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Hello…., I’m a conjoined clone of Brad Pitt Jude Law and Orlando Bloom. But at the last minute a bit of Robbie Coltrane, Timothy Spall’s and John Belushi’s DNA leapt into the fuckin’ petri dish! Yes, I’m not the snake-hipped fellow I once was. When you’re young with your 26in waist your hungry for life with an appetite for everything at once never yawn or say a dull boring or commonplace thing but burn burn burn like some fabulous irrepressible iridescent yellow roman candle desirous of everything at once. Hungry for it all. Then you get older and you’re hungry for food. Any pork scratchings? (any veggies in tonight? I’m not going to have a go at you that’s too weasty and besides it laudable that you chose not to eat meat) I was a vegetarian for 10 years but bacon sent my off the non-meat wagon. The meat bandwagon? I think it’s because when vegetarians are on the toilet the sound is the same as frying bacon Spspssplutter fart Oh, I could really go a BLT now. Music was my 1st love then I discovered wanking & lager. Went to T-In The Park last year. £80 to stand in a dirty field surrounded by drunken nutters getting deafened? Next time I’ll join the Territorial Army instead at least you get to shoot a gun and drive a @#%$ tank. Sorry about that Guilt free casual sex thing… Actually I’m in a relationship and she’s a stunner: She works in a vets tranquillising cats. Actually she’s real good looker: She works for a surveillance company analysing CCTV footage! She’s got a great pair of… hands & she’s great in bed; sleeps like a log doesn’t snore or hog the duvet. Truth be told. She’s a Minger. Yes, a member of that 13th century Chinese dynastic/aristocratic clan noted for the production of exquisitely ornate porcelain vases. Guy went to the doctors and said…’doctor-doctor, the doctor said, ‘Stop there. Why are you repeating yerself? Sounds like Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to me. I’m a medical doctor not a shrink, your in the wrong office @#%$ OFF. That’s the jokes out of the way we can all relax now. I hate that performance anxiety bullshit. I used to literally @#%$ myself before gigs I’d be backstage my arse weeping like a 4-pound blood orange-haemorrhoids hanging down like an old man’s tongue, I’d be saying’ to myself’ ‘How can you go out on that stage with your alarmist body language, skincare by heroin, distended alcoholics stomach and freakish woman’s tits’ How? HOW? And now I’m up here, I think ‘@#%$ it’- When I sell the film rights to my life story I could get Brad Pitt or Jude Law to play me. So, my 1st bit of advice to you is to say that Self-Delusion has to be better than Self-Loathing. Yes, these days I’ve got a healthy attitude to my self-loathing. If that’s not oxymoronic...... or just moronic. Cloning. In America, where else! There is a pressure group set up for one purpose and one purpose only. They want to clone Mr Elvis Aaron Presley. They want to clone the King, man! They’ve found a woman who’s the proud possessor of a small bit of Elvis’ DNA. She worked in a surgery in the early 1960’s when Elvis came in to have a wart removed from his wrist. She kept the wart and now the cloners want it. They’re haranguing and barracking the poor woman sayin’ ‘Give us the wart lady/step way from the wart’ But. She’s been told by scientists ‘No’ you can’t clone Elvis from a wart as the DNA is corrupted by the wart, its VIRAL DNA. So, were the Elvis cloners to succeed in their dastardly plan what form would the ‘Viral Elvis’ take? How would this Viral Elvis manifest? Carbon based Bi-pedular or airborne and non corporeal? And what if one was to come into contact with the Viral Elvis what might happen? Well. You’d probably get an unconscionable urge to eat all the food in the fridge-then to gubb all the drugs in the medicine cabinet-and eventually die straining out a hard constipated little brown turd in the toilet. What a way to go though eh? On the bog taking a dump and ‘pop’ goes your heart. …”Elvis has left the building” “Flush that, NO! Don’t flush it, sell it on ebay”. Dying on the toilet. S’Better than dying on stage I suppose. Actually thinking about it, perhaps the Viral Elvis is already out there? That’s the truth behind the so-called ‘ticking time bomb of obesity’ it’s the Viral Elvis. Dying on the bog…. …. SHITTING. Has anyone ever been party to this strange curious bit of advice? Particularly when you’re young, you might fancy someone or feel intimidated by someone’s confidence or good looks. So the so called ‘friendly’ advisor says ‘Imagine them nude’ or better still, ‘Imagine them on the toilet’ I guess, it’s supposed to strip everyone of their clothes and status, thereby it brings everyone down to a level playing field. Actually, there’s a 16th Century French philosopher Michael De-Montaigne, whose credo was; ‘kings and Philosophers @#%$. And so do ladies’. Well. That’s @#%$ up advice! It is! I took that advice and now, I can only fancy people who look like they might be able to make a good account of themselves when they’re on the toilet taking a @#%$! Posh Spice? She looks like she’d pass the equivalent of weak lentil soup out of her arse. I used to fancy Britney Spears (low centre of gravity endomorphic physicality a bit like Diego Maradona you’d never get her down) But she lives on a diet of Twinkies Pepsi & GAK surely she’d have malformed bright orange faecal matter (I don’t know what Twinkies are: Bill Murray mentioned them in Ghostbusters) No. For me, it’d have to be the Domestic Goddess herself Nigella Lawson. Think about it. All that rich food and those midnight feasts…go into the toilet after her in the morning, poo, open a window! You’d have to knock a @#%$ wall out! The airborne solids would be palpable & visible, as individual a snow flakes but brown not white. Her arse is like some kind of super-massive-black-hole that actually absorbs light! WELSH I’m Welsh, I left ‘cos I couldn’t get Channel 4 on the telly; they had some special needs speech impediment channel instead gobbledegook! I’m from the Rhondda Valley in South Wales, famous for 2 things: Not Coal and Choirs. No these days it’s famous for having produced more Mr Universes than anywhere else (A ‘sport’ that has no drugs testing) and also the Rhonda’s famous for having the roughest pub in the whole UK. Now, I’m not Sherlock Holmes but could these two things be related? I wonder. I was back in the bosom of the homeland over Christmas; I only go back once a year…AESTHETICALLY PLEASING. And was having a lock in stop on in a pub with about 12 to 15 blokes drinking after hours and one of them noticed my Brothel Creepers, ‘what the ‘ell are them things on yer feet?’ ‘Brothel Creepers’ I’ve liked them since my punk rock days I think they’re aesthetically pleasing. Jesu, Aesthetically pleasing I might as well as owned up to sexualising children. Metaphorically the piano playing stopped, well actually the Kym Marsh track was yanked off the jukebox, one big necked bloke piped up ‘Oi, Jeremy Paxman. It’s not Newsnight review; this is a pub, Aesthetically Pleasing? I’m sober now thanks a @#%$ million. Then another bloke starts ‘Oi, Melvin Bragg… Aesthetically Pleasing? I’ll give you aesthetically pleasing in a minute. Then from the other end of the bar this tiny malformed midget with muscles in the highest pitched voice you’ve ever heard said ‘Oi, Steven Hawking, aesthetically pleasing I’ll put you in a wheelchair in a minute’ But which time I was sensing a certain frission of anti-intellectualism so I beat a hasty retreat and hot-footed it back to the West-End of Glasgow where I felt fairly safe Glasgow’s trendy West End. COFFEE. In Glasgow’s trendy west end even the Big-Issue vendors are posh, ‘Hi my names Miles Giles Matt Sam Jack John that’s J.O.N copy of the ‘Issue’. Glasgow’s West End’s full of coffee bars, trying to slake our thirst for the humble coffee bean and hoping too that we imbibe the cool coffee shop ambience and to fuel a desire for trendy al-fresco pavement pontificating. Hmm, I wonder, will a cup of java turn us into passionate Europeans arguing over football & philosophy or might a humble cup of Java morph us into demanding demonstrative Americans, who’re not afraid to raise their voices and complain about bad service. Excuse me, whilst I rip the idyllic whimsical tune playing on the jukebox in your head and in my best Churchill RP accent say “Never” For we’re an island of ugly nasty runtish spiteful genetically depleted miserable nasty bastards. Do you think a couple of cups of coffee will change hundreds of years of repression? We’ll never get limitless refills like they do in the States: In Britain it’s more like ‘excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you but I’ve been waiting over an hour for a limp BSE ridden ham sandwich and a cup of tepid tea made with UHT milk I’m sorry to apologise, I don’t mean to trouble you, cry cry cry bleat. GLASGOW I’ve lived in Glasgow for 12 years, I Love It. Last year Glasgow was the European City of Sport 2003. Surely that’s an abbreviation that SHOULD READ. ‘Glasgow European City of Sport/s Casual Wearing Long-Term Unemployed Track Suit Trainer Trash Scum Fucks.2003’ – And, that’s the nearest I get to a NED Joke. I’m not doing Ned Jokes, It’s like a litany up here isn’t it? The Ned, the Oppressed minority it’s Ok to rip the arse out of. Every single comic has ned stuff. Where would Scottish comedy be without the humble Ned? In the doldrums that’s where. And all these media whores going on and on. ‘Yeah, the Ned’s intrinsically inherently funny with his trackie suit and strange raptor like gait walking around like as if he’s got a half-petrified turd jutting out his arse, puffing away on a spliff with that curious over-arm technique, I think they’re so funny’ So says the Media Whore, wearing his breathable Gap Gortex all weather off road all terrain pristine condition boots, twisty engineered ‘distressed’ Levi’s ‘cos he can’t even wear out his own @#%$ jeans, his bones all soft from being born & bred in centrally heated air conditioned environments suckling Auntie Beebs’ rancid breast milk from her dried up withered old teat ends, whilst simultaneously puffing away on the media whore cigarette of choice- The Marlboro Light. A small corner of this country shall remain forever the South of England it’s called the BBC. A place for corralling all the ugly talentless people. ‘Hi Nigel haven’t seen you on the telly much recently’… MUSIC When you are young music is your life isn’t it? Well, it was for me, I’d hang onto every line and lyric and pour over every song. But you get older and it all gradually means s less and less. These days I hate all this manufactured music cynically created and aimed at a specific audience demograph. Bands like Radiohead & The Manic Street Preachers. Come on! They are manufactured; they’ve just got different room in the same corporate office as the Hearsays and all that tat. Radiohead hate their own songs and detest their early success The Manics are so pompous and humourless they called an album ‘The Holy Bible’ and singe ‘If you tolerate this then your children will be next’ Jee, sounds like a right laugh being in that rock’n’roll outfit, I was in that band I think I’d slash my wrists and chuck myself off the Severn Bridge! That pasty faced turd of a bassist who has to mention his university degree in every interview slagging off America whilst playing a Fender Bass through a Marshall Amp whilst wearing a Gap hoody sipping a fuckin’ Pepsi. Get back to Cuba where they persecute homosexuals for being ‘counter revolutionary’ you miserable Clash rip-off hypocrite. 5ive remember them? doing a version of Queen’s WE WILL ROCK YOU Jesus, I bet Freddie Mercury is spinning in his grave in fact, I do hope there is an afterlife and I hope Freddie’s ghost rises and haunts 5ive and sodomized and buggers their spirits and gives them a wasting disease for eternity. Imagine that, HIV of the immortal soul. Too strong? Not strong enough. I’m not sure about a hereafter heaven and all that. I’m hoping that technology would have advanced that by the time it’s time foe me to shuffle off I’ll be able to download my consciousness onto a computer and live forever in a virtual reality world as a multi tentacled sex-beast. Hhmm.Perhaps there are some things you shouldn’t share… That old Devil Mick Never Gets No Sympathy (But plenty of Satisfaction) Have you noticed the way the tabloid press treat Mick Jagger? It’s always ‘Wrinkly old dinosaur rocker Jagger’ this or ‘Gizzard Necked old @#%$’ that…‘Mick Linked to supermodel’….‘Mick impregnates Lucy Moran Brazilian beauty half his age’….‘Mick linked to Uma Thurman/Sophie Dahl/Marriella Frostrup’. ‘Old liver lips is at it again’ yada yada. So, I studied this phenomenon to degree level (which you can do at most modern universities along with ‘Turntable Skills’…) and I’ve come up with an answer that’s startlingly sublime in its simplicity: Ready or not here it is: (drum roll) He’s Mick @#%$ Jagger. He’s supposed to @#%$ everything that moves. He’s the lead singer with the Rolling Bastard’ Stones for fucks sake. Again? The Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger. A genuine rock’n’roll living legend and icon. Jumping Jack cocking Flash. Mick’s an emblem of Bacchus-like rutting and partying, a throwback to Pan and Dionysus. Who would break a butterfly on a wheel? Indeed. The rest of us can clean the off-road car on a Sunday, pay the mortgage and stick with the wife & kids. Not Mick. Mick’ll be @#%$ 19 yr olds when he’s 90, And why not? Without wanting to belabour the point, he’s MICK SHITTING JAGGER. He’ll be onstage forever, doing that fruity little dance he does. Into infinity and beyond. One night on-stage, Mick will snap clean in half, like a brittle old twig (Rather like the T2000 does in the liquid nitrogen scene in Terminator 2) and Mick will be dead and then we’ll all see what was right there before our eyes.., JAGGER…(Dream sequence) Bits of dried desiccated Mick float out over the presidium arch & into the auditorium and people will gag on dried bits of Mick Jagger as they try to ingest him, vainly attempting to imbibe a sliver of Mick’s lithe magnetism to ramp-up their paltry pedestrian lives with a dab of old Snake Hips’ Mojo. My simple message is this: Let Mick @#%$. He’s 60 years old and he keeps on going. And what does he get from the British press? Ridicule. It’s ageism pure and simple. Actually it’s ageism mixed with bitter jealousy. We know he ain’t no rebel in fact he’s a right –wing-libertarian, he needn’t be ‘venerated’ and ‘accepted’- & put in a Hall of Fame..like Q readers do with that bag of festering bile Van Morrison, or that bloated imbecile Brian Wilson. If he’s OD’d when he was twenty five he’d be preserved in the aspic of our imagined past and not let us down with his OAP Sex Chair Antics. So, Let’s think of Mick’s life as one big long celebration of music and sex and let the bastard @#%$. After all he is, as I tirelessly keep reminding you, the one the only, Mick @#%$/Rutting/Strutting/Preening/Poncey/Proud/Dancing/Romancin’/Jesusing/Jagger. DON’T DO GIGS. Excuse me, my material’s a bit rough ‘round the edges, I don’t do that many gigs, I get offered loads but I can’t be fuckin’ arsed or I can’t be @#%$ either or. I’m too old to drag my sorry arse ‘round the length and breadth of this @#%$ smear of a country which, to me, more and more resembles one big fuckin’ Asda car-park festooned with an acne rash of Sky Satellite dishes. Turn up and play in some dirty dank dark piss-smelling @#%$-hole (not a plush place like this!) In front of a load of dead eyed-passive aggressive ‘hear we are now, entertain us’, piss-headed punters (not a quality receptive audience like you lot!) Churning out a generic jokes and observations to engender a collective cohesion through comedy-noticing something in the common, the ordinary and the everyday and through the true light of comedy, create a moment of universal bonding a cathartic epiphany between us all. A perfect moment. @#%$ that. You’re on your own. Life is no more than a 3-amp spark that fires synaptic responses around the cerebral cortex. Deal with it. As you can tell, I’m to challenging controversial and opinionated for most places. Well actually I’m not very funny and I don’t have any punchlines, but let me tell you, I’m not prepared to BE FUNNY just to play more gigs! I’ve got my standards to uphold. OK. I’ve told you what I DON’T DO. How about I deconstruct the whole comedy cannon for you in 5 @#%$ minutes? OK? Right. Let’s start with ‘Observational Comedy’…’Have you noticed, That ALL Saint John’s Ambulance people always look like really ill?’ When you smell a gone-off carton of milk you always want someone else to smell it too?’…Observational comics are always ion about ‘where they’ve been’ or what’s ‘happened to them today’ “Something funny happened to me earlier, something struck me on the way here tonight, I was hit by something. A terracotta tile came of a gable end extension in a high wind hit me on that hard bone behind the ear that protects a mess of nerves known as the ganglia knocked me unconscious I’m concussed now. I don’t know whether to burst into tears burst into song, butt you or butt-@#%$ you!”……………………………………. ………………………That’s observational taken care of: well, you know what I mean, it’s kinda lame ain’t it have you noticed how people who are in a rush in the inner cities can’t or don’t run because they’re wearing their office clothes so they sort of pitch forward like in a fast walk occasionally breaking into a sort of skipping gait as they’ve gone too fast liker a little kid careering down a steep hill they can’t breakout of the forward momentum. Next is what I call Pop-Cultural Comedy- Posh middle class bastards obsessing over television trivia. If you go to London the comics are all what I call ‘reverse Pygmalion’ ‘Mummy breeds Labradors in the Home Counties but I’m a tough Londoner you wankah! Star Wars, Star Trek, The Dukes Of Hazard, The A-Team, The Rockford Files etc, You know the type of thing: (Posh accent) ‘Hi, have you seen the DVD deleted scenes in the extra disc for Return Of The Jedi? During the pen-ultimate fight between Luke and Darth you can clearly see Luke’s left testicle. It looks like a grey Kiwi Fruit. You have to key in a special code into your multi-reg but I’m preachin’ to the converted aren’t I’… Aye. I’d like to slice open your pink intestines and keep warm in your glistening guts. Phil Cunting Jupitus, You trivia obsessed @#%$ walker. POLITICAL COMICS…. Sayin’ that…I’m a pop cult or Celt too. I have NO political material! That is I had none until Robert Kilroy Silk formed the United-Kingdom-Independence-Party. Now, I’m fiercely pro anything European! Bring on the extra ten tiers of bureaucratic Brussels based legislation, straighten those @#%$ bananas, legislate the @#%$ outa the British farmers anything to scupper that skeletal bag of vile/bile Character Comedy: This is the great get out of comedy hellhole for free card isn’t it? ‘It’s not that I’m not funny: it’s the character that needs work. It’s the character that needs tweaking and tuning and refining not me. I’m funny it’s the character that’s crap’- No your @#%$ and you need to go home and die. Surreal comedy. You know who I mean…Phil Kay/Ross Noble: ‘I’m making it up as I go along’ ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do next’ I’m like a BSE ridden bull stumbling around a @#%$-strewn paddock-Metaphorically foaming a the mouth & Mad of eye!…. Pelicans & Sex. Put ‘em together and what have you got? Sex Pelicans! OK. Hi sir that might look like a pint-glass to you but to ME to Me it looks more like a small-truncated conical inverted KluKlux Clan hat for a 1-metre high transparent member of the KluKlux Clan! I’m making it up!” No Phil. It’s not a truncated conical clan hat it’s a pint glass. You bi-polar schizophrenic sociopathic dirty fingernailed Vincent Gallo look-alike suicide watch posh @#%$. @#%$ off home and wash your @#%$ arse you stinking @#%$ bastard. Irish Comics: You can’t fuckin’ move for ‘em, they even have regular Irish comedy nights here in Scotland. It’s the gift of the gab the Blarney Stone kissing bastard silver tongued raffish charmers Or the proliferation of comics is a reaction to the Irish situation-The Troubles-the Armed Struggle, whatever the divide. As a mainlander experiencing the Irish situation from afar for all these years I think it’s difficult to have an opinion unless the scenario has directly affected you. Or perhaps if you’ve had a close family member or friend profoundly affected by it. It’s not our place to comment as it’s not our problem…@#%$ that. You Irish all look the same as each other from the same pale ill looking gene depleted stock, fighting over a dirty chewing gum covered bit of ground like two dirty lead poisoned club-footed pigeons puffing up their breasts and being territorial over a shitty bit of shitty pavement. What about the old ‘Audience Interaction’ eh? @#%$ that, I didn’t spend all my time making this @#%$ up top cede power to some drunk @#%$ in the audience. OK: Let’s try some… ‘Knock knock? Who’s there? Hitler. Hitler who? …. Long pause…. Adolph of course just how many Hitler’s do you know! Ok you gethe idea let’s try it again ‘Knock Knock Who’s there? Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth of course! Jobs I’ve Done. Great being here, it’s another string to the bow, another arrow in the quiver. I like a full quiver it gives me plenty of clout. I’ve done loads of things I have. I’ve been a DJ & a drug dealer & a Taxi-Driver… which, is, really the same thing isn’t it? I used to smoke loads of dope but I gave up as it knocks the edges off your critical faculties. For instance, one day I was at home stoned and I suddenly declared ‘That’s the best bass-line I’ve ever heard in my entire life’- And I realised I was listening to the Eastenders theme tune. So, my advice to ‘The Kids’ is: Don’t smoke dope, sell it instead. You learn all about converting Imperial to Metric and the relative GNP of certain underdeveloped sub-tropical countries. Being a dealer is like getting a degree. Except you can earn a living afterwards. I do like to take really strong acid once in a while and do a reverse bungee out of my own subconciousness. I sell the occasional E’s now and again, but I’m very picky about who I sell to.. I only sell to women, and I insist they HAVE to take the E rectally and I impress upon them that I have to administer it with my tongue I used to work in Gregg’s the bakers on the bread slicing machine. I loved that job. ‘How thick do you want your bread deary? How thin? No, that’s not a pound coin it’s a 5 pence piece you senile old @#%$! ‘Cos I’m a people person, garrulous gregarious I love to work the room and get a bit of social interaction going. Got a job on the building sites but the Forman said I was too heavy for light work and too light for heavy work so he put me in charge of making tea. One day I was making tea and I inadvertently used brown sugar instead of white. it turned all the builders gay didn’t it! You should’ve seen ‘em up on the scaffolding going at it hammer and tongs they were. Remember that old joke ‘Hey is that a wrench in your pocket’ No It’s not a wrench it’s a big-hard-@#%$ and it’s going up your arse right now, (Sorry sir I didn’t mean to stare at you when I said that, probably says more about me than I intended. Hey Sigmund come here and sort this guy out. I think all that Freudian stiff’s a big fat fallacy) Anyway the builders start harassing blokes on the street shouting ‘Oi you in the suit do’ya want a bit of man-on-man hard-@#%$ action? There’s all these blokes phoning their mothers/wives/girlfriends going help! I’m being harassed by a nasty man with cement covered stubby fingers-he wants to put them into my arse. It was like the ripples on a pond. Then I look down on the street and there’s a National Front rally at one end, a load of Muslim Fundamentalists the other and a bunch of Gangster Rappers driving by in a big old’ SUV 4x4- None of those are known for their tolerance towards others with sexual or gender orientation issues. I thought @#%$ it’s going to kick off and get real ugly down there any minute. So, quick as a flash, I threw brown sugar over them. You should’ve seen it, a broiling mulching mass of man-flesh. There was So Solid Crew pulling an anal train on Osama Bin Laden who was bent double suckling down on the Reverend Ian Paisley’s gnarly old @#%$-end. It was beautiful I should’ve got a Nobel Peace prize for my selfless act of altruism or at least a BAFTA or a Brit but I got the sack instead. @#%$ it; I’m not a 9 to 5 kind of guy. I’m more your Left-handed-dyslexic-Aquarian 21st Century New-Age renaissance Bloke with my repetitively stressed index finger poised over the stop-rewind-play-pause of the modern milieu as I bestride the smorgasbord of pre/post modern culture in an uber zeitgeist kind of way. Short Answer: That’ll be, Long Term Unemployed then. WANKING And what do guys do when they have a lot of spare time on their hands? Don’t answer it’s kinda obvious isn’t it. Yes, they spend their time ‘musing in idle contemplation’ Yes, they fuckin’ do! Right. The other day I was whimsically thinking to myself ‘Isn’t evolution amazing’ ‘a constantly changing constant that symbiotically influences everything else, but we can’t see the increments of evolutionary change because they happen over such a huge time-frame that us puny humans with our 3 score and 10 simply can’t see the whole picture. Indeed in order to see it, you have to adopt a macrocosmic view step outside of yourself into the 3rd person so you can see things as they truly are: Er, I think that’s quite enough temporal philosophy I’ll get back to the @#%$/@#%$/@#%$ and arse based material. So I’m signing on & I’m so bored with wanking I’m reduced to squeezing the white-heads at the base of my @#%$. You don’t hear about that in your FHM & Maxim magazines. I’m giving away the magic secrets of men’s filthy minds here. I hope you ladies are listening’ good. Anyway I’m squeezing away and I notice a scab nestling in amongst my pubic mound and the next thing you know, the scab moves scuttling across my puboid area. I’d contracted Pubic Lice ladies & gentlemen Crabs. And boy do those ball-eating little ite bastards nip at the meat & two veg. What possible evolutionary function can crabs provide other than to give you an itch in your ball-space that would have the Pope himself speaking in tongues. Their sole evolutionary purpose as soon as they pop out of the pupae is to get deep into ‘Pube Country’-Where they languish in your genital crevices like a bunch of overweight American Marines doing manoeuvres on the banks of Lake Titicca. (Highest inland lake in the world: Peru, see, it might not be funny but you are learning something, it’s like the Fuckin’ Discovery Channel up here!) How prey, did I come to be afflicted with the @#%$ munchers from Hell? Well I did in fact commit the Ultimate act of sin-The Ultimate act of treachery I did in fact…. Shag My Best Friend’s Girlfriend. There I’ve said it and I’m going to use this platform as a forum of my own fallibility in the hope that you might learn something from this sordid shallow little episode… SHAG MY BEST FRIENDS GIRL I was having one of my ‘dystopian nightmare parties’ A small pile of soiled clothes lay on the floor smouldering offering little in the way of warmth, my best mate Jinco, (God Bless Jinco, we were born on the same day in the same street went to the same school, we were inseparable) Jinco was crashed out shirtless on the couch he’d been shooting up Marvelon, a birth control tablet, @#%$ knows…I was drunk as @#%$ as at the time I was working in Semi-Chem or Superdrug and I used to nick the supplies of perfumes and aftershaves ‘Give me that Channel no5 110% Proof that is, lose the use of your arms and legs and go blind for a fortnight: I’ve found my drink! I wasn’t in a relationship at the time I used to masturbate over a shop dummy. No that’s not true actually it was just a torso and one arm. Jinco’s girlfriend Skinny Helen called Skinny Helen ‘cos she didn’t menstruate and her hair was falling out in clumps was ‘dirty dancing’ we called it dirty dancing ‘cos she’d @#%$ herself. Dirty dancing to the only record we had: Lindifarnes ‘Fog on the Tyne’ the Gazza version on a loop. Anyway Skinny and me start getting down to it. Gyrating and grinding away, but I’m so @#%$ up one minute I’m dancin’ with Skinny and the next I’ve phase shifted into an alternate reality and I’m walking down the chesena lease with Jenny Bond and Jan Leeming on either arm! Then I jumped into another reality and I’ve fallen into a muddy ditch and I can’t climb out ‘cos I’ve got metal spikes instead of hands and they’re slicing through the mylotic mud. Skinny’s morphed into a dirty lead poisoned club footed pigeon and she’s pecking at my eyes and I’m stuck there. Then I come to and I’ve fallen asleep mid in flagrante delecto and Skinny’s stubbing a Superking out in my fuckin’ eye tryin’ to wake me up. Me and Skinny on the couch going at it like some deformed paraplegic beast with two backs. But I have to say, sort of, in my defence; I didn’t go down on her. I’ve got some principles. I only go down on vegetarians. Anyway, I must’ve crashed out unconscious. I awoke in the morning’ no sign of Skinny I was stuck to the couch with a mixture of blood vomit and seminal fluid and then, I get an unbelievable pain in my arse and I realise someone’s rammed the prosthetic arm of the dummy up my arse I then get an itch in my ball-bag and see that my pubis is teeming with crabs- And then I remember what happened and realise that I know have to tell Jinco that I shagged his missus…So, I’m like ‘Hey Jinco, nudge nudge, wake up man’ I grab his arm and shake him and he just keels over. He’s Stone cold dead. He’s O.D’d in the night. I’m standing there: arse in tatters: balls a mess with my best friend dead on the floor and I’m thinking ‘can things get any worst?’ Can they? Then I hear a noise downstairs and I think ‘Thank goodness I live with my old mum ‘cos I’m not cleaning this bloody mess up!’ Yes I live with my mother! Sorry about that it’s not much of a punch line is it? Well, it’s all about the journey rather than the arrival whatever the @#%$ that means. Yeah, I LIVE WITH MY MOTHER But I can’t take anyone back there as the place stinks of piss. She won’t have it. She blames the cats but I’m like, ‘come on mam you’re a big woman and not as young as you once was your brain is obviously sending disinformation to your piss flaps. But she won’t have it. In the end we reached a stalemate she said ‘let’s get a psychiatrist in and I was like, ‘no way!’ I believe in self-medication biscuits & lager. Anyway, in the end we get a shrink in. He comes over does a battery of psychometric tests-sticks a bunch of CCTV cameras all around the house and tells us to go about our business & he’ll see us in a fortnight. Anyway fast-forward 2 weeks and there we are in his office. He sticks a video in the player and we settle down and see my mother. Asleep in bed. Snoring gently. Then we can see an indistinct figure opening the bedroom door a shadowy figure the image is dark and grainy but this figure moves towards my mother’s prone prostrate form…Suddenly we see an arc of bright yellow fluid shooting out over my mother. What is that? Ten the penny slowly starts to drop ‘wait a minute, I take VitaminB6/B12. My piss is yellow. And who should stumble into shot but yours truly. It’s me standing over my own mother, squeezing out a mixture of urine and seminal fluid, my face contorted into a grimace, alternating between hysterical laughter and pitiable sobs auto asphyxiating with my spare hand whilst stroking lazy lob with the other. The Psychiatrist turns to me and says ‘You’ve got a problem’. You’re not fuckin’ kidding. He says.’Multiple personality disorder. You’ve got so many disparate personalities in you, you could sleep in a 50 Pence shaped bed and get out of a different side every morning’. The shrink thinks it’s funny he’s smiling and so is my mother. He goes on. ‘Actually, you’re so anally repressed that metaphorically speaking your arsehole is tighter than your Jap’s Eye.’ Japs Eye? I think ‘Hang on’. So I go lateral on him, ‘wait a second doctor Jap’s eye? That’s racist surely it is? And for that matter, what do the Japanese call it ‘My Eye’ or ‘Person of Asian Origins Eye’. I thought he’ll never wriggle out of this! But the bastard came back, quick as a flash with ‘No, it’s not right is it? And when you actually look at it really close-up it does in fact look more like a tiny toothless mouth.’ The Shrink is laughing, my mother’s pissing herself then they start kissing and hands going all over each other. By this time I’m at my wit’s end. I lose it completely and pick up the ashtray (that I failed to mention in an earlier skit, but I’m not going back there now) and @#%$ the doctor over the head. Kills him instantly. I then go on the run for 28 years like Bruce Banner the Hulks alter ego. I move from city to city dressed from head-to-foot in a brown body stocking, disguised as a human sized turd I eke a living in inner city public conveniences licking piss of Hush Puppy shoes for sustenance. So, if anyone’s feeling depressed I’d recommend therapy. It worked for me! ALCOHOL Booze gets a bad press. Sure sclerosis of the liver brain damage violence, domestics, car crashes, glassings, OK, yeah, but I think alcohol could actually be the cornerstone of civilization, as we know it. Not convinced. Hear me out. Before Alcohol (BA If you like) Humankind was nomadic moving from hillock to bough looking for giant elk and Impala then one day someone inadvertently dropped a grape into a puddle where it festered or fermented (to use brewing parlance). The bacterium’s in the puddle (the yeasts) ate the sugars in the grape and shat out alcohol (That’s the brewing process, micro organisms shite) Then hey presto bob’s your uncle how’s your father. Civilization as we know it was born. We had to settle in one place build villages towns schools hospitals factories the whole modern kit & caboodle ‘cos we’re all waiting’ for the fuckin’ PUB TO OPEN. So the next time someone gets indignant about the moral misused of booze remind them that your drinking to the furtherance of human evolution, Mines a large one! Sting said: ‘If you love someone set them free’ what a load of hippy-trippy-transendental-meditatey-vainglorious-@#%$-gibbet-juice. Here’s the truth. If you love someone set them free, but if they don’t come running back to you like a frightened lost, penitent child, hunt them down and kill them. White people with dreadlocks? TWATS Always have been always will. Although I shouldn’t say that as I used to have dreads myself but I took it too far I used to black-up as well. If ever you see someone alone at a bar and you think I should go up strike up a conversation make a new friend poor solitary drinker. No. Don’t they are on their own drinking at the bar for a reason either they are mad or you are for wanting to join them. Leave them alone. I’m off in a minute, but if anyone wants to join me I’ll be the guy drinking alone at the bar: come over and say ‘Hi’ and remember, mine’s a LARGE ONE. Well actually it’s kind of average but I’ve got a very fast arse. |