, followed by a shot of Jack Daniels and a packet of Cheese and Onion Crisps.
12.10pm Got slighted annoyed by a chatter of suited yoofs from the local Ad agency; talking shite about 'copy' and 'market penetration' (without even laughing, I might add) I decided to move on.
12.20pm I entered 'The Hung Pensioner' and ordered a pint of their local brew 'Stained Sheet' (I believe it's from a micro brewery out near Pershore). I then had a ploughman's lunch and a pint of Guinness.
1.00pm After an incident involving a pool cue and an argument over who played Duran Duran in the Vadim movie 'Barbarella' (I said Milo O'Shea, the other chap swore it was David Hemmings) I was forced to leave, despite having a chunk of Cheddar and a pickled onion to get through.
1.23pm After a brief chase with 'Hemmings, Hemmings' being hollered behind me, and then a steady walk I arrive at the doors of a pub I have barely frequented in the past. The Mutilated Child.
I go up to the bar and order a shot of best rum and a pint of Gargled Cum. Delicious, both of them.
I then engage the young blond barmaid in a discussion about the Government's proposed 90 days detention policy. She informs me that they should shoot them, even without charge, 'cause that'd stop 'em coming here in the first place. I ask her who 'they' are. She says darkies. I ask her where she developed such an interesting political outlook. She tells me she got a 2:1 in PPE from Oxford last year.
I finish my drink and leave.
1:51pm I bump into an old friend outside the Red Rag Lion (Formally the 'On the Rag' theme pub). Ali is a young conservative that is backing Cameron over Davies. I order a couple of pints of Speckled Cock and a couple of bags of salted pigs' ears. During our pint, the discussion becomes quite animated - we are after all on opposite sides of the political spectrum. There is some shouting and the table goes over -
"It should be a society for all, not the just the individual."
"Bollocks, individual responsibility is the key to a strong Britain and a resilient attitude in the face of the global threat from terrorism".
As you can see, quite heated. We eventually calm down when we realise that we can't remember who was screaming which policy.
"That's the state of modern politics" Ali concludes, and at that I spat in his face and walked out.
3:01pm It had already started to get dark so I headed for my favourite drinking den, Alfonso's Wine Bar.
Alfonso's has such a warm and vibrant atmosphere, the staff are the best in the business, friendly and convivial, the drinks varied but reasonably priced. You'll often see the intelligentsia of Upper Malvern supping a beverage whilst quoting Thomas, or discussing iambic pentameter and Latvian verse.
It really is the only drinking establishment in this small town that I feel 100% happy in. With great joy I walked up to the sturdy old door, which itself once formed part of the hull of that great British war ship, the African Enslaver.
It was shut, so I went next door to Murdered Immigrant.
I had 3 pints of bitter (Unionist kneecap) washed down with a shot of Old Spice and a small cheese sandwich which the landlord said he'd found 'out back'.
I really don't know what I was talking about in here but once it turned 5:00pm a number of office workers turned up which led to me standing on a table, dropping my trousers and pointing my arse at them.
I only stopped when one of them (my boss Michael Mannerson) asked me where I'd been all day as I hadn't shown up to work and hadn't booked a day off.
I quickly pretended to be from former Yugoslavia and fled the pub.
5:43pm By now I was quite hammered and slightly disappointed that it seemed unlikely I was going to experience a full 24 hours drinking - a new law that was a long time coming.
I walked through the graveyard where I stopped briefly for a slash before passing out on the grave of Lizzie Henley (14) who died of Stephacockaliticus in 1876.
7:23pm I awoke, wiped the sick off my coat, removing as much of it from my hair as possible and continued to walk home.
I shouted as loudly as I could all the way home, announcing to the world that I had indeed been drinking and feared none of society's social constraints on public declarations of utter stupidity.
I also stole some car aerials and swore at any couples that walked past me, asking them what they thought they were looking at.
They mostly kept quiet which prompted me to use a follow question enquiring if they were hard of hearing.
9:21pm. It has so far taken me approximately 2 hours to cover a distance I can manage with 2 miniature dachshunds in 15 mins. But it's a dry night, and the walk was exhilarating. Especially at approximately 8:31pm when a police car pulled up along side me and I was forced to hide behind someone's hedge, partially destroying it in the process.
I must say the Police and Government's plan to measure how successful this 24hr drinking is by the number of arrests they make tonight is an excellent idea. Like seeing how safe it would be to drop a bomb in Sheffield town centre by the number of body parts they pick up afterwards. Inspired - not that anyone would really care, or notice if more bombs were dropped on Sheffield.
9:42pm. Finally arrived home. Safe and sound. Although my right leg is bleeding, my coat is now missing the 'zip on the hood' section, I can't find my wallet and I seem to have no socks on, yet I still have shoes, although I'm fairly certain they aren't my shoes.
I then poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to write this post.
I might go back out in a bit and see if I can do the whole 24hr period, like the time we did when we were students and we were drinking Marty's home brew and playing Streetfighter on my SNES, and then we had a couple of spliff's and Janko thought it would be a great idea to cook absolutely everything in the kitchen into one big pancake.
It's always happy days when you're boozing.
Well that’s just bloody great. So, I can no longer rush to my GP in a blind panic, caused by the recent media and Government declaration that within 6 –12 months - we’ll all be dead of bird flu; and get a jab to protect me from the common or garden variety flu, which will offer me no protection from bird flu other than some reassurance in my feeble ‘celebrity obsessed’ brain that it probably must help a bit, don’t it?
Hmm. Seems Health Secretary Patty Hewitt is unsure as to why the shortage of flu vaccine has occurred, but will get an investigation started to ‘get to the bottom of it’ and blame the GPs as soon as possible.
The GPs on the other hand are suggesting it’s time the ‘worried well’ or ‘hypo-fucking-chondriacs’ as they used to be called, get a fucking grip and stop haranguing them and leave some vaccine for the genuinely at risk: rich and important people.
Patty Patty Patty; don’t waste your time; give me a call luv; I’ll tell you who is to blame – YOU.
You and your government’s continual attempts to scare the shit out of us little people with stories of Gas shortages, vaccine shortages, Panda Cola shortages and TERRORISTS TERRORISTS TERRORISTS. Oh and your pals in the media, they’re complicit at best, what with all their concern for us un-elected Proles, which is not the least bit led by what makes good copy, sells papers and gets us to tune in to the news (not Newsnight of course, only wankers and A level politics students watch that).
I’m actually quite mad at the Government, you can tell, can’t you? I mean, for fuck sake, they’ve been in power now for years and they still haven’t stop death. People are literally dying daily and the Government does nothing. Useless.
And I’m not that impressed by people in general, and this flu thing just sums up how retarded we can all be. Despite the papers, TV, numerous beige Government officials, my hairdresser and your fat co-worker telling us that there is NO VACCINE for bird flu, and that normal flu vaccine will do piss all, people still flock to get a jab – y’know, just in case.
It’s deeply annoying for several reasons:
Most healthy people can weather a dose of flu – it’s the old and vulnerable that need a jab, not bloody Martin Jenkins from the Accounts team down in the Basingstoke office. Which just goes to show what a selfish bunch of cunts we can be.
As stated above it’ll do nothing to stop you getting a dose of bird flu if it does materialise (I suspect it’ll turn up at the same time as those pesky weapons of mass destruction Saddam had stashed under his mattress – did anyone even think of looking there I wonder?) If you got a jab because of bird flu it proves you’re a thick fuck that believes everything they see on TV without necessarily understanding it.
Why do all these ‘scaredy cats’ want to avoid flu? – It’s a week off work at least! Come on people, get a grip – sure the first few days will be nasty, but your guaranteed at least half a week sitting around in your jammies and dressing gown watching This Morning and Trisha.
The fact is, GPs ordered quantities of vaccine using the same parameters as previous years – it wasn’t them that started talking up the ‘FOREIGN KILLER FLU FROM OVERSEAS’ (which probably has some sort of link to Al Queda – likely cooked up in one of their labs located in the heart of a dormant volcano). So let’s just give them a break, yeah?
Instead, how about we blame those that are to blame; which according to this post is everyone but GPs, who didn’t make a mistake in the quantities they ordered because frankly, they were too busy making large sums of cash whilst treating their patients like children. Giving them short shrift during the 45 seconds they allocate to each case and God forbid GPs should work out of hours or at weekends or even, dare I say it, shifts. Oh no, these delicate geniuses need the weekend to recover from being patronising bastards all week.
What's the difference between these two opening paragraphs from the BBC's news website?
"The family of a man mistakenly killed by police hunting London bomb suspects is calling for a public inquiry."
"The father of murdered policewoman Sharon Beshenivsky has visited the spot in Bradford where his daughter was gunned down by armed robbers."
On the face of it nothing. Someone has been shot and killed and their family is now grieving.
However, in only one of these cases can we realistically expect the police to do their utmost to find and prosecute the perpetrators.
And only in one case will the media (as the example above demonstrate) describe the death of the victim as a MURDER.
The dictionary defines murder as
1. The unlawful killing of one human by another, especially with premeditated malice.
Sharon Beshenivsky was shot and killed on last Friday, as she responded to call at a Travel Agency that was being raided.
Despite the fact that the last time a female officer was shot and killed in the line of duty was over 20 years ago, I'm certain she would have considered facing an armed assailant at some stage in her time as a police officer a possibility.
She knew this risk yet still volunteered to be a police officer. Her murder was dispicable .
The person who shot her did so with the knowledge that it was likely he would kill her.
Jean Charles de Menezes was an electrician that was shot by plain clothed police officers on a train at Stockwell Tube station on July 22nd this year.
He was an innocent man that had been incorrectly identified as a potential terrorist.
In a stark contrast to the misinformation released by the police at the time of Jean Charles murder;
- he was not challenged until he was wrestled to the ground and shot.
- he was wearing a light jacket, not a big suspicious looking coat.
- he did not jump over the barrier at the tube station and run down the platform.
The police officers followed him from his flat to Stockwell Tube, down to the platform and as he entered the train he was pushed to the ground and shot repeatedly in the head and chest. He was murdered with extreme prejudice.
Yet despite his story the case was and is repeatedly referred to as 'an accidental shooting'.
No, wrong, JUST LIKE SHARON BESHENIVSKY, he was MURDERED. Just because it was the police that did it, doesn't make it not so.
Yet have those who committed the act been charged? It's still under investigation. Do you think the police, who arrested 5 men and 1 woman in conjunction with Friday's incident will take as long to decide if there is grounds for prosecution? Hardly.
Yes, of course it's a tragedy that a police officer was murdered, but I fail to understand why it's deemed a more heinous act than killing an unarmed, innocent man on a tube train and warrants a more explicit 'SHE WAS MURDERED', rather than just 'She was intentionally shot...'
Of course it sells papers and grabs the opening spot on the News for a couple of nights, but it doesn't help us grow as a society and live up to the principle of our leader's God, that we are all created equally.
We pretend we're oh-so more sophisticated than our predecessors, with our access to wider information base, and our media savvy ways, yet still we put up with or simply fail to notice this manipulative double standards - even from the BBC (which I still try to hold in high esteem - but then again, after the Andrew Gilligan incident it appears the Beeb are now running scared of another Hutton enquiry and another kicking)
The fact of the matter is we can't and we shouldn't allow a situation whereby the Watchmen become more important than those they serve. Because we all know how that story ends...
It we certainly shouldn't allow the media to control our emotions the way they do - they should stick to delivering facts and allow us to respond in our own instictive way.
But they don't and it's all becoming newspeak.
The Thing by the river was rare indeed,
And if you took to look in a book you’d concede,
He was certainly one of a kind.
Indisputibly a cryptozoologists great find,
However, for the thing by the river it was simply day No.1,
A chance to have some kicks in the snow and the sun.
Trouble was, with the washing and cleaning,
Getting cobwebs off the ceiling,
Vacuuming the hall,
It left no time at all,
In the sun.
And the state of the loo?
Left for Day No.2.
After The Archers, the thing made a plan.
Call Dan, get eggs, make flan.
Or maybe a quiche?
For savoury was the things niche.
But it’d be early to bed for the thing.
(Fingers crossed his mother won’t ring)
And then in the morning of day No.2,
Down to the park, with the teens, sniffing glue.
As day No.1 became day No.2,
Thing stayed up reading The Turn of the Screw.
Classical horror and riverside sounds;
Cracking of twigs and Victorian nouns.
A constant need to go to the loo,
The incessant cry of an owl’s twit t’woo -
Combined to grind Thing’s nerves to rind.
As the novel’s subtext played on his mind,
It was 5am before Thing closed his eyes,
Worried he was that the Governess dies.
As for cleaning the loo,
And the sniffing of glue,
“Tasks left”, he thought, “For day No.3”.
He slept straight through,
He missed the big party,
Organised by Marty.
He missed the book reading,
On whelping/ dog breeding.
The discussion on Freud,
He would have enjoyed.
The session on rust?
He’d not have been fussed.
But the real shame?
The game of name the dame,
Won by Zelda with ‘Imelda’.
(The thing would have suggested ‘Esmerelda’).
Day No.2 went by without the Thing,
He wondered what day No.3 would bring.
On day No.3, he awoke feeling yuck.
Crushed with ennui, he cursed his bad luck.
His fur was a mess, and it had a bad pong,
“Today I will dress, I’ve been sleeping too long”
He said, then decided, “It’s time for a treat!”
Thing as always was guided by his tooth which was sweet.
He made tiramisu;
It tasted like poo.
So, he went back to bed,
Despite his sore head.
“No! Things have to change!” he said as he lay wide-awake,
“For this life is quite strange, and I’m starting to ache,
From my obvious proclivity for not doing much,
And a lack of activity in leaving my hutch.
I’ll need positive thinking, If I’m ever to explore,
Good places for drinking, during day No. 4.”
On Day No.4 he was up with the lark,
What would he do, would he go to the park?
Would he invent a new sport and set the benchmark?
Would he buy a rare map and on a journey embark?
Would he raid a warehouse and find the lost Ark?
Would he audition for Jaws in the role of the shark?
No. It was pissing it down.
So The Thing sat with a frown.
It rained and it rained, and the river swelled,
And by and by a wood creature yelled,
From a log racing past,
“Someone at last!,
“Mr Thing, throw me a line”
Thing did nothing, “You swine!”,
Cried creature, “I’m going to drown,
Yet, you act like a clown,
Why are you refraining?”
Said Thing, “’Cause it’s raining”
Creature said “Oh my,
“I suppose then I’ll die”.
He sat and he wept,
And away he was swept.
Day No.5 he would get some stuff done,
The previous four days had been a bad run.
No martyr to fashion, Thing decided to write,
A poem of love (not a catalogue of spite),
Inspired it would be by Coleridge, Poe and McGough.
The visceral beauty of the Wampas of Hoth,
He decreed it would be of such delicate prose,
That the reader would quiver from her head to her toes.
The first lines had come quickly,
(Although they were sickly).
Comparing he had,
Her breasts to his dad.
And the glaze on her shin,
To a molester’s broad grin,
But after six hours he eventually got stuck.
Which he immediately put down to his continual bad luck.
Try as he might, he could find nothing to rhyme,
With, ‘Your eyes are all bloodshot and your ears smell of a grime’
Or ‘Given half a chance, your posterior I’d cup’
By teatime that day, he thought he’d give up.
Day No.6. Noon.
We return to The Thing in a self-imposed gloom.
He had spent the evening before drinking with Ted.
When eventually he’d awoken he wished he was dead.
His head pounds, he has the shakes,
He needs a big poo before pal Ted awakes.
But, where now was Ted? Who knows? He went out to get curry,
Thing shouted, “Hurry,
They’ll be shut in an hour,
Ted turned with a scourer,
“I can’t see a bloody thing out here!”
(Little did he know a fox was quite near).
Ted never came back,
Which Thing thought was slack,
As he’d given him the dosh,
To get takeaway nosh.
He’d ended up eating scraps.
Peace Lilly wraps, washed down with peach schnapps,
And the last of tiramisu,
Which, although poo, would do,
In Thing’s boozy hazy craze,
To drink and grave.
Suddenly, the phone rings, which gives Thing a scare,
Thing ignores it. Who it is, he just does not care,
Although later, with caller ID
He can see it was Lee
(With an offer of tea?)
“Hmm,” Thought Thing, “Lee’s a bore, but at least tea will be free”.
Thing is now ready to face the world outside his door.
First a check of switches, y’know, just to make sure…
There was this routine Thing had,
To which each day he would add,
Another item to check off,
(Yeah, yeah, I know you may scoff).
From which he could never deviate,
So he started in the cellar and worked up to the attic,
Some days the process was easy, some days it was traumatic.
Today it was bad. He kept getting the order wrong,
Yet still his compulsion was horrifically strong.
Light switch by chaise longue,
Socket behind King Kong.
Hob knobs 1,2,3 and 4.
All knives put away (straight) in the kitchen draw?
No no, knives before hob, back to the start,
He’ll have a quick look on the procedural chart.
Back door locked, bolted, latched and chained?
Hour after hour Thing soon felt quite drained.
Not that Thing would step outside today,
Oh no, the OCD will certainly make him pay.
The question is, will Thing ever leave his hole?
Yes. ‘cause today is the day he signs on for the dole.
His appointment with the advisor is scheduled for 10,
Thing wakes up when?
What can you say?
“GET UP THING! GET DRESSED! GET YOUR ARSE INTO GEAR,
You’ve skived off work for almost a year!”
But Thing thinks “I’ve enough on my plate’
What with this thing that ate my mate”
And whilst pondering the fate of pal Ted, now dead.
Decides that today, not tomorrow is the day to do what he said,
And venture out.
So he makes some nice sarnies (hot lizard bap).
A bottle of drink (fresh weasel sap).
Pulls on his boots; big coat, scarf and hat.
And steps outside; just like that.
In an independent poll commissioned by my mum, Angry Chimp can exclusively reveal the daily pressing concerns of the British public.
Obviously this poll does not take into account the effect that Grant's return to the Square has had on the public, but judging by the 'chatter' at the office, its negligible (at best).
Angry Chimp is shocked that no one seems to be arsed about the War in Iraq, male white corporate oppression or the fact that it's really shit on telly at the minute.
Your thoughts on this matter as always are most welcome.
NOTE FOR NON-UK READERS:
Ready Brek = Sick in a bowl, heated and eaten by the poor, the old and those without taste buds.
Phil + The Square = Shit, badly written, tedious soap opera, watched by thick people.
Terrorism = The pretend kind, not the real terrorism that the Government & media inflicts on us daily with horror stories of disease, fuel shortage, recession and attack from 'made up' SPECTRE style world wide network of baddies.
Hope that helped.
Herge Smith here,
You all know me - I like a laugh, and a Dalek and occasionally a poem and that, and I never try to force my opinion on you or suggest you should like what I like, but today I would like to suggest you consider buying this book.
Edited by the gov'ner (also known as Tim Worstall) who runs the terrific britblog roundup which has at one time or another featured a number of us.
2005:Blogged - Dispatches from the blogsphere is a book that captures the blogging scene in 2005, a time when the culture and art and general interconnected fabric of ... oh bollocks! I can't keep this up any longer - basically the reason I've mentioned this is because I'm in it - or at least that piece I did about the Stockwell Tube murder/ shooting, is.
Yep, it's that quality.
There's (probably) loads of other great stuff in there as well, might be worth checking out, right?
Here it is at Amazon.
And here's the link to the original article - HERE - Tim assures me that spelling, grammer have been corrected and funny material put into it. Enjoy.
Now back to the verse.
Karen asked, "So Dixon is not too stressed, having to accommodate a new doggie into the household? Do they ever fight?"
Dixon was a little stressed to start with, maybe for about a week but then she chilled out.
They do now sleep together (not in a rude way of course) and tend to potter about the house together. The only time there is fighting of any kind if just before we go for walkies and I'm putting their collars on. I always do Dixon's first as she is senior dog but Daisy is far more boisterous than Dixon and will jump at me whilst I fix Dixon's collar which gives Dixon the right hump. She will (half heartedly) snap at Daisy, but that's it.
I was told prior to introducing a 2nd bitch (or b'arch) into the house that it'd be a warzone from the get-go. This was bollocks.
Karen also asked, "Wow... You're going to go through the whole alphabet with these?"
Oh yeah, I don't fuck around, and what's worse, I've got them all done - except for X and Z (but they're coming). As you may have noticed, just like the 'Day' poem (which will be resolved shortly), the poem will be a story.
The reason I stopped doing these was simple, The Guardian Weekend magazine where I used to scan the photos from and then slanderously change the text, altered the format of 'WLEO', extending the text which took a lot of punch out of the pieces. Also, the people they interviewed became so mind numbingly boring that taking the piss hardly seemed worthwhile.
Funnily enough they have recently covered a couple of areas I did some months back - sex change and nudism.
I’ve never liked fireworks. Even as a child the promise that, “The fireworks will be starting soon”, only elicited from me a, “m’eh”.
When I lived in Brighton I naturally made it on several occasions to the Lewes bonfire night festivities – where the night is celebrate rite large – cramming seemingly ever man, woman and child from the entire south coast into one small, but charming little town. It also helped that I had a girlfriend who’s parents lived there and her friend had a flat with a balcony that over looked the town from which we watched the various bonfire committee’s processions through the streets of Lewes.
See, Lewes takes it very seriously, with the entire town splintered into factions that individually host bonfires on which they burning a wide selections of effeges ranging from The Pope (a very popular choice) to whomever is currently the nations bete noire. I think Thatcher was burned over and over again, sadly not in real life though.
And, that was cool with me, but the emphasis in Lewes was very much on the Bonfire, not the fireworks. Now it seems to be all about fireworks, with the bonfire taking a back seat – probably because it takes preparation and doesn’t really satisfy our increasing desire for a quick fix thrill.
Anyhoo, fireworks… “ooohhhh pretty lights and noise”.
It used to be only on the 5th of November that we’d get this, but now it’s from mid October to mid December that every pig thick parent or socially troubled teen gets hold of these things and sets them off all fucking night.
In the past it was just an annoyance that I could ignore but now I have 2 dogs it’s night after night of these poor bastards being frightened silly – or in the case of edwaado, his dog barking incessantly. And we claim to be a nation of dog and cat lovers – nice way to treat them.
(Actually, only Dixon is nervous of fireworks. And she’s not as bad as she used to be, I put her on an aversion therapy course which basically means I have a bag of treats and every time a firework goes off she gets the treat, after a bit she starts to associate the firework with a good thing. Daisy seems to be blissfully unaware of the bangs and is currently chewing down on a bone).
I think my disinterest in fireworks and our cultures moronic love of them was beautifully captured in George A Romero’s hit and miss ‘Land of the Dead’. The living use fireworks to temporarily distract the zombies – zombies you see are brain dead, and therefore find fireworks thrilling.
Ironically enough, by the end of the flick even the zombies no longer find fireworks alluring, and get back to the job at hand, eating the brains of the living.