Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Bam's Back!

Bamboozle and his belly

It’s Tuesday. So I am in a foul mood.
I told Bamboozle, (my guest blogger) that I am in a foul mood. So he sent me this story:

(all spelling/grammar errors are his, but don’t think badly of him, he is more articulate than most humans)

Dark and stormy night there was lots of thunder and lightning, and a little monkey, who lived on the streets. The monkeys name was Paul Simmons. He loved the rain. It was in the rain that he had he most fun, and tonight was no exception. He liked it cos all the humans where in such a rush that they wouldn't notice him and his mischief. Paul LOVED Chocolate, more then most monkeys. To get his chocolate he would tie together the shoe laces of big fat ladies, then when they fell over he could take their bags which always had lots of chocolate in, this plan worked very well during the storms as they often slipped very easily. well on this stormy night Paul had his eye on this lady who had a BOUNTY! Coconut chocolate was his favorite. He followed her, waiting for his moment to tie the laces. Suddenly the Heffalump stopped at a vending machine to get more chocolate! Paul new he would have a good few minutes as the ladies fingers were to big for buttons, so Paul crept up on the lady very tentatively, when he got to her smelly shoes he began to tie the laces together, then before Paul new it he had been picked up by the troll! “I new you wouldn’t be able to resist a Bounty” she cackled, then Paul realized that this was a HAG RAVEN in a fat suit!!! Paul wriggled as much as he could but he couldn't escape her clutches. She took him back to her cave to eat him. When they got there she put him in a little uncomfortable cage, which had the skellyWeg of one the Hag Ravens earlier victims inside. the cave was dark, wet and smelly. Paul had a little cry as the Hag Raven started preparing the sauce to cook him in. “Don’t worry” said the skellyWeg “its not all that bad” Paul thought that the skellyWeg was an idiot so he smashed he head in, which cheered him up a little bit. Just at that moment Paul heard some voices coming from the cave entrance, they were talking in bamsat! Paul saw a bright Orange belly emerge from the darkness, It was Bam! the master criminal! he beat the shit out of the hag raven and knocked over her boiling ‘Paul Sauce’, unfortunately the Hag Raven managed to call the Monkey Police who came and took Bam away which was a shame cos paul really liked him. Luckily the monkey Police also Shot the Hag Raven in the face then wee’d on her, they then freed Paul from the tiny cage, the kind monkey police then offered Paul a lift back, so Paul wee’d on the Hag Raven then got in the monkey police car with the monkey police and Bam. Bam give Paul his Bounty in exchange for half a bar of dairy milk. When Paul got home to the streets he said “Bye!” to his new friends then settled down to eat his Bounty. The End

Thursday, 23 February 2012


When a mathematics teacher, at a comprehensive school, tells you that; if they had your job they would slowly die inside, it gives you the feeling that something, somewhere has to give.

I have a feeling it might be my sanity.

I am considering almost anything; sadly the only jobs I am qualified for include either mud or webcams. 

The higher paying ones involve both.

Choosing the path of the creative genius isn’t all absinthe and poetry. It also involves a bit abject poverty. I don’t have two Rubles to rub together (that’s a little nod to my legion of Russian fans).

I have a plan to take over the world and the plan is so clever it might just work!

However I keep being consumed by an overwhelming desire to watch awful television and eat cake. This is somewhat hindering my plans.

So in the meantime, to prevent a complete loss of access to cake, I must remain at my desk. Allowing the drivel gushing forth from my colleague's brains to pour into my ears and fill my head with screaming nonsense while I repeatedly make split second decisions which affect the lives of people I will quickly forget exist.

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Who’s afraid of a something thing in the thing...?

not this, you foo'
I had a request to do a blog on the ol’ zombie theme. I don’t usually do requests but this stalker is particularly persistent. I usually manage to shake off stalkers, sometimes they take a hell of a battering but eventually I break their resolve.

Anyway I’ve been wondering how long I will last...

I am of course referring to the zombie apocalypse that will be happening on 21st of December of this year because that’s what the daily mail says nutty Americans say the Mayan’s say. So it must be true.

I think I’ll enjoy the initial bang wallop of it all. You know what I mean, the without-consequence-killing spree.

And that moment when you see an old colleague running towards you and you shoot them in the face and the traumatised survivor next to you is all like:

‘but they weren’t a zombie!’

And you’re all like

‘Yeah, I know’

That would be fun.

I think I would get bored when it got to the relentless walking bit. Walking walking walking.

Where are the other survivors? Where can we stop and build our own utopia? Walking walking.

You know the bit; building the relationships with the other unlikely survivors, trusting people you never would have associated with before, building a bond of friendship that could only be forged in an apocalyptic crisis.

I could so not be bothered with that.

That’s when I’d be all like ‘sod it, maybe the zombies have got it right.’

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

I would like to share a dream with you.

Not one of mine, but of a close friend. Well a friend. Well someone I work with.

Anyway: She had a dream that we were all at our desks ripping up sheets of cloth and then sewing them back together again, getting in terrible trouble if the lines weren’t straight.

Well boys and girls this is how I feel today. Stuck a perpetual whirlpool of mundanity and futility.
she knows how i feel
Complete and repeat.

This is the rhythm of our lives. It is the mantra that sings along the fibres of existence.

Complete and repeat.

Complete and repeat.

Aye but the rub is the perpetuality of decay. We shall complete and repeat until we can complete no more and the ability to repeat has become lost along the winds of decomposition.

Shuffling off this mortal coil with no more dignity than a pigeon on a stick.

On the plus side I have used a lot of ‘ity’ words today. WOOT WOOT.

Monday, 20 February 2012

A Guest Blogger!

Bamboozle at his work station

Well since I am far too lazy to keep writing these things I have decided to commission a small monkey that I met at a dinner party. His name is Bamboozle and he is willing to work for peanuts and gin. 

I must make it clear that this is all Bamboozle's own work, I have had no influence and have not edited the piece. 

If you find it sickeningly violent then I suggest you avoid monkey literature in the future.

A Story i Wrote
There was once a brave and handsome monkey with an orange belly, he was the hero of his village he would always save the day. One day he was looking for Bananas in the jungle when he was attacked by big ugly poachers. They tried to capture him and use his belly to make a purse, but  the brave monkey fought off the horrible men and bit their bums! aha! he then cut the brakes on their jeep so when they drove off they crashed. While the men sat bleeding and unconscious in theur jeep the brave monkey asphyxiated them all to death, he then skinned them alive just like they had planned to do to him. He used their collective skins to craft a large Gazebo for all the monkeys of his village, he used the poachers bones as tent pegs and their brains as scatter cushions. That night the whole village had a party and the Brave monkey with the orange belly got off with loads of girl monkeys! 
The End

Read his next blog here

Thursday, 16 February 2012

A significantly dull, but blissfully short, notice of continued progress on a project you care little about

I managed to, largely, ignore the blog yesterday, however today I feel compelled to comment.

this old bean again
I am generally in a state of mild hunger at the moment. Being able to consume only that which is gluten, wheat and dairy free means I have to gnaw on dusty cardboard or dead birds. This is not always as satisfying as it would seem and leaves me in a state of slothful melancholia.

I do have some marvellous news: My wonderful film had its opening night last night and was screened to a captive audience after which I received wonderful praise from the stunned spectators (largely due to the diazepam).

This means of course that ‘The AmazingStory of The Thing That Happened –Episode One: The Mild Peril’ can go on general release (youtube) after the final post production thingy-me-bob is finished.

If you would like to donate any time, money or resources to the making of this project then you are clearly far more barking than I give you credit for.

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Well here I am again.

I should be outside, frolicking in perfume, sucking on rose petals and washing in toffee... or what ever people do these days.

Instead I’m manacled to my desk like a tazered bear.

Worse than this I am going to have to use a bus at some point today.

I’m going to have to walk down an icy, crap-ridden path of doom to arrive in the back hole of town and wait in a ‘shelter’ that consists of two bits of graffitied  plastic slung together in what I assume the designer called a minimalist, futuristic, ergonomic, travel-hub but is actually just the side of a shed.

Then of course there is the ‘time table’ and I will concede that there are times listed in what could, arguably, be called a ‘table’ however we all know these times bear absolutely no relation to the  journey of the busses, they are simply placed there to provide some sort of vague comfort to the waiting hopeful. Their status as ‘truth providers’ is confirmed in our little minds because not only are they pinned to a lamppost but they are also laminated.

The set time passes once again but no travel conveyer arrives. The road stares at us, empty and full of mockery. Yet we remain ever hopeful, ever trustful, in a constant state of hypnotic thrall, under the spell of that which is laminated. Looking, checking, running our grubby little fingers up and down the list of random numbers as the rain spills into the necks of our open collared ‘fashion’ jackets.  

Until the last, tiny fraction of hope evaporates and we are left lonely, cold and in a state of utter despair. It is only when we reach this hopeless end, when we have barely survived the rat-faced torture of bus stop 101 that out saviour arrives, chundling down the street like a giant, lethargic, diesel-beast of Hades, it is then that we reach the nadir of human morality.

It is at this point that we betray every emotion we have felt, we forget every lesson we have learned and we become the turncoats of our own crusade. In our bedraggled, pitiful, contemptible state we lift our heads and raise our eyes to the greying, watery sky and utter the words that reveal our shameful hypocrisy:

‘Thank God’

Friday, 10 February 2012

It is coming.

Now I know what you are thinking. I know what you have planned, but before you get over excited about it I want to make a few things very very clear about my idea of Romance.

First and foremost I do not have money to burn. So I am not prepared to buy things purely for the purpose of burning them. We have electric lights, use them.
Secondly I like to actually be able to see things, if there is candle light then it can only mean you have something to hide, it is either on your face or in the food, either way I no likey.

Which brings me on to...

he likes wearing women's shoes
Certain food is poison to me. Did you see the film where the gnome king crumbled into dust after eating a hen’s egg? No? Well never mind, I’m sure that even you have a basic grasp of the word poison.

Which is why is it so frustrating that when I say ‘I can’t have gluten, wheat or dairy.’ I still get asked ‘So can you have butter?’

To make it really super simple for you: I can’t eat chocolate with dairy in it, this would be milk chocolate.

NO I DO NOT WANT HARIBO! I’m sick of haribo and whoever created those ads should have their face put through a meat grinder.


Get me special chocolate. There are special places for special people with special needs, don’t just grab a kiwi and look at me expecting praise.

Strangely enough cutting plants to pieces and then giving them to me so that I can watch them slowly rot is not my idea of a romantic gesture. You may as well dump compost at my door at least I can use that.


Don’t even consider getting me a bear, unless it is actually an Ewok that you have hunted, slaughtered and stuffed.

Thursday, 9 February 2012

This may cause some offence (but it isn’t real. Like Thundercats)

If you struggle with violent images then I suggest that you cover your eyes, plug your ears, move into a padded cell and rock back and forth, humming the music from the magic roundabout for the rest of your life.

Now listen to this loverlly story.

This is what someone somewhere may or may not have said:

“It really is the worst thing ever”

Now boys and girls, what do you think this inebriate, soup-brained, jelly-fish person was referring to?

clearly evil
Waterboarding? Starvation? Gang-rape? Being stoned to death? Being flayed alive? Listening to Dub-step?


No, my friends he was referring to having a littol bit of a tickol at the back of his throat. Just a littol bit of a tickol. The kind of tickol that means you have to drink a littol bit of water.

So, naturally, I carved a rudimentary shiv from my biro and stabbed him in the liver.

While he was squealing like a pig on the ground, watching his insides squirt on to the road, I said:

“Yep, you’re right; a littol tickol at the back of the throat is absolutely the worst thing a human can endure.”

Then I nicked his wallet.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Evil Strikes Again

Had my second ever Ewok related nightmare last night.

Probably been exposed to far too much Ewok related material recently.

look at 'em! Smug gits.
I was Samwise Gamgee and I was fighting off an army of Ewoks with nothing but a bit of wood with a nail in it. It was really tiring.

And Frodo was pissin about trying to shoot a single orc with his bow and arrow but bein all like, ‘oh I don’t wanna kill nuffin’. Flippen lazy git that Frodo. 

And no I don’t have any idea why it was a Star Wars/LOTR cross over – it was a dream, don’t go all geeky pedant on me. 

I’m not one to go in for all this dream interpretation malarkey and I certainly don’t own a technicolour dream coat or nuffin’ but I reckon I can put a bit of money on the fact that I might be a bit frustrated and want to kill sumfink or someone – probably the person wot wrote “the time traveller’s wife”. 

If you have ever seen that film, or read the book of the film, you will know why I want to destroy them and wipe their mindless, over-sentimental, illogical, vacuous and intelligence insulting existence from the earth, preventing any repetition of the catastrophe that is that 'story'.

And if you are sitting there thinking ‘oh I fawt it was alright’ then do me a favour and stand still while I take out your face using a bit of wood with a nail in it.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Time and Money

Time and money, time and money, time and money. Money and time.

You can’t get one unless you have the other and so we have nothing.

I’m in a catch 22, I’m up against a wall, I’m between a rock and a hard place but at least I’m not over a barrel. I can’t imagine that would be a particularly flattering pose.

it's not what it looks like...
Slippy slippy, time is slipping away down a dessert crevasse and into a sand worm to be digested slowly over a thousand years while a big fat Jabba laughs in a made up language.

Yet when I look around at all the faces of the people I have to share space and time with, all I see is the slops of the universe. Dregged up from deep sea trenches like oversized prawns, dossing and fussing and prissing about.

Let’s find a partner, let’s get married, let’s get a house, let’s get children, let’s waste our time perpetually replicating other people’s lives in the vague expectation that happiness and satisfaction will be a default consequence of our own pathetic, slothful, mimicry.

How dare they faff about wafting in the wind while I pull a chariot through knee deep mud, grunting, heaving and wheezing in exertion, like a fat husky, and never moving more than an inch.

In my darkest moments of my darkest days there is a dark but somehow glimmering hint of shameful jealousy as this darkest part of me has to admit that it feels the lowest, basest envy, the moment is but fleeting, but in that half second, for that infinitely long micro moment I yearn for the gormless attitude that would allow me to be find happiness with a screaming infant and the X-factor.

Then I get a bit of sick in my mouth.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

Cold, innit?

Pretty darn chilly out there. So cold I am considering ear muffs. I haven’t worn ear muffs since I was about three but since we’re all being so retro I could get away with it. I look great in hats, maybe I should get a hat.

Anyhoo it’s gotton to February (finally) and this is the coldest month, everyone is falling about all over eastern Europe complaining of hypothermia and for the first time ever the Russians are putting on their central heating, which is causing an international fuel crisis.

But you know what this all means don’t you?

It means those crazy people (by this I mean Sarah Palin or anyone that can be found reading a copy of the Daily Mail) who still call climate change ‘global warming’ are going to get all confused.

how can we be affecting the planet?!
“It can’t be global warming if it’s getting colder!” They say in their self satisfied little voices.

Well you rancid, little, apricot-brained, flip-flop-faced, urchins of idiocy.

This could be like the coldest week on record.

I know I know, the records began like a couple of hundred years ago and the world has existed slightly longer than that.

But however you look at it the weather, the seasons, the climate whatever you want to call it (pagans call it God, at least they know she’s there I suppose) is changing.

I must admit that I am rather looking forward to driving around like Mad Max in a post-apocalyptic, desert world and eating sky prawns.

I reckon I could be like leader of a tribe or sumfink. I know you lot would follow me; the minute you lose your tv signal you’ll be looking around desperately for a new messiah to guide you through the crisis.

Might as well be me eh?

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

Some utterly incoherent drivel

I can’t talk to you today. My face is tired and my eyes itch.

But I have bound myself to your little faces, I have created an unseen, unwritten and generally ‘un’ contractual agreement to update this page on a regular basis with things that make you giggle or spit or whatever the hell your reaction is to the piffle I vomit onto the interwebspace.

I think that the banality of the conversation I am surrounded by has actually started to disintegrate my skull.

As the 10 minute conversation about gloves continues my brain starts to melt and pour out of my ears, as my cranium caves in.
my nemesis

So I shall tell you a heart warming tale of stuff.

When I was a teeny tiny person, no larger that an adolescent pygmy elephant, my father informed me of the presence of fairies at the bottom of the garden (This is the highpoint of the story, it goes on a downward spiral from here).

I looked for said fairies.

I never found the fairies.

Years later my father denied all of this and insisted that he would never say such a thing to an impressionable child.

However I still have a teeny tiny little bit of me that believes he was telling the truth.

And that, my friends, is how religions are started.