DJ Councillor Gyro Kredit

NeuBurger

2007-03-15T23:26:00.000-07:00

We be pleased, very pleased to offer you our new grilled sandwich:

The BLT-bub

It's more than a regular BLT. Grilled and served with French-Fires™, what makes the BLT-bub™ simply Devilish is the Devil Sauce™ we have added.

Get em while you can't.

PhatBoing Slim

2007-02-21T17:38:00.000-08:00

Q: How many fat people does it take to fill the seats of a bus which seats 100 people?
A: 100 quarter-fats = 25.

Q: Who's really fat?
A: Your mother probably is.

Q: Why did the fat man go to the gym?
A: Because, two weeks earlier, he got heartburn and it gave him a scare so he decided to change his slobbo ways.

Q: How many fat people does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: One in general, possibly 2 if the light is in a precarious place, or maybe if the person changing the lightbulb has to use nearby lights to locate the broken bulb, and then remain there while another person switches off the circuit breaker, plunging the two of them into darkness. No more than 2. Unless a third person is required to manage "burger duty".

Howling is now more gummy

2007-01-09T06:19:00.000-08:00

Back in 1996, I decided to stop cleaning my teeth since I was not happy about murdering plaque bacteria, which is, after all, innocent life.

Anyway, yesterday all of my teeth finally fell out.

Souled!

2006-12-19T14:44:00.000-08:00

Last night saw the first in a new series of GyroTV's own auction programme, "Flogged to Debt" in which a valiantly-fought competition yielded one of the most exciting games to date. The red team eventually won, albeit with a less-than-inspiring £5.50 profit overall. The blue team made a massive loss, and ended up having to hand over £1200 to cover the costs. Bad luck, blues!

Driving on 9 Points

2006-11-29T06:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as I drove to the Gyro Council early in the morning, I mused on the fact that, in the 30 years I have been driving on Britain's roads, I have not once caused or even been involved in an accident, save for a couple of superficially damaging scrapes caused by women's inherent lack of spatial awareness.

My mental celebrations were short-lived; by 5pm I was driving home having been directly responsible for three deaths and a retardation (and a real pride-beating, I can tell you).

2006-03-31T15:20:00.000-08:00

one of us owns a sweet shop
one of us has a gun
one of us wants to eat lots
one of us has a gun

which of us will leave alive?
which of us has the gun?
whichever one of us escapes
must surely have the gun

and now I leave blood-laden floor
I'll claim it self-defence
and munch upon these PEZ pellets
which through my gun dispense.

Lie Belle

2006-03-28T20:37:00.000-08:00

Garbitch

2006-03-24T13:11:00.000-08:00

Despite their name, garbage men are in fact not made of garbage at all. I had the pleasure of meeting one this morning, with my garbage in my hand.

Contrary to my expectations, the man who greeted me was flesh and bone, and took the trash from my hand not to add it to his already sullied scrapframe, but to dispose of it in a dignified, clean fashion. As he wiped the sweat from his very real brow, I learned that names do not always accurately describe their objects of reference. I made this mistake once before with Scatman John, but never again.

Maybe you could learn from this too.

DaddiesGot

2006-03-22T13:01:00.000-08:00

Daddy's got a leather pouch
Daddy's got a leather pouch

It doesn't contain money
But it might contain jewels.

Daddy's got leather skin
Daddy's got leather skin

Years of solar tan abuse
Stopped moisture staying in

Daddy's got some leatherette
Daddy's got some leatherette

Vinylistic biker gear
But not the real thing

Daddy's got a leather jacket
Daddy's got a leather jacket

Tied around his belly waist
He Meat Loafs round the garden

Daddy's got leather shoes
Daddy's got leather shoes

No longer vegetarian
And he eats chicken too

Daddy's got a leather purse
Daddy's got a leather purse

He need not worry about the expense
Work will reimburse.

2006-02-16T10:41:00.000-08:00

2006-01-27T14:32:00.000-08:00

A period drama.

But aren't they all?

2006-01-20T14:28:00.000-08:00

Scarlett Johansson?

Scarlett No Pants On more like it.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION REGARDING MONDAY’S POETRY READING

2005-08-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

Refunds are being offered for tickets purchased for Jon Blunderboss’s poetry reading which was due to be held on Monday night at Titties Parlour, East London.

Jon Blunderboss has been taken ill after being lost in his own allegory. If he ever returns, it is expected that he will reschedule his reading. Original tickets will still be valid.

Fete Sealed

2005-08-17T10:58:00.000-07:00

Only one word can describe the Ashby de la Zouche annual Summer Fete. The event, run by the Gyro Council, was held in partnership with the following organisations:

The Salvation Smarmy (special thanks are extended to the Girl Glides and Boy Snouts who packed bags for the elderly, the retarded and the Jews for the event, and who endured midday sun, midnight rum, an afternoon sum and a morning’s bumming for large charity chequemass)

The Sir Christopher Wren Mourning Minorities Association, who, especially for the event, staged an entire day’s mourning for the death of black albino dyslexic lesbian quadriplegic retards across these lands of Britty.

Omelettes for Arseholes (OfA). Give an arsehole an omelette and make the world a better place. That’s what OfA did, and the results spoke for themselves, although these were not, due to a technical fault, recorded. Dale Winton, Michael Barrymore and all contestants for Big Brother enjoyed their omelettes – some of them with ham!

Marrows for Harrow. Who can forget the summer of 1989, when a weatherjam was responsible for all of Harrow’s weather turning up 1 month late, all at once? This let to a complete destruction of marrow crops, and more than 6,000 dogs starved to death. Marrows for Harrow, in Association with the RSPCA, is promoting the good virtues of the marrow, educating children and adults alike that such a commonplace vegetable, much like a hangover crap and a submissive wife, should never be taken for granted. This year’s event centred on the competition for “most outrageous marrow”. Runners up included a marrow actually stuffed with chicken fed on marrow for a year, a marrow which looked like Jesus and was crucified for our sins, and a marrow which was deliberately grown backwards. The winner was none other than the Council’s very own Neil Straap, whose Dutch origins betrayed him when he turned a marrow into a fully functional red light district for 24 hours, complete with whores, vending machines and fancy toilets.

Dangling Wheels of Slanguage

2005-08-17T10:57:00.000-07:00

£500 seems a reasonable price to pay for a decent, healthy pony. But, given that £500 can be expressed as a “monkey”, I feel that a monkey for a pony is an unfair trade-off of monumental proportions.

Furthermore, given that £25 can be expressed as a “pony”, I would like to know who in their right mind would pay a monkey for a pony, and set themselves back £475 for absolutely nothing whatsoever?

DJ Crumbsuckler at your Service

2005-07-14T21:35:00.000-07:00

The Councillor gives you free advice for today’s awful lifestyles.

SMOKERS

I am aware that you often worry about smoking when ‘il fait du vent’. In windier times, please do not panic; as long as you flick your ash OVER the ashtray, you have done your part. And God bless you for it.

Speaking of God, here’s a man who has had many a cute choirboy in his career. I suggest you take heed of his gropeful sermons.

HINDENBURG PARTY

Themed parties, much like a good gay comeout, are becoming increasingly difficult to make dramatic enough for decent effect. I recently held a Hindenburg party at the DJ Council, which was strewn with hydrogen-filled party balloons. It was extremely successful – a handful of Germans died. If your party includes a sleepover, you might want to incorporate a “Fuck me Fruhstuck” for good measure.

Further advice can be found from the inventor of the Vicars and Tarts student nights at Slough Chicago Rock Café himself, Friar Cous-Cous.

FAT MEN

The fattest person you’ve ever met might not be fat at all. ‘Fat suits’ are capable of supplying even the slimmest person with the physique of an enthusiastic glutton. Consider this when next you visit Birmingham’s Burger King.

BLOGS

Anyone can write a blog. I have, but I am not anyone. You are, but you've done jack shit. This doesn’t prove me wrong though, and, given that I am right, it makes you a lazy shit. You need to prioritise as part of a new time management regime.

THE ATKINS DIET

A warning for vegetarians – eating nothing but meat may not be possible if you exclude meat on the grounds of moral sanctimony. My advice would be to change your ways, perhaps being one of those excellent vegetarians who eats chicken. If you need help in slaughtering a chicken, a step-by-step guide, complete with diagrams and detailed legends, can be found here.

Letters to the Council

2005-07-14T21:27:00.001-07:00

Sir

I recently had some friends over to watch adverts on ITV1. We noted that there was a new advert for Sainsbury’s insurance which depicted a receipt by the name of “Little Bill”. I find this character intensely irritating, and was wondering on your opinion of the animated little chap?

Yours

Brandy Monacle

Dear Brandy

I too have seen this advert, and am aware of the character. I have to agree that clever though the play on words is (bill in fact also being a receipt, and the stress on the “little” not only confirming the physical size of Little Bill but also the potential financial savings to be gained by Sainsbury’s insurance), he is indeed an irritating character.

But I believe it goes further than this. I for one am troubled by Little Bill’s apparent streetwise ways and arrogant swagger. This is compounded by various people recognising him and hailing him in the street which implies somewhat social whoring qualities which give him a shady, untrustworthy air. I believe he probably spends more time socialising, womanising, gambling and masturbating than he does working towards affordable deals for all. Now who would want to buy insurance from someone like that?

But a word of warning: if faced with the above character, and the only other alternative is buying insurance from Michael Winner, I suggest you do business with the rapist, rather than Little Bill.

Kind regards

DJ Councillor Gyro Kredit

Sir

I recently had the good fortune to join the Jamster Club. And what a club it is! Since joining, I have not only been able to enjoy the scooter-popping drilltonenoizz of the Crazy Frog, Nessie the Dragon and Sweetie the Chick in all their polyphonic glory whenever my mother calls, but I have also been granted exclusive access to Stringfellows, Ministry of Sound and the Nag’s Spleen pub, as well as receiving many substantial discounts on CDs and clothes from top high street stores. I have also, rather confusingly, been given access to student union bars, and been issued a rather intriguing timetable, complete with deadlines.

I urge your other readers to do the same.

Yours truly

‘Gordon’ PysssssSs

Dear Hardon

Although the Jamster Club does exist (and you may well be a member!), it is worth noting that you have in fact joined a university. Universities are much like clubs, allowing you to gain access to areas and jobs which other ‘normal people’ cannot, and paying large sums of money for the privilege. It is likely that you were eating some jam when you completed the university’s application form. This is probably where the Jamster confusion arose.

Best wishes

Gyro

Sir

I have been invited to a fancy dress party with an Elvis theme. Everyone’s going to go as the King himself, but I want to be original! Any ideas, please?

Colonel Panic

Dear Colonel

Fancy dress parties are a difficult and I believe stressful beast. I find the key to planning your outfit should lie with the character him/herself: what would Elvis himself do? I have been to such an Elvis night and asked myself the same thing. So I usually get off my face on smack, fuck some groupies, pile on the pounds and die on the toilet.

Your truthfully yet ambiguously

Gyro Kredit

Dear Sir

You bastard shitface. I was reading through your cunting shithole of a tripeblog last night, and I was abso-fucking-lutely dis-fucking-graced with the whoregash dickface text which met my shitsmeared eyes. You’re a cunting nightmare.

I hope you die of Aids, you grandmotherfucking prick.

Sincerely

Ritchie Headgive (edited for bad language)

Dear Ritchie

I refer you to the new Independent Blog Committee, who will ensure this never happens again.

Theirs

Gyrate Cretin

Your Lifepipes - A Lament

2005-07-14T21:27:00.000-07:00

Remember that sound
Ye heerd aroond
Last yearr in GlenMorickswythe?

Those were my pipes
Those are your life.

Remember me plaain’
In torrential reen
Until I disappeared?

The fog did surroond
But ye still heerd the soond!

Ye cannot shoot
Nor block me oot
From yeer minde, noor the soond of my pipes.

Expull them frum you
And ye will die too!

Pumping through
From head to too
Ye’d be a fool to shut them oot because

These are ye pipes
These are your life.

Would that I were, a Man with a Dog

2005-07-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

If I had a dog, I’d be really pissed off with it, because it just shat in my bath.

Olympic Grimes

2005-07-06T07:53:00.000-07:00

At this time of British back-slapp and enflamed Frenchgloat, let us not find ourselves in the for-ghettos of Forgetsville. Muse a while on those unsung heroes of yestergames, who, quite frankly, were taking part in games deemed too silly for BBC coverage:

Dolph Hittler: A man less like his almost-namesake you could not expect to meet. Black-skinned, blond-haired, bald, with absolutely no blond moustache, 23-year-old Hittler stunned the crowds of the German Games in 1936 by losing to Poland in the 400 metres. Defeat followed defeat in all of the track events, until an unlikely victory against the British secured a very strange gold indeed.

Hendrix McFlavourdd: Won an award for typical British sportsmanship in the Games of 1946, held in London’s very own London. Due to take part in the mens’ 100 metres, McFlavourdd’s race very nearly clashed with his son’s sports day at school. In an unprecedented move of professionalism and touching fathergreat, the athlete took part in and won the parents’ egg and spoon race, carried on running the 10 miles to the Olympic Stadium, and joined the race just as the starting pistol fired its blanks all over the sky.

James Metalux: Threw a record wobbly of 3 hours 42 minutes at the 1952 Games. The record, which is still unbeaten, stemmed from a decision in the men’s 400 metres, in which the false-start linesman was himself accused of false-starting his false-start call, long before it was due.

Shakin Stevens says

2005-04-20T07:24:00.000-07:00

Shakin Stevens says "dis ain’t leegaal tender maan."

Shakin Stevens says "can you see God yet?"

Shakin Stevens says "I like pudding. Almost as much as rape."

Shakin Stevens says "cousins are disgraceful."

Shakin Stevens says "pass the gravy? I AM the gravy, fuckhaus!"

Shakin Stevens says "I’m rich. If you don’t believe me, ask all my money."

Shakin Stevens says "gays are like apples. By that, I mean they’re all fruits, and they enjoy the cox.”

Shakin Stevens says "the burger’s cold I would like another thanks but warm please thanks"

Shakin Stevens says "it’s just another feminist. Pay no attention."

Shakin Stevens says deutsch

Shakin Stevens says "sausages can go to Hell. It says so in my bible."

Shakin Stevens says "that the man from Del Monte says that Simon says put your hands on your head master copy cat nap sack.”

Shakin Stevens says "I need your help to make the colour red more like my favourite colour: blue.”

Shakin Stevens says "charities are like dogs: hairy, loud, smelly when wet and in constant need of attention.”

Shakin Stevens says what Fred Savage does.

Shakin Stevens says "yes, I’ll have six of those briefcases, please. Actually no, I don’t need six. Make it one.”

Shakin Stevens says "ever wonder where babies come from? Babies come from rabies, and rabies comes from Hades, and Hades comes from ladies with rabies who give birth to babies with baby rabies.”

Shakin Stevens says "I have a large quantity of dogs. In both pockets."

Shakin Stevens says "your husband hit you? Really? Heh, I say, that’s good! Very good!”

Shakin Stevens says "it’s mime time. I mean when I’ve finished this sentence. When I finish this sentence, it’s mime time.”

Fucking my Pipes, or, "Fucking, my Pipes!"

2005-04-11T07:09:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, at noon, I went home for lunch. This was clearly a surprise to my wife, who I found lying on the kitchen table, being pleasured by the gas man. He was, for want of a better phrase, “jizzing over her face and tits” when I made my entrance. My wife explained that nothing sexual was going on, and that the gas man was there as a matter of urgency as the connection to the main supply had become highly dangerous.

I was naturally furious at her thoughtlessness; how could she be aware of such a risk and not tell me? I had used the hob only yesterday evening to make an omelette. She could have told me then, and I told her so. Rest assured, next time we have faulty appliances, I will be the first to be told.

Holidaynger

2005-04-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

For one week last Brian May, I had the good fortune of spending a week’s Billie Holiday in the town of Michel Bolton. After a Claire Short sight-seeing tour of the Bolton Town Jerry Hall, I took a stroll along the wonderful Iain Banks of the River Phoenix.

It was a fine Doris Day – a far Hugh and Cry from the Crystal Gayles and Peter Snow of my previous visit in the Nigel Winterburn. As I Dennis Pottered along, skimming Oliver Stones and spotting the occasional pretty Dickie Bird, I noticed a group of Johnny Kidds kicking about a Johnny Ball and clearly having a James Whale of a time. Just then, one of the children Punt and Dennised the Michael Ball, which sailed over a garden, directly into a window Payne Stewart. Pat Sharp pieces of Philip Glass flew everywhere, embedding themselves into a young Thomas Mann who was Wayne Sleeping outside.

It really did Andrew Marr my stay.

Madonna.

Glutton Dressed in 'Nam

2005-04-07T07:26:00.001-07:00

Mutton dressed as glam
Beef clothed in ham
God says “damn”
And send himself to Hell

And as Jesus takes the keys
He drop them down the drain
“That’s insane!
I’ll not see Heaven again!”

But back down under
You Australian dog-faced wife
You cause strife
With your bearded face.

Peter Piper
Picked a Pope
I know he did
I saw the smoke

But not for long
At billabong
Skimming stones
With Johnny Wong

Spactastic spack
Spack-attack
Now whack-a-vole
Whilst fucked in hole.

To summarise:

McScunthorpe’s bailiffs
Repossess your Huey Lewis and the News videos
They’ll skull your mum next time
If you ain’t got the monkey.

€ = MChammer

2005-03-22T02:39:00.000-08:00

Not many people are aware that the early 90s classic choon “Here Comes the Hammer” was actually written for TV’s favourite child-beater Timmy Mallet. The lyrics, “uh-oh, uh-oh uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, here comes the Hammer” were supposedly meant to represent “that feeling like when you can’t speak nothing and all that comes out like durr. Then you KNOW the hammer come!”

And, indeed, it did, when Mallet was later hammered by the hammer of a judge for being hammered with kids through copious gin-scoffs pre-Wackaday. He was sentenced to community service on a building site, where he hammered in the morning, hammered in the evening, got hammered, hammered his wife, and then began the whole process again for a period of 90 days. This marked the end of Mallet's somewhat bizarre status as being the UK's only man legally allowed to beat children with hammers.

Things were a lot worse by 1995, when Mallet attempted to use his Mallet’s Mallet for Mal( int)e(n)t, shifting cocaine to Brazil. Clasping to the memory of his once renowned fame, Mallet assumed that he was still held in high enough esteem to be able to smuggle £3m of snout-dust stuffed inside his stupid coke-Mallet with no questions asked. Funnily enough, his palm-tree glasses and wacky-placed plasters, plus the fact that he was plastered, got him off lightly.

Last year, Mallet’s hammer went under the hammer in Hammersmith, and fetched £300,000. The buyer? None other than Cheshire's own MC Pukestation.

A few things you should know about Trevor McDonald:

2005-03-16T07:57:00.000-08:00

McDonald is renowned for having useless, spindly legs, despite his somewhat chunky frame. These were described by Peter Snow as being “completely useless in an emergency. Absolutely fucking useless”.

McDonald has three children. All of them are suspiciously black.

McDonald is rumoured as being a “foul-play fighter”, throwing dirt into the eyes of opponents and pushing a spectacled man’s (or woman’s) glasses up their noses into their eyes. Other tactics such as the classic “look over there” and the confusing “hold on, there’s a toad in my eye” are apparently favourites before launching into full-scale slap and scratch blind rage with screaming.

Trevor McDonald has, on three occasions in his career, delivered news before it happened. It is anticipated that he will report the death of Lady Thatcher a full seven hours before it occurs.

Due to a strange loophole in British law, and despite clearly being male, Trevor McDonald was technically never assigned a confirmed sex. As such, he was, in the eyes of the law, not classed as a fully fledged member of society due to his medical records being incomplete. Rendering him unemployable, this fact was then overridden by ITV’s recently placed laws against sexual discrimination, and so his job became even more secure, despite reports of gross negligence and improper staring.

Trevor McDonald delivered exclusives on all of the following stories:

The world’s palest boy, Huddersfield. 15-year-old Sylvester Godthroat could only spend on average 3 seconds per week outside during summer. He was sent to a special home after frequently being lost in the bath.
The strange case of Dr Robert Gratis, who was found both guilty and not guilty of third-degree rape, in one unanimous decision by a jury in Manchester. He was sentenced to 20 years in prison, and granted his freedom. He gave his interview to McDonald after being released for escaping from prison that same day.
The infamous “women who leave their men for nachos” scandal, the report which McDonald rounded up with the inspired quote, “And so, it would seem, to keep your woman, you need to be a nacho, nacho man".

None of this is liez. It’s all bollix.

bogeys at one o'clock

2005-03-16T02:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at work, I found myself daydreaming into a sort of waking slumber, much like the transition from coma to conscious, but reversaled. Before long, I had daydreamed myself into a subconscious nose-pick, which finds one’s forefinger in full insertion, accompanied by a kind of inane, snarly smile which reveals the toppermost upteeth, half guarded by the picking hand’s knucklefist. For what seemed like 50 years, I cleaned my nasal dumpyard, before I noted that I was being addressed from the door. I soon realised that I had clean forgotten about my other nostril, but that, since my name had been called thrice already, I had been well and truly exposed in mongish snoutrummage.

It was at this point that I faced two rather interesting options. Either I cease with my pickings, and attempt to re-establish decorum by initiating an invitation for the other party to knowingly pretend that neither of us had seen the nosepick or been seen conducting the nosepick, or I extend my already picturesque grimace. I decided, in the heat of the moment, upon the latter, turning my snarl into a sort of confrontational scowl akin to the expression of dogs on “BEWARE” signs. My free left hand raised itself to the air, and swivelled repeatedly, speedily yet controllably on its wrist axis, similar to the technique perfected by black and white minstrels. Releasing a loud and volumous noseblow, aided in part by my finger’s starving my nose of oxypassage, I rose up from my seat, and leaned towards what had now become my victim. Like some kind of savage native of Godknowswhere, there was something unspeakably understood in this new relationship which was being forged before my very eyes. Belter.

Grand Theft Alter

2005-02-17T02:30:00.000-08:00

A good hearth these days is hard to find. True rugs – the bearskin kind. Thus spoke The Undergroans solospack “Fear Gull” Sharky, in one of his many “hits”. And never a truur word was spake by one so whys. But such hearths and rugs, once they are the pride of your living room, are even harder to KEEP.

This is where GOD Security Assistance Reductive Surveillance Enhancement (GODSARSE) Systems come into their own. GOD stands for Geographically Omnipresent Device. GODSARSE equipment is unique in the fact that it harnesses the power of the Lord God Almighty to keep tabs on the security of your household, with no need to install any equipment. So – no unsightly boxes, no installation, no wires, no mess, no fuss. Just one setup fee, a simple contract (minimum one year and a five-year commitment to Friar Cous-Cous), and your household contents will literally be in the hands of God.

For those of you who are not down with the Jesu, or indeed his father, God is everywhere, all at once. He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He also knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be GOOD, for Christ’s sake™. This unique power is enough to deter even the most hardy criminal. How do you run away from someone who knows you’re guilty? Don’t even try, brethren!™ These fantastic magical powers are compounded by the knowledge that any failure of GODSARSE equipment to successfully deter criminals is NOT in fact a failure, but the will of God. Maybe the video would have been used that following w(eek) to display child pornography in widescream, or perhaps the blender would have had its way with your wife’s hands. We don’t know, but God does. Sign up toady.

In Some Knee, ja?

2005-02-11T03:55:00.000-08:00

I chloroformed myself last night
Just so I could sleep alright
Rag on face and held self down
And not til morning come around.

Sleeping tablets serve me ill
Ineffective lethargy pill
Daterape sprinkled powder delight
That’ll sort me out alright

So sleep now, little self, until
The morning, afternoon daylight shrill
Pokes through curtain peephole slit
And on my bloodshot eyeballs hit

And blaring lights and grating noises,
Deafening sunlight, giddy voices,
Throw my shattered nerves asunder
So once more I send self under, under.

A Bitch's Hangbag, and a Handjob's Bitch

2005-02-08T07:24:00.000-08:00

If you find yourself at the crossroads
of calamity’s cumjunction
Do you awake in Grundy’s Scatflip Diner
And order a number 2?
Cuz that’s what you’ll get
Served by Bill Grundy himself
“Oh what a clever bouy
to order that shit”
And smears it in your face
Like you are a clown
Who knows not his arse from his anus

If you find yourself at the abortion boutique
Ready to remove daddy’s little monster
Do you scream "begone!" for abortion
of your portion
of eggs served at Grundy’s Over Easy Rapeshack?
Cuz das wot he gone do young ma’am
“Are you having a good time?
Maybe wee could meat aftershow”
And shaves your wife
As you gaze from afar

In masturbate shame

Mingeflute

2005-02-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I let my autistic brother do the weekly shopping on his own. I gave him £60, which he instantly and quite correctly converted to 728.57 Norwegian Krone based on an exchange rate of 12.14285 per pound sterling. I patted him on his poor fucked head and out he strolled with a shopping list I had drawn up.

I now appreciate that although his successful return from the supermarket was in itself something of a personal triumph for young Crickeytwat, the actual purchasing was a right royal fucking disgrace. Despite having ignored the contents of my list by not having bought anything which was on it, he had still taken stock of how much each item would have cost, and had drawn up an accurate but nonetheless hypothetical grand total. He had instead bought 30 double packs of peach-tinted lightbulbs, and 15 copies of Bella magazine.

At first I was angry. I wanted to hurt him so. But then I contemplated who would complete my maths homework if he were to be beaten, and so I let him offal. Having pondered why in fact I still need to do maths homework when I haven’t been at school for ten years, I decided I might as well use the excessive stock with which I had been burdened. Switching on all the lights, I had a surprisingly randy wank to the Bella cover feature on Jordan and Peter Andre, fed my own, personal, rain man, and tucked my own’s self back into dead.

If you think you might be autistic, please go here, quoting every Premiership relegated team from 1914 to the present day.

Sky Rocket Surprise, Afternoon Demise

2005-02-08T02:46:00.000-08:00

Since last week’s titillating recipe for “Spadge Snapple”, I have been inundated with requests to make recipes such as this a regular feature. Well, this week, I do in fact have a rather good recipe for “Chicken Soup Surprise”. This dish is amazingly popular around the world. You may recognise it under one of its many international pseudonyms:

“Mein Gott Gegrillte Bratwurst”
“Sacre Bleu Crêpes”
“You’re Shitting Me Snags”
“Bullshit Beefballs”
“Fuck me! Flambé”
“Mr Lai’s Lychee Lie”

Here’s the very simple recipe:

1. Take two slits of bread, preferably brown. If you have no bread, you can substitute with two slices of brad, a beard, 3 bards or an ill-bred child

2. Take six Brussel Sprouts, and lightly bruise them, as you would your wife when she’s pissed you off for being upset and indulgent about her mother’s slow, boring death

3. Leave the sprouts for one day out in the sun

4. Take the sprouts, carefully place between the bread. Do not butter!

5. Firmly press until mash

6. Throw the fucker away away

And there you have it. The perfect meal to give to friends at a dinner party where you reveal your terminal Aids condition. Or maybe a nice entrée for a potential rape victim. Enjoy!

Carefool What You Wishfore

2005-01-25T08:45:00.000-08:00

I didn’t believe my friend at first when he told me in the utmost confidence that he was a “rising and falling” rapist. Indeed, when he was finally convicted in 1999 for his crimes, I believed I giggled a little, shook my head in disbelief, and continued eating my plate of bad. Thing is, no one believed it was true. Being just 4ft 5” tall, he was just too tiny to be a rapist. But a rapist he was, and a rapist with a box at that.

My friend’s demise is noteworthy, principally because it highlights how any one of us could fall foul to the temptations of forcewet; of pressurelust always needing more for the same ends, turning slights of desire into the full-blown worship-warship greedyneed of a perpetually burning Kinky Jesus. Beware.

But don’t strain yourself. Visit A New Type of Church.

Phonekall KommandOH!

2005-01-21T06:25:00.000-08:00

lift receiver > pull to face > finger down > 999 > "police" > "hello?" > "I'm raping a murderer" > "which one of us is worse?" > "come quick" > "bye bye" > hang up > come quick > END

Home Apply Ants Ease

2005-01-21T06:12:00.000-08:00

When asleep at home, mechanimation
Provides persistent penetration
Up you

When all the household appliances
Behind your back have formed alliances
Against you

Freezer froze stiff cockatoo
Which microwave defrosted for you
To fry against your will young man
Despite you

Toaster branded you with smoulder glow
You are toaster’s bitch now
Owns you

Oven roasted your pups last night
They went woof alright alright
Without you

Dishwasher drowned the kitty alright
between the pots and glasses bright
To spite you

And just when you can take no more
What’s this the blender has in store?

Some Notes on Slang

2005-01-13T07:26:00.000-08:00

Gepetto’s Wood – A lie told about anything sexual in nature

Mingetucker – Australian slang for cunnalingus, as in “Godda go home early tonight, mates. Godda get me some mingetucker”.

Bovine Tightrope – used to describe the situation of someone who pushes weights so often that he/she is endangering his/her health.

Howitzer Sunrise – A hangover brought about by the successful completion of a yard of ale without subsequent vomiting.

Mantle Snare (also known as a performing a Topshelf Ingram) – Distraction technique whereby an ornament broken by a visitor to a house is replaced by an object similar in size and shape to the broken object. The visitor can then seek an alternative replacement in the hope that the replacement ornament will not highlight the broken ornament’s absence.

Osama’s Lunchbox – Stealing and devouring all of a colleague’s lunch, but leaving the apparatus on which it is served, with no trace of the lunch itself and providing no clues whatsoever as to its whereabouts.

Bungle’s Trust Fund – a platonic relationship in which one of the party is obviously a potential physical threat to the other, yet between whom there is no tension whatsoever.

Ghandi's Loot - The prize of stealing a blanket lent to you when staying over at a friend's house.

A Poem; A Lesson

2005-01-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

As 2005 rolls in,
You git to rememberin
How resolution made through beer and gin
As you saw last year in
Thoughtless boy.

“This year”, you drunkenly proclaimed
“I shall spend in the naked buff
To celebrate the naked frame
And show we underneath are all the same.”
Falsehood boy.

But what you’d missed
When drunken hazy
Was how you’d bloated
Through greed and lazy
Wicked, glutton boy.

And past four years
You found abhorrent
The flesh beneath
Your undergarments

You then declared
“This was on whim
For I’m too scared
To go to gym

“All naked,
Fat and undesired
All this worry
Makes me tired”
Pathetic, lethargy boy.

To sleep you go
All through the year
You never see a soul
Through fear
Now reclusive boy.

Explosive weight
Nuclear waistline
Your friends now hate
What you became in time.
The hated even fatter boy.

Bastiard

2005-01-11T07:57:00.000-08:00

Not many people are aware that back when the Tories were in power, there was a different Foreign Secretary for just one day. Hermanzie Bastiard had worked hard to get into the position, only to be removed the same day following a press conference in which he made explicitly racist, xenophobic and homophobic comments. The conference was cut short, but not before Bastiard had managed to offend a majority of the room, along with an impressive portion of the world to whom the conference was being televised live and, incredibly, with no delay system in place.

Asked about European relations, Bastiard was animated:

The French cannot help but run away from danger. I say, stop running, and while you’re at it, clean up your drains and sort out your dog shit problem. I kid you not, I stepped in 7 separate dog fouls just in a recent booze-cruise to Calais. I will have nothing to do with Sweden, who are overtly homosexual and who therefore risk bringing disease and whining into this country in epidemic proportions if allowed to do so. I do however feel for the Germans, who we beat in both of the world wars, and who could forget 1966’s World Cup, which was in my opinion a kind of Third World War.”

Asked about the current problems with racism in the workplace, Bastiard had responded:

“There are clearly biological differences between the blackies and [God’s gentle] white folk. For a start, they are biologically black. They contain theft glands more than 300 times the size of a [gracious] white man, and their hearts work through what are called ‘niggervalves’.
John Major, having recommended Bastiard’s resignation, had admitted that the appointment of an extrovert xenophobe had been “a gross mistake, which is easy to say with hindsight. I remember asking him to tone it down somewhat prior to the meeting, but he assured me that because the conference was being held in Liverpool, no-one was likely to be intelligent enough to understand anyway, if they weren’t even too busy stealing cars or raping folk. Clearly he was wrong.”

Oily Skin, Dirty Sin

2005-01-11T02:00:00.000-08:00

When I arose from out of my bed at 6:00am this morning’s afternoon, I had no idea what the day would have in store. I had to be in Stepney for 8:00, in order to begin work on emptying the house we were contracted to renovate. My mind turned to wanking a bit, when the phone rang. It was my mother, trying to catch me before I left for work, checking that all was well. I felt rather agitated and frustrated at this maternal wank-block, but before long I had quite forgotten. We talked for long enough to ensure that even a mass-quicksturbate would have been out of the question. I hurriedly left the house and left for Stepney.

Once there, I realised that my late arrived had ensured I received the short straw. I had garbage collection duty. George had drawn the best lot which entailed sitting at the window with a pair of binoculars checking that no-one was trespassing and vandalising the property. This is often called “bagsying the Bill Oddie”, as most of the shift is taken up bird-spotting.

I got to work. The house, which had been unoccupied since the early 80s, was crammed with old rubbish and with it, the occasional gem. In amongst the Walker’s Crisps and Top Deck cans, I found a practically unused deck of Super Top Trumps – Superheroes Edition. More rubbish, then a copy of Razzle from March 1982. And, with it, the best possession of all – a 23-year-old bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil. I stared at the vision on the front of the bottle. Luckily, the bottle had been lying face-down on the floor, and so the baby picture on the front had remained unblanched by the sun’s wicked rays. I tucked it in my pocket, eager for the ok so I could sneak my loot back home for a filthy funtime.

Back home, I raced upstairs, locked the bathroom door, and frantically snatched my prize from my hot pocket. I dribbled some of the vintage oil onto my hands, and I was away. Gazing into the picture on the bottle, I felt so very ashamed, but undeniably horny, as I fired my naughtyjustice into a tissue, and once more became overwhelmed by a terrible mixture of lucidity and shame.

Still staring at the bottle, I unlocked the door and made my way to the front room. I sat down, gazing at the photograph of the baby, and considered whether my mother would still remember the time all those years ago that she took me to the Johnson studios for that very first photoshoot.

Mimefields

2005-01-11T01:59:00.000-08:00

During the Nazi rallies of the 1930s, it certainly wasn’t all hard work and hand-raising. Indeed, foreign minister Herr Otto Schlankgeist raised more than the occasional eyebrow when it came to the raucous, lavish banquets laid on for higher-ranked attendees. During these occasions, Herr Schlankgeist would amuse fellow guests by imitating with stunning accuracy playing a variety of the instruments used in the background music. An ex-mime by trade, Schlankgeist would pretend to play the tuba, the piano and the accordion with astounding dexterity, minus the instrument in question. His ability was particularly honed to the Spanish guitar, and this soon got around like such wildfire that a regular slot would be penned into the rally banquets in honour of “Herr Guitar”. Schlankgeist would compete in realtime with a genuine Spanish guitarist, who would improvise to make it as difficult as possible to be mimicked. This was no match for Schlankgeist, who eventually became responsible for the guitar-mime phrase “schpielen die ‘Herr Guitar’”, which eventually became known as the playing “air guitar” in the American 1980s.

"Thank-you for the Prozac"

2005-01-11T01:58:00.000-08:00

The yearly “ABBA-Deen” festival will be held one week earlier than usual in 2005. The festival is growing in popularity year on year, as practically all of Aberdeen gets together to pay tribute to that famous Swedish band, The Hives. The usual Aids restrictions apply.

Hit Laird

2005-01-06T06:46:00.000-08:00

How many Hitlers does it take to change a lightbulb?

Nein.

Hetty’s Jockstrap

2005-01-06T03:09:00.000-08:00

Those of you who managed to catch my article in last Thursday’s Teleguardian will probably have noticed the somewhat embarrassing typo in paragraph 3. An unfortunate slip on the keyboard produced the word “anus”, for which I apologise. The intended word, of course, was “motherfucked”.

Oh! Bees Itty!

2005-01-06T03:08:00.000-08:00

Dealing with my morbid obesity has been surprisingly easy – I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I cut all foods out of my diet, instead living off only Kiwi fruits and Guinness Extra Cold. I have taken up darts for exercise and this, combined with a new year scag habit, has seen me shed the pounds like a footballer in Ladbrokes! I can see my ribs now, thanks cripes.

Going to Eye Beefer

2005-01-06T03:07:00.000-08:00

Book early to avoid disappointment for this year’s “18 to Querty” outing. A maximum of 60 Linux enthusiasts will be coached to Ibiza to dance to the sounds of their ringtones and fuck to the rhythm of their own baud rates. Wireless raves and the renowned “FORMAT C:” evening are all part of a package you simply can’t afford.

Letters to the Councillor

2004-12-23T05:52:00.000-08:00

Sir

I wish to point out an interesting coincidence in relation to your coverage of the opposition to new, brighter (too bright) lighting being installed at great financial cost to the taxpayer, on the A417 to County Durham (“Bright Light? What a Bunch of Shit”, 28th July 2004). Readers might be interested to know that the lights themselves have an order code of A417 – the very same name as that of the road on which they were installed.

Sanctimus Paxo, County Durham

Sir

I wish to congratulate you on your brilliant story on revenge cuts and slashes (“And This One’s for Dave”, 16th July 2004). I myself was the victim of a “Maisie’s Hammock” in 1987 – in which my eyelids were sliced at the top, resulting in a hammock-like flap of skin flailing twixt my low-lid and my eyebrow. However, I was also unfortunate enough to receive what was known as a “Fuck Me Finale”, which entailed surprising the “hammock” victim with a scarcely believable fact of outrageous proportions, or a piece of extraordinarily bad news (in my case, I was (errantly) informed that Bruce Forsythe had a twin, which was how come he done so much showbiz). The stretching of the skin caused by the resulting “fuck me!” glance of wide-eyed shock tore the eyelids clean off my facial visage. These were then given the “Burning Bernie” treatment in front of my very now-very-wide eyes, to ensure that they would never be returned to their rightful place.

Bradley Justice, Milton Keynes

Sir

I must admit that before I had read you article “Was Hitler a Gypsy?” (16th June 2004) I would have considered such a question a no-brainer. However, you presented the evidence most convincingly. His deep-routed links with circus can be seen in his highly entertaining show-like speeches. His nomadic love of travelling – particularly to Eastern Europe – with little or no warning at all, demonstrated an instinctual lust for drifting. It now becomes clear that those ridiculous bulging pantaloons – which I had always assumed were merely garments of aesthetic flamboyancy – were in fact the perfect cover-up for the Fuhrer’s crippling rickets – a sure sign of the poverty synonymous with gypos.

Berndt Berger, Berlin

Sir

Jethro Clappington (“Mum was Missile” letter, 14th June 2004) might be interested to hear that he was not the only captain to be earflanked by explosures from the skies back in 1912. I was captain of the 5th Regiment Slutmouth brigade, and was spacked sideless to such an extent that I was forced home early. I was smanked by an unfortunately aimed “Wheezing Jeffrey”, just as I was about to sneak into my third mouthful of Trenchy Pie. Three sections of my face had to be muzzled together for a total of 16 months.

May I also point out that Mr Clappington’s account must certainly contain falsehoods, since the sandwich in question apparently contained “pickle”. As anyone who actually served at this time will be aware, this word – and subsequently the preserve to which it is to this day bound – was banned in everyday speech due to its being code for “imminent German attack probably from 2 o’clock possibly 3”.

Pain is a competition, Mr Clappington, and I believe I win this griefboast.

Julian Marquisimass, Grizzleton

Sinful Hell

2004-12-20T08:38:00.000-08:00

(to be sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells", if you will)

Fast now feels so slow
In Honda Civic Coupé
OAPs below
Crushed along the way
Bells on ice we bring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to drive and drink
A slaying spree delight

Chorus

Sinful hell, sinful hell
Ratted through the night
Oh what fun it is to drive
With beer and Marlborough Light

Sinful hell, sinful hell
Skinful through the day
Went for a spin and killed my bride
After a bottle of Chardonnay

A day or two ago
I took a drunken ride
A crate of Kronenbourg
Seated at my side
My eyes were fogged with booze
Cos I had drunk the lot
I took a high-speed snooze
And floored a group of tots

Chorus

A day or two ago
I fell into a well
Surrounded by my car
Ginned as drunk as hell
A gent came to my aid
I smashed him in the face
There he sprawling laid
Off in his car I raced

Chorus

Now I’m off my face
So drink-drive while you’re young
Bring some girls along
And guzzle on your rum
Just remember when you smash
From driving drunk at speed
Make good with your dash
Be careful where you bleed.

Chorus

Muse Headlions

2004-12-17T06:39:00.000-08:00

Czech out the nuze pls, at the topp of the paige. It's all tru.

K thx.

Music Gödz, Institute of Contemporary Arts, 23rd December 2004

2004-12-16T03:53:00.000-08:00

Musik Gödz – Berlins finest technopoet – comes to the ICA for a one-night fusion of thrash-punk, techno, and beat poetry which addresses post-holocaust flummoxing through “nasal disbelief and apathetic shutdown”.

Gödz’s “Dancehall MusikMachina: The Machine of Gödz", inspired by a Smashing Pumpkins album, is a technobooth organ built by Gödz himself and requiring two "konductors". The first produces spinethrashing vibratibass using a combination of the venue’s floor and organic shapes which die in the process of the sonic output. The other controls the “arbeiten-pipen” (of which there are 16, one for every colour of the alphabet) to spew out verbs and nouns in tandem with the random projections launched into the eyes of the crowd. This culminates in Gödz literally throwing a spanner in the works, straining the MusikMachina’s components until revolutions reach speeds of what Gödz terms “mach frei”.

Gödz’s performances are highly controversial. He has not played a show in Germany for 4 years, after a series of incidents directly related to his renowned shows. In 1998, 3 crowd members were blinded after scenes of Jewish tea parties were xenon-blasted into their retinas. The same year saw an explosion at a Hamburg gig after Gödz failed to perform a safety check on his heavily customised and reputedly “mindlessly dangerous” equipment. No-one was hurt in the incident, although the venue has yet to reopen. Gödz was finally banned from performing in his homeland after a performance in a Berlin primary school left 6 children bleeding.

Tickets are available here.

Have they find your friend?

2004-12-14T07:24:00.000-08:00

Have they find your friend? He who went amiss three months agroin?

Back in time to those months four ago, when once shame covers your goad, feeling like a little toad, slime-filled ugly. But now, these memories might seemed proud, less ashame because now disappearman has create a new shame – “it’s a shame” now you said.

Do you remembrain? When your face sobbing, bloodied with payback by skinfilled shitter batter you for knowledge of your cockanal? Shivered in emotiquake through fear of future battery? But friend be cuddlekind as so many time previously back beforehand then, saying the words in soft Berliner, “stille, stille, mein liebling, mein liebling, stille” and stroking your spanked visage with large efficient German hand.

And times of nightclubbering, tranced to dancemusik and friend wants to stay for “einmal danceklaut”. You were had greatness, loving the buttockhold but still the always slideglance to autreface. Who sees? Did you just saw that? Don’t notice gay gilt over my gay guilt.

Have they find your friend? He who went amiss three months agroan?

Clearly they haddock, for his face is still newsgood, and even now, Maximirillius Snoad reads glum news of “izzy dead? Or izzunee?” to your face, which pondered now, “will they fined mein freund? He who went amiss three months agroat?”

Smileschön, little smile, then now you tittered “not unless they dig up my garden.”

What's Your Weasel?

2004-12-10T07:29:00.000-08:00

Beef is rather a fatty meat. Although a good source of protein, excessive consumption can lead to obesity, blocked arteries, Aids, cancer, paedophilia, necromancy and blocked toilets due to hugely behemoth lumpy bloody shit torpedoes. Obviously, this is somewhat ‘far out’ and ‘heinous’, and not in the least ‘rad’ or ‘gnarly’.

The Geographic Institution for Malady Prevention through the Society for Healthy Improvements in Taste (GIMPSHIT) has identified the lowly weasel as a viable alternative to good ol’ cow. Significantly leaner, weasel meat reportedly tastes only slightly blander than it’s bovine predecessor. Furthermore, it can be cut into precisely the same parts (though scaled down) as cow can, including topside of weasel and shoulder of weasel. When prices per lb of weasel come down – which they almost certainly will following the introduction of weasel grazing - here are a few dishes you can expect to see on your pathetic gaunt little plates:

Weasel stew
Weasel jerky
Corned weasel on toast
Barbequed weasel ribs
Weasel kebabs
Bovril with weasel extract
Weasel burgers
Weasel bolognaise
Weasel Wellington
Weasel steak
Flank of weasel
Ground weasel
Weasel and onion crisps

Musclemen will eventually be referred to as “Weaselcakes”. Bart Simpson will be telling everyone – in that cheeky way he does – to “have a weasel, man”, and one will soon be able to add bits to one’s business presentation in order to “weasel it up”.

Turkey Jerky – For Jim

2004-12-10T03:36:00.000-08:00

Fuzzy wuzzy fuzzy wuz
No-one cooks like Granny duz

Toffee Slipper
Muff Surprise
Goathead Crumble
Herbal pies
Weasel steaks
Shank of Gasps
Moaning Fritters
Strangle Rasps
Mongtown Wellington
Pain à l’Anglais
Hanukkah Scream
Sluice of the Day
Ethnostew
Rotty Wings
Jesus Fudge
Gusset Minge
Homo Pud
Muscle Jerky
God-Damned Tenderloin
Shittled Turkey
Grin flambé
Goaded the Hole
Clotted Sick
Steam-broiled Goal
Discharge Hot Pot
Cake and Squidney Die
Leftfield Bake
Shepherd’s Lie
Brolly Haggis
Scouser Mash
Sanguine Rolls
And Voddy Hash

All these settled in my tum
Graknee u kook beta then mumm.

Feeling a Little Horse

2004-12-09T05:41:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow sees the third annual horsy triathlon at Windsor Racecourse, in which horses run & jump, swim and then shoot, all in the name of a good old day out. Injured horses may have to be shot early, but Pimms will be cheap. Here are a few horses showing recent good form, and on whom it might be worth having a little flutter:

There Is No Pudding (15/1)
Monty’s Kidney Stones (2/1 - almost certain win)
Spleen On The Run (15/2)
Bastard Glow (30/1 but on good form nonetheless)
Fred Astairway To Heaven’s Doors (4/1)
Lame Barry (5/2)
Bulgarian Rape Alibi (7/3)
Spare Some Lungs, Guvnor? (22/1)
Lucy’s Vomit (16/1)
Quim Denial (16/1)
Sorry, Wrong Genocide (fx/y)
Paul McCartney’s Leftovers (dy/dx)
Lavender Blitzkrieg (>/<)
Quadriplegic Dancehall ($$$)
That’s It – I’m Glue For Sure ("fucking great odds")
Inner Thigh Voodoo (horse contains pistons)
Bashir Basher (already dead and half rottened)
Nazi Toddler (153/2)
Face-slash du Jour (1/16)
Baptism Bloodbath (12:30pm)

If dog racing is more your thing, click here to get bitchlucky.

For more information on dealing with a gambling problem, visit Friar Cous-Cous for partial, Catholic advice.

You want to get out?

2004-12-09T02:52:00.000-08:00

You want to get out?
To get about?

Choice you stare –
Lift or stair?

To the stairwell
Well well well

Take the staircase
Just in case

Of lift breakdown
Cause mental breakdown

Hand on rail
Support for frail

Step by step
You step a step

Down the road
The road you rode

To Post Office
You post a fist

Into mouth of employee
Who would not employ ye

And once again you figure out
Why it’s wrong that yer out.

Corner Crash, Karma Smash

2004-12-07T08:35:00.000-08:00

A lesson for the foolish

He hits girls
She kicks blacks
You call wheelchair gauntframes “spacks”
You homosmash
You lesbocull
Jeer “dyslexic mongchild goto Hull”

______________________________

But on motorised biwheel crunch your face
And smash your limbs across the place
Brainknock knasty now you 7-year-old
Is mental age you slowly told
By pitying parentage
Wheel you round and round
Adult drool from mouth to ground
Mental stupor
Now want kill own brain
By gunn or raizor or under trayne
But limbs no worky
Nor brain 2 proper
Eva since u came a-croppa

______________________________

Poor old childe
Inn adult bodi
Wishing you would not now think sow shoddy
But friends remark
With shake of head
And secret contempt and wish you dead
“Your fault, your fault,
For speed dash cool”
Now object of own ridicule

Good Golly Miss Mollycodswalloping...

2004-12-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

In the 1980s, kids with spots got colds, wiped snot on their sleeves and put their fingers up each other’s bums as laughtertexture. Although they may have the occasional tickly cough, by today’s standards, they are supermen. These days, the antibiotic children of the 21st Century officially have no immune system and have bones made of salt and vinegar, thanks to being plied with drugs, filled with chips and wrapped up in cotton wool. Here is a frightening chronology which you shouldn’t read:

14th January 2001: The heart of an 8-year-old man from Suffolk collapses insidewards after being denied sugarmice by his mother from the local sweetie delicatessen, even though he’d been good all day.

29th November 2001: A 36-year-old man from Ashby de la Zouche contracts the Aids virus after looking at a rusty nail through sunglasses with inadequate protection. His advice: “you buy what you pay for. Just don’t pay with your life, like I did. You dig?”

15th April 2002: A 14-year-old boy from Milton Keynes is granted extended leave from school to avoid the emotioturmoil resulting from grubby intake from soccer. He is granted leave on the grounds of being “too gay for school.”

3rd December 2002: A 12-year-old miss from Portsmouth cried herself into a coma after watching Disney’s classic feature cartoon “Pinocchio”. The following were subsequently deemed unsuitable viewstuffs for kidz by the British film watchdog:

- Pinocchio going to sleep – depiction of sleepy lazylust.

- Familial setup – small boy lives with lonely man in a strange house full of clocks. Pinocchio’s desire to be a “real boy” depicted as the demand for a sexual rite of passage, compounded by fact that the boy is made of “wood”, and the fact that Gepetto uses “wood” as his principal “material”.

- The watchdog found that the cuckoo clocks, by their “in-out” nature, were deliberately phallic in light of the above. The fact that clock rhymes with cock is probably not a coincidence when considering this. The scene in which numerous clocks seem to deafen Gepetto is seen as a maddening craving for a small boy’s wooden wang.

- Underage drinking explicitly portrayed.

- Boys turning into donkeys. Donkeys being hooved animals, there is an implication here that the boys are demonic. This is without question too frightening for childrun. Donkeys are also renowned for having large genital organs (see above paedopoint).

- Talking, singing, clothed cricket. Depiction of black magic.

- Wooden boy turning into real boy. Depiction of deity through creation of the flesh.

All these things and more crumbled her.

4th February 2003: Boy in school playground is literally blown away by a sudden gust of cold wind from the North. The boy, who smashed into kiddie ash as soon as the wind ironically guided him into the window of the local pharmacy, was described as “tragically irretrievable” by paramedics who arrived on the scene. The Headmaster, a Mr J D Wetherspoon, blamed the incident on the wind simply coming from “precisely the wrong direction”. Scientists believe the actual reasons are more likely to stem from “overuse of antibiotics and his diet, which are to blame for the helium in his brain and his vinegar bones.” Had these been as normal, they “would have weighed the poor blighter down something proper.”

16th March 2003: Fragility levels of the young hit all-time high, as a woman gives birth to a baby made entirely of bubbles. Doctors said, “there’s really nothing we can do to prolong her life. Let’s just thank God it wasn’t a water birth. That would have destroyed her straight from the womb.”

It’s Her Party and I’ll Die if I Want You

2004-11-26T06:26:00.000-08:00

Special thanks to Friar Cous-Cous for supplying much needed inspirationojuice with regard to the ending of this terrible tale.

And tell me, might this have happened 'á vous' quelque jour?

A half-day at work has allowed me to enjoy an early drink in the centre of London’s guts. Myself and girlfriend outside, enjoying the midsummer sun. Beer-bloat gives me the horn for rum, and soon, the afternoon has housed an evening’s good drinking when pace was called for. We now leave for the party of a friend of my girlfriend’s. The sky is getting dark as 9 o’clock comes round. Through the off licence, we obtain liquids for nasty booze fusion, which, considering the mixmuddle already in my innards, will make for psychological ruin by 1am. I’ve managed to lose my hat, but I can buy a new one at some point maybe later on or something perhaps.

Getting to the front door of the flat at the top of the block, I feel too tired to speak to the strangers I will meet very soon. I almost buckle on my crap legs. Door opens and meet mumble with mumble.

After two hours I am in semi conversation with a group of people with whose names I never bothered to get myself acquainted. I pull fairly hard on the rollup which has been placed in my limp digits, and notice myself becoming the dead middleman between my brain and physicactions. One man asks me something about William Shatner’s dogs. I confirm his suspicions with no solid proof, but my response seems to satisfy him and buys me more concentratiotime. Then a girl asks me why 5? I do not know the answer, so I show her my left nipple as a distraction technique. This too seems to go down well, before I am asked a rather cryptic question about cocks by a third man. Before I have the opportunity to answer, my eyes cloud over. My girlfriend has somehow disappeared from the entire building, but I am unconscious before I can feel truly pissed on by the shitscare.

I awake in a different position, I am quite sure. I look straight ahead at the top of a mosque through the window. It must be about 4am, as the mosque is vaguely hit by the sun’s morning glory. My scene setting is cut short by me noticing a strange yet consistent sensation in my anus which I am quick to ascertain is related to the hands clutching my naked buttocks. Leaning on the kitchen sink and staring at the mosque, I question in my own mind how events became thus. Had some punk slipped some dinner jazz into my drink to stimulate some happy-homo-trance-hardcore? Or was I my own ‘undoing’? The man behind me is whispering what sounds like latin, and someone in the corner is making a coffee. As I consider this, I once again black out.

I awake to the sounds of a car engine. I am wrapped up in a blanket, travelling at considerable speed in the back of some car. Coming to, I realise that this is my parents’ car, with my parents at the helm. I try to remain silent, so they do not realise I am awake, and peep through my eyelids to assess their countenances. Their faces are horrifically unreadable, spastically unanimated. The ambiguity is terrifying, and nothing becomes clearer as I noticed something scrawled on my left hand:

“William, 07961 27xxxx – call me”

Poof In Boots

2004-11-19T05:24:00.000-08:00

I have a consciousnose. We all have consciousnese with which we think, and feel. It is with self-awareness that we am who we is. But what about when self-reflection turns to self-reflect-shunned? When who we am might well be who we is, but who we is is not necessarily what you am or what you’d want us to bleed? When we bleed gay, for example, there are those who already write off our blood with aids-riddled delight. Or, when we blow our nose and a bloody nucleus of ethnic girlfriend spells out “WOP LOVER” on the hankie, there are those of us who, tragically, read it in that very way.

We all have desires both similar and distinct, we are unique. And it often shits in our coffee that the gender-fashion-social melange is spit-roasted on liquid E in the bridal suite of Hotel Fear.

And what happens when aforementioned bigotry explodes to bigot-tree, branching into inter-genus uncordiality? Think here of Hugster, the ethnic bear, mocked and called such degrading names as “nigger-fur” and “monkey-paws”. Turn now to Colin, the dyslexic German Shepherd, ridiculed by sheep for an inability to spell words such as “seldom”, “sneaky” and “claptrap”. But especially, consider the memory of young Richard, a homosexual tabby whose persistent bullying from his feline peers led to suicide in 2002. One cold winter morning in December, Richard’s owner, 6-year-old homosexual Daniel Loinsir, walked outside to see his prized, proud cat slumped at the wheel of his father’s car. He had used a hosepipe to gas himself with the exhaust.

Unsurprisingly, young Daniel was inconsolable, and even more so when the twofold tragedy of his pet’s demise was ruthlessly rammed homo. “Daddy,” Daniel began, “I hope Richard is in a better place now. Maybe in Cat Heaven he can be happy once more?”

“I’m afraid not,” I replied, “Richard’s mortal sin of suicide means that he will have gone to little old Cat Hell.”

So, I ask ye this: Is a gay man staying in a black man’s house which contains no ramps for disabled visitors any worse than a white man beating the elderly for being queer? I’ll let you decide, and I hope you choose wisely.

An Exploding Rant of Richtig

2004-11-18T04:53:00.000-08:00

or, A Personal Development Pang

Ein Uberdeutsch
dirty-me minutes past you
Trendy heart conditions a go-go
po-go
stick it up yer logo
tight-assed money adventures gone bland
Gordon Brown,
Texture like cum
bearing 34 Mickey Mouse
degrees north-by-north-west

lefties
fucked in the right whole

Strictly Come Nosebleed
A juicy cup of juice juice
Gentlemen,
please raise your nasties

Love-Jerky on a Turdsday

2004-11-15T04:36:00.000-08:00

Thursday, 4:50pm, practically no light save for streetlighting, illuminating drizzle which despite being as thin as Mackenzie Crooke, was as wet as John Redwood (though certainly taller). I traipsed in an almost trance-like state, having become numb to the persistent elbow-shoulder bashing of passers by and cold rain precipitating dog piss child tear jock spit sweat teacher breath onto my lips. Licking them, I could taste all these things, salty and dead.

Times like this, I find, call for a decent fatal accident or nearby baby-snatch (noun-verb, for clarity). Something to break the monotony, to tell my wife when I get home, to make myself FEEL GLAD that I am not a motorcyclist spread across three lanes in the rain. But alas, no such unluck on this occasitide.

Then, as I approached the tube station, something in the visible current of the human traffic caught my eye. The very definite split of multi-velocitêtes was wider in the middle than necessary. The flow of heads to the right, heading into the station, parted from the flow of heads to the left, who similarly parted from centre identi-magnetically. THEY WERE AVOIDING SOMETHING.

MOVEMENT AWAY=AVOIDANCE
AVOIDANCE=NEGATIVE PRESENCE
NEGATIVE PRESENCE=DISGUST
DISGUST=SOMETHING AT WHICH TO GAWP

I hurried closer to the spectacle, and as I did I noticed that the object of evasion was another person rather than a dead dog or piece of clean flooring. As the people-flow parted Red Sea-style, I finally caught a glimpse of my disgusti-Moses.

There, on the steps of the station entrance, was a man, clearly homeless judging by his state of dress, toothless and in a semi-squat, squeezing out a marvellous turd, trousers on, and the excreti-exit occurring through the right trouser leg. As I stood and watched, I saw people slipping on the moist ground as they were taken by surprise and nearly stepped in the man’s production. I became transfixed with his expression; he was grinning a tooth-lacked grin which showed his glistening but scabbed gums, and this grin was akin to the sort of grimace which a very short-sighted person might pull when trying to watch the television at distance.

But, most importantly, the expression on the man’s face bore a most profound expression of unbridled, honest joy and relief – even ecstasy – which I found both touching and arousing. I felt my heart punch me in the face with brutal appreciation and empathy for this pleasured man. I wished I could keep him that way – happy and oblivious – forever. I wanted to be a part of the man’s pleasure through simple, natural function. Something I could never do.

I reached home myself in a state of ecstasy, although this was fused with shame and heartbreak. My wife could see I was clearly distressed and asked me what on earth was wrong. I told her to pack her bags and go to her mother’s. It was over.

A Roll of the Dice, a Flip of the Coin, a Stamp on the Foot and a Kick in the Groin

2004-11-12T06:52:00.000-08:00

My wife left me last Sunday, and so I found myself at a loose end for a week or so, having previously quit my job in order to spend more time with my now vanished spouse. Turning my mind to the big city and indeed to my newfound state of destitution, I resolved to transport myself and my bow-legs to the Bow-bells of London, and stay with a dear old friend until the week was done.

My friend being tied down by the shackles of employment as well as the needy, attention-seeking Labrador of domiciliary and marital responsibility, I found myself alone for a majority of the week. Having seen a film the previous week in which the protagonist made decisions through the 50/50 whatsit of coinflip, I decided – perhaps unwisely – to trust the Gods to dictate my whereabouts.

Taking my trusty A – Z – a publication which had previously removed all risk from my geographical uncertainties – I decided to randomly open a page, and blindly (by closing my eyes) point to a square and indeed a specific site within that square to sit and enjoy a day’s drinking and urban traffic-spotting.

I must say my spirits were lifted considerably at this decisive moment. Here indeed was a move forward – a little adventure for me to take my mind of my misfortunes! Even now, before any of this had even been put into practice, I was beginning to forget about my little whore of a wife and the rejection she had rejected to impose on me when it was not too late to replace her.

Oh, my blogger – what a week transpired through such risk-laden chance! You may well ask as I do now – is it really true that God always takes the best? Is waking life such purgatory that those who deserve ill are those punished least? I’ll let you decide this for yourself, my blog friend, since I certainly will never have the answer for you.

To the matter in hand. My timetable began on Monday, 1st November 2004, in the kitchen of my dear old companion’s abode. The rules were simple: follow the above procedure, and stick to it. No second goes, no compromises – the entire day would be spent in the location chosen by my own pointing digit. And, finally, these were my results:

1st November – Page 34, 3D = Tooting, Rastafarian barbers – also a tea shop. Wonderful company throughout the day. Pleasant music and joyous smells.

2nd November – Page 50, 2A = Small public house, Warren Street – smokey but not altogether unpleasant. An alcohol accompanied day, and a fine bangers ‘n’ mash for lunch. Met a mortally interesting man who smoked a fine-smelling pipe.

3rd November – Page 22, 4C = Clapham Common – visited a Tesco Express and purchased all of the ingredients necessary for a one-man picnic. Sozzled on Rosé by 3:00pm. Delightful.

4th November – Page 13, 1B = The Grand Union Canal at Alperton – submerged and drowned to death underwater. Alone and deathbloated, I await my grim discovery in sweet anticipation.

Let this be a warning – and won’t ye heed it?
Why always death – when we don’t need it?

Yours in all humblest ruin and bastardised chance

Anon

Some Haiku to Woo Yoo, or Make Yoo go Boo, or Maybe Coo

2004-11-11T03:41:00.000-08:00

Serious nasty
I spat unfortunately
Séjours repertoire

Careless hockey team
Musing recent patience lost
On sunny Tuesday

Still is the autumn
I fumble my own shit now
Fun ball of my shit

Consider the time
I wait here at the bus stop
Totally disgraced

Sing a Song o' Failure, A Pocket Full of Why?

2004-11-10T07:48:00.000-08:00

For Friar Cous-Cous - inspired by his portrait

Walk on riverside
Listen and see
How even the ducks are laughing at thee
And there the swans
White and proud
Even they laugh out loud

And now, at home
Emotio-prat
Mocked by the couch on which you are sat
Boredom brain fuckthrift
Sweaty veneer
Warning all females never to come near

Your useless frame
Crap and scrawny
Soon comes over angerhorny
When all of a sudden
Then and there
You embezzle your petitioning nutsacks bare

At bed time now
You lie and weep
And piss yourself awake from sleep.