As it's a special occasion, I've stopped raping for a day and have come up with a wonderful Christmas present for you to give to your loved ones. Wait untill they're asleep, get a stiffy and scream this at them. Think Vince Neil/Alan Rickman angrily and hornily coming to from a Home Alone and Baconnaise marathon.
Fuckin' to the church bells (Oh yeah!)
Fuckin' to the church bells (No underwear!)
Fuckin' to the church bells (Don't shit the bed!)
Fuckin' to the church bells (Sex me 'till I'm dead, lover!)
Well come on! I wanna do it, do it, do it to the funeral.
Come on! I wanna do it, do it, do it at the tribunal.
Sex your blues away
Pound you as the bells sway
Bang to the tuneless rythym
Bump uglies to the hot hymn
Fuckin'! To the! Church Bells! Ding dong!
Fuckin'! To the! Church Bells! Reindeers!
Fuckin'! To the! Church Bells! Baybeh!
Fuckin' to the church bells
Oh you make my lurch smell
Merry fuckin' christmas to the church bells
Dudley Moore won't kiss and tell. (Woah no!)
I said fuckin' to the church bells
Barry Scott from Cillit Bang! can yell
Boom goes the fuckin' dynamite to church bells
Lady yeah my balls you've felled
DONG
Friday, 25 December 2009
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Heart Shaped Peach
This is a double fine and mighty sleazy cock rock party metal raunch ballad unearthed from the depths of Hot Sugar's crusty back catelogue. Reading it, even without the g-spot tickling guitars and vaaj loosening drums has increased your fertility 6 fold. You're welcome.
Chorus
Yeah she's my heart shaped peach
Her love was never outta reach
So many sexy things to teach
Damn, she can suck itlike a leech
Verse
Yeah she likes it good
Damn she strokes my wood
On her bosses desk
We do it like we should
Oh! I make her sing
My balls, they are tingling
My faveourite Xmas present
She gave me my brown wings
Breakdown
My heart shaped peach! I love that tasty peach!
Centre made of stone and hairy fuckin' skin
She chows down on my bone until my winky wins
Rep chorus
Verse
Oh, she calls me James
I call her giant peach
From safe sex we refrain
We clean it up with bleach
Yeah rubber fuckin' gloves
Spaff places I can't reach
I pound her tender dove
I'm spent, my heart shaped peach!
Yeah, it starts with a chorus. Get over it, Stalin.
Chorus
Yeah she's my heart shaped peach
Her love was never outta reach
So many sexy things to teach
Damn, she can suck itlike a leech
Verse
Yeah she likes it good
Damn she strokes my wood
On her bosses desk
We do it like we should
Oh! I make her sing
My balls, they are tingling
My faveourite Xmas present
She gave me my brown wings
Breakdown
My heart shaped peach! I love that tasty peach!
Centre made of stone and hairy fuckin' skin
She chows down on my bone until my winky wins
Rep chorus
Verse
Oh, she calls me James
I call her giant peach
From safe sex we refrain
We clean it up with bleach
Yeah rubber fuckin' gloves
Spaff places I can't reach
I pound her tender dove
I'm spent, my heart shaped peach!
Yeah, it starts with a chorus. Get over it, Stalin.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
Little Bear Teddy Top Cones
So after I change into my crisp white linen shirt opened to the navel, man hair and medallion like some wonderful Christman tree, white slacks and white loafers, I walk nonchalantly along the promenade with one hand in my pocket, silver Casio wristwatch glistening in the high noon sun. My other hand gracefully carrying my white sports jacket over my shoulder. My tiny dreamcatcher earring jostling my lobe in the wind. My Patrick Swayze esque ballad locks effortlessly locked in place with a high quality Guadelupan hairspray. I gasp as I glimpse the sign: Little Bear Teddy Top Cones. Today, being a nonce will be easy peasy! And I can get Terry to taxi me to the dungeon, er home. Win/win.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Greasy Slop in Your Mouth
Hey you! How the hell have you been?! Me? Well, I bravely battled and overcame bowel cancer, haven't been able to write anything worthwhile for shit and cut my penis in the shower (one of these statements is not true), thanks for asking.Anyway, to stave off the bewildering dismay of my random and confusing existence for a moment, here's a picture of the EXACT DESCRIPTION OF MY LOVE MAKING. Right down to odour and taste. Tweet me and we'll go dogging. x
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Food (Brains) for Thought (Eating)
When the apocalypse comes and I inevitably become a zombie, catatonic yet insatiably ravenous for delicious, wholesome brains, this is a list of the minds I’d chow down on and what their memories might taste like:
1. Bubbles the Chimp
Following the demise of Bubbles’ funky despot master and his subsequent ban from funeral attendance due to bouts of cheeky angry monkey business, his simian intellect will have gone decidedly stringy. With each brain munch I take, his mournful chattering would make me weep pathogen filled tears of undead remorse back into his skull making a hearty shame/brain broth.
2. Marcus a.k.a. ‘Wolverine’ from big Brother 10
His grey matter would be tough and full of horrible lumps of gristle, tasting precisely like his 90’s vests mixed with Jean Claude Van Damme’s mullet gel. His noggin’s Irony Gland would be impenetrable like an avocado stone made of cartoon machismo smothered in cod-cockney special needs liquid bullshit.
3. Ben Fogle
His dandy cerebellum would be protein rich and taste like candyfloss and bicuriosity. Like a shemale’s brunch. With each cortex chomp, he’d revert another step closer to his St Trinian’s childhood, gurgling and cooing gloopy head goo in my nonplussed necrotic face. He’d probably sponsor me £10 per chomped facial feature and donate all funds to James Cracknell’s latest pomposity vehicle.
4. Shia LeBoef
With the consistency of jellied tramp vomit, the destroyer of future Indiana Jones movies’ bonce would taste like ruined classic movies because he looks like fucking Rainman in Transformers 2. His lifetime recollections would taste exactly like Harrison Ford swimming in a pool of cash and tutting. The only knowledge I’d gain would be that of tarte, underseasoned disappointment.
5. Davina McCall
A rich and elegant tasting mind, like steak tartare spoonfed to me by honey coated cherubs to the sound of ‘My Sherona’ played by Tchaikovsky and La Roux. No hang on, that’s the degenerative effects of the zombie virus mangling my cognitive functions. Her cranium would taste like a shrieking crow drowning in acidic patronising hair products. The heart burn would be a motherfucker.
Lip smacking.
1. Bubbles the Chimp
Following the demise of Bubbles’ funky despot master and his subsequent ban from funeral attendance due to bouts of cheeky angry monkey business, his simian intellect will have gone decidedly stringy. With each brain munch I take, his mournful chattering would make me weep pathogen filled tears of undead remorse back into his skull making a hearty shame/brain broth.
2. Marcus a.k.a. ‘Wolverine’ from big Brother 10
His grey matter would be tough and full of horrible lumps of gristle, tasting precisely like his 90’s vests mixed with Jean Claude Van Damme’s mullet gel. His noggin’s Irony Gland would be impenetrable like an avocado stone made of cartoon machismo smothered in cod-cockney special needs liquid bullshit.
3. Ben Fogle
His dandy cerebellum would be protein rich and taste like candyfloss and bicuriosity. Like a shemale’s brunch. With each cortex chomp, he’d revert another step closer to his St Trinian’s childhood, gurgling and cooing gloopy head goo in my nonplussed necrotic face. He’d probably sponsor me £10 per chomped facial feature and donate all funds to James Cracknell’s latest pomposity vehicle.
4. Shia LeBoef
With the consistency of jellied tramp vomit, the destroyer of future Indiana Jones movies’ bonce would taste like ruined classic movies because he looks like fucking Rainman in Transformers 2. His lifetime recollections would taste exactly like Harrison Ford swimming in a pool of cash and tutting. The only knowledge I’d gain would be that of tarte, underseasoned disappointment.
5. Davina McCall
A rich and elegant tasting mind, like steak tartare spoonfed to me by honey coated cherubs to the sound of ‘My Sherona’ played by Tchaikovsky and La Roux. No hang on, that’s the degenerative effects of the zombie virus mangling my cognitive functions. Her cranium would taste like a shrieking crow drowning in acidic patronising hair products. The heart burn would be a motherfucker.
Lip smacking.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Ant on Dec’s shoulders dressed as Harold Shipman
I once had to perform a speech in front of my primary school class on the subject of “Art”. Great, that’s not abstract or subjective enough for a 9 year old. I’d recently moved to this school in the Isle of Man from Southern Ireland so knew nobody and wasn’t fitting in well. Typical example of an everyday faux pas: For ‘colouring in time’, I crayoned the skin of a farmer – brace yourself for this – yellow instead of pink! Shock! Horror! My simple tiny child brain thought that ‘Buttercup Yellow’ was closer to the shade of Caucasian blue collar human skin than the utterly racist ‘Heap Big Injun Pink’ of my contemporaries. Cue ridicule from tiny bastards and surely-should-know-better teacher. My speech that afternoon was more stilted, awkward and intermittent than a stuttering Tourettes-suffering 80’s buddy movie robot whose arch nemesis had comically uploaded a ‘Tee-Hee Sound-like-a-Scared-Tranny 2.0’ embarrassment file straight to my metallic pointy bonse.
Russell Howard’s Tough Gig is a programme about Russell Howard performing a comedy stand up routine in front of a tough crowd. A tough crowd. Notice the italics for added drama. For me, this notion conjures up these examples: 1) Lenny Henry in front of the BNP after England lose a football match to Cameroon. 2) Ant on Dec’s shoulders dressed as Harold Shipman in front of a crowd of grieving relatives. 3) A teen emailing North Korea the message “U R gay h0m0 wiv girly spac b0mbs lol”.
Russell Howard had to perform in front of – cue bombastic drums and ladies swooning – some surf dudes in Ireland. Not furious apes whilst covered in bananas and the flesh of ape wives. No, just some jovial, constantly smiling friends that love to surf. Beforehand to create tension, did the production team show the surfers polariods of Russell secretly rubbing his winky with their toothbrushes or 3-waying their mums and sisters atop a mosaic depicting blindfolded surfers being shot and their boards being pooed on? No. They all got to hang out together for a week, surfing, laughing, eating, chuckling, boozing, jumping off cliffs, patting each other on the back and laughing.
So basically, Russell Howard’s Tough Gig involved Russell making new friends, whose chuckle factor was already on level 9, who surfing in storm conditions at 5am hungover after an hours’ sleep can still laugh about farting, laugh.
Well say it ain’t so, Russell heroically beats these overwhelming odds and gets genuine laughs. The fact this ITV programme was about 25 minutes long after adverts, and his set was about 6 minutes long, is here nor there.
A previous episode featured walking cheeky-Oirish-chappie stereotype Patrick Kielty. He actually had a reasonably tough gig in front of some rough London geezers. Tough because he’s annoying and Irish, and they’re street and Laandaan, innit. Again, because he got to spend time getting to know his crowd, the gig went well.
To improve the programme, I suggest adding a Wife Swap element. I.e. get the comedians to live with their absolute polar opposite counterpart for a week to create maximum hatred, er I mean friction. Alan Carr could stay with the editor if The Daily Mail for example. He could dress as Princess Diana and act out a lengthy rape by an asylum seeker for the duration of his set. Or maybe Rolf Harris could live with some Native Americans and for the gig stubbornly refuse to communicate with them in any way other than painting them as fire engine red Rolferoos. That’d be pretty tough.
Russell Howard’s Tough Gig is a programme about Russell Howard performing a comedy stand up routine in front of a tough crowd. A tough crowd. Notice the italics for added drama. For me, this notion conjures up these examples: 1) Lenny Henry in front of the BNP after England lose a football match to Cameroon. 2) Ant on Dec’s shoulders dressed as Harold Shipman in front of a crowd of grieving relatives. 3) A teen emailing North Korea the message “U R gay h0m0 wiv girly spac b0mbs lol”.
Russell Howard had to perform in front of – cue bombastic drums and ladies swooning – some surf dudes in Ireland. Not furious apes whilst covered in bananas and the flesh of ape wives. No, just some jovial, constantly smiling friends that love to surf. Beforehand to create tension, did the production team show the surfers polariods of Russell secretly rubbing his winky with their toothbrushes or 3-waying their mums and sisters atop a mosaic depicting blindfolded surfers being shot and their boards being pooed on? No. They all got to hang out together for a week, surfing, laughing, eating, chuckling, boozing, jumping off cliffs, patting each other on the back and laughing.
So basically, Russell Howard’s Tough Gig involved Russell making new friends, whose chuckle factor was already on level 9, who surfing in storm conditions at 5am hungover after an hours’ sleep can still laugh about farting, laugh.
Well say it ain’t so, Russell heroically beats these overwhelming odds and gets genuine laughs. The fact this ITV programme was about 25 minutes long after adverts, and his set was about 6 minutes long, is here nor there.
A previous episode featured walking cheeky-Oirish-chappie stereotype Patrick Kielty. He actually had a reasonably tough gig in front of some rough London geezers. Tough because he’s annoying and Irish, and they’re street and Laandaan, innit. Again, because he got to spend time getting to know his crowd, the gig went well.
To improve the programme, I suggest adding a Wife Swap element. I.e. get the comedians to live with their absolute polar opposite counterpart for a week to create maximum hatred, er I mean friction. Alan Carr could stay with the editor if The Daily Mail for example. He could dress as Princess Diana and act out a lengthy rape by an asylum seeker for the duration of his set. Or maybe Rolf Harris could live with some Native Americans and for the gig stubbornly refuse to communicate with them in any way other than painting them as fire engine red Rolferoos. That’d be pretty tough.
Friday, 22 May 2009
You are requested to attend a disciplinary hearing on Wednesday morning to discuss your timekeeping
Good morning! Top of the morning to you! Rise and Shine!
Get waterboarded, you revoltingly chipper sickpot. I hate the morning. The morning hates me. It’s a simple bond based on incompatibility and the desperation of loneliness. Just like real relationships.
It’s too passé to say I’m an insomniac. No, in today’s moanvironment (I almost went with ‘atmoswhinge’), to cool it up and sound really post-badass I’ll describe my sleeping prowess as THE ANTISLEEP or SLUMBASTARD.
Consequently, in the AM I’m as much use as a tiny cartoon hedgehog trying to teach red apples how to mimic Pee Wee Herman. Getting ready for work, I can barely handle a piss and a wash, never mind eating breakfast or going to the gym to sculpt my cannons. People who do that are definitely lizard based overlords. However, they’re not quite our unconscionable despotic rulers because they’ve mistakenly subscribed to ‘Horrific Banal Slagging Fest Weekly’ or ‘Pectoral Throne’, hence the self induced early bird designer tumour stress.
No sir, my morning routine typically involves me hitting the snooze button like I’m made of slo-mo marshmallow and my head is filled with does-not-compute jam, vaguely hearing housemates leisurely saunter to the bathroom then all of a sudden BOOM! Heart attacking myself out of bed when I realise it’s ridiculous-to-nine. Cue sensation of deja vu kickstarting a groggy call to my boss to apologise. Again. I try to save time by simultaneously weeing and brushing my teeth. I throw on a hideously crumpled shirt and trip over a kitten. My appearance upon arrival to work rivals that of Serpico crossed with Travis Bickle. After a fortnight of POW stress positions.
Inevitably, the time came for a disciplinary. Can’t say I blame my employer, I’m basically a grunting nihilistic misanthrope until lunchtime. Then tea, food and fresh air improve me incalculably into just being a bell end. They shrewdly schedule the disciplinary in the morning, challenging me to be of some (any) use in my hazy, coming-to from anaesthetic demeanour. It went ok. I didn’t cause a severe economic downturn or stab a baby.
I’m still worse in the morning than a chav listening to NDubz booming from his Metro but at least I haven’t been sacked yet. When that happens, to parallel the great depression of the 30’s, I’ll gleefully swandive from my window. I’m on the first floor so might get lucky if a gran breaks my fall. Rise and shine indeed.
Get waterboarded, you revoltingly chipper sickpot. I hate the morning. The morning hates me. It’s a simple bond based on incompatibility and the desperation of loneliness. Just like real relationships.
It’s too passé to say I’m an insomniac. No, in today’s moanvironment (I almost went with ‘atmoswhinge’), to cool it up and sound really post-badass I’ll describe my sleeping prowess as THE ANTISLEEP or SLUMBASTARD.
Consequently, in the AM I’m as much use as a tiny cartoon hedgehog trying to teach red apples how to mimic Pee Wee Herman. Getting ready for work, I can barely handle a piss and a wash, never mind eating breakfast or going to the gym to sculpt my cannons. People who do that are definitely lizard based overlords. However, they’re not quite our unconscionable despotic rulers because they’ve mistakenly subscribed to ‘Horrific Banal Slagging Fest Weekly’ or ‘Pectoral Throne’, hence the self induced early bird designer tumour stress.
No sir, my morning routine typically involves me hitting the snooze button like I’m made of slo-mo marshmallow and my head is filled with does-not-compute jam, vaguely hearing housemates leisurely saunter to the bathroom then all of a sudden BOOM! Heart attacking myself out of bed when I realise it’s ridiculous-to-nine. Cue sensation of deja vu kickstarting a groggy call to my boss to apologise. Again. I try to save time by simultaneously weeing and brushing my teeth. I throw on a hideously crumpled shirt and trip over a kitten. My appearance upon arrival to work rivals that of Serpico crossed with Travis Bickle. After a fortnight of POW stress positions.
Inevitably, the time came for a disciplinary. Can’t say I blame my employer, I’m basically a grunting nihilistic misanthrope until lunchtime. Then tea, food and fresh air improve me incalculably into just being a bell end. They shrewdly schedule the disciplinary in the morning, challenging me to be of some (any) use in my hazy, coming-to from anaesthetic demeanour. It went ok. I didn’t cause a severe economic downturn or stab a baby.
I’m still worse in the morning than a chav listening to NDubz booming from his Metro but at least I haven’t been sacked yet. When that happens, to parallel the great depression of the 30’s, I’ll gleefully swandive from my window. I’m on the first floor so might get lucky if a gran breaks my fall. Rise and shine indeed.
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
aPORKalypse Sow/HAMaggedon
aPORKalypse Sow
Francis Ford Coppola's ultra grim 'Nam masterpiece is reimagined in modern recession soaked hysteria. Marlon Brando's haunting renegade Colonel Walter E Kurtz to be played by stargazing Gamesmaster Patrick Moore. He commands a legion of piggy troops, enraged that the value of their sty's have decreased, and brainwashes them with horror stories of how cows and birds were "sorted out" with BSE and Bird Flu by American troops. Pee Wee Herman for Martin Sheen's Benjamin L Willard. Most expensive scene likely to be where lots of power suited grey people dressed like '50's bankers leap from helicopters clutching horrifying news broadcast style monolithic letters spelling 'CREDIT CRUNCH' to Wagner's ''Ride of the Valkyries' whilst lumpen blagging financial analysts surf in nearby body-filled waters. All accompanied by the smell of useless valueless napalm cash. Special Redux edition features an alternative ending where all humans slowly give up and die from constant sensationalist doom. "The horror... the horror." indeed.
HAMaggedon
Bruce Willis reprises his truly harrowing role as balding average Joe deep drilling douche who just happens to be totally fine doing crazy space stuff. It turns out that the crux of all human fears i.e. THE RECESSION and SWINE FLU (this is the most blood curdling font I can get) are the brain children of radical Muslim clerics and thin, pale vegetarians hell bent on forcibly teaching us bloody pork gobbling heathens a lesson. Oh, and a giant asteroid made entirely of Spam and hotdogs is hurtling toward Earth faster than your plumeting house price. To add to the general feeling of end-of-the-world dread, Aerosmith's 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" will be constantly whisper-crooned by that woman from Britain's Got Talent.
Francis Ford Coppola's ultra grim 'Nam masterpiece is reimagined in modern recession soaked hysteria. Marlon Brando's haunting renegade Colonel Walter E Kurtz to be played by stargazing Gamesmaster Patrick Moore. He commands a legion of piggy troops, enraged that the value of their sty's have decreased, and brainwashes them with horror stories of how cows and birds were "sorted out" with BSE and Bird Flu by American troops. Pee Wee Herman for Martin Sheen's Benjamin L Willard. Most expensive scene likely to be where lots of power suited grey people dressed like '50's bankers leap from helicopters clutching horrifying news broadcast style monolithic letters spelling 'CREDIT CRUNCH' to Wagner's ''Ride of the Valkyries' whilst lumpen blagging financial analysts surf in nearby body-filled waters. All accompanied by the smell of useless valueless napalm cash. Special Redux edition features an alternative ending where all humans slowly give up and die from constant sensationalist doom. "The horror... the horror." indeed.
HAMaggedon
Bruce Willis reprises his truly harrowing role as balding average Joe deep drilling douche who just happens to be totally fine doing crazy space stuff. It turns out that the crux of all human fears i.e. THE RECESSION and SWINE FLU (this is the most blood curdling font I can get) are the brain children of radical Muslim clerics and thin, pale vegetarians hell bent on forcibly teaching us bloody pork gobbling heathens a lesson. Oh, and a giant asteroid made entirely of Spam and hotdogs is hurtling toward Earth faster than your plumeting house price. To add to the general feeling of end-of-the-world dread, Aerosmith's 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" will be constantly whisper-crooned by that woman from Britain's Got Talent.
Friday, 24 April 2009
The Big 310 Special
Hello there, my cultist pretties!
It is with a swollen heart that I am proud to announce the 310th viewer of this, my shambling narcissistic bile duct Aim For The Head!
In honour of this gargantuan occasion which easily rivals that of say, the fall of the Berlin Wall or the invention of custard, and in celebration of today's modern interactive age, at your request I will perform one bespoke act that I will capture on camera as proof.
Any and every request will be entertained but I reserve the right to veto the banal or atrocious (like shitting on a nun or eating pie with a soup spoon). Make it worthwhile.
Get involved. Hard. Order me around like a bitch here or tweet me on Twitter.
It is with a swollen heart that I am proud to announce the 310th viewer of this, my shambling narcissistic bile duct Aim For The Head!
In honour of this gargantuan occasion which easily rivals that of say, the fall of the Berlin Wall or the invention of custard, and in celebration of today's modern interactive age, at your request I will perform one bespoke act that I will capture on camera as proof.
Any and every request will be entertained but I reserve the right to veto the banal or atrocious (like shitting on a nun or eating pie with a soup spoon). Make it worthwhile.
Get involved. Hard. Order me around like a bitch here or tweet me on Twitter.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Bear Eats Kids' Face Off! (Probably)
Belgian newspapers are awesome. This was on the front page. I can't read Flemish so I naturally assume the child was horrifically mauled.
Friday, 10 April 2009
Goddamn computers, Pip
Imagine a striking picture of a sunrise behind dramatic clounds over the bay of a spectacular promenade. That's the photograph I took that my bastard computer won't let me upload. There's no penises on it or anything.
Anyway, I emailed it to pip@itv.com because she told me to on a weather report. I accompanied it with the following message:
"Dear Pip
Please find attached a photo I recently took on my mobile of a delicious sunrise. It reminded me of you, because you are tasty.
Please display my photo on your next weather report, which might I add are always excellent, sexy and fun.
I love two things. You and Motley Crue. If you love me, read my name out as Troy and pronounce 'Isle of Man' a bit like ' I love man'.
Yours achingly,
Tony"
I'll keep watching to see if they broadcast my picture and if Pip wants my rod. I'll keep you posted and advise if the police investigate me. Anyway, the jokes on Pip as I took the photo months ago while drunk. Take that, the man.
Anyway, I emailed it to pip@itv.com because she told me to on a weather report. I accompanied it with the following message:
"Dear Pip
Please find attached a photo I recently took on my mobile of a delicious sunrise. It reminded me of you, because you are tasty.
Please display my photo on your next weather report, which might I add are always excellent, sexy and fun.
I love two things. You and Motley Crue. If you love me, read my name out as Troy and pronounce 'Isle of Man' a bit like ' I love man'.
Yours achingly,
Tony"
I'll keep watching to see if they broadcast my picture and if Pip wants my rod. I'll keep you posted and advise if the police investigate me. Anyway, the jokes on Pip as I took the photo months ago while drunk. Take that, the man.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Ideas for new TV shows that will improve your sex life and cure the recession
Weather Reports at Gunpoint
The humble, nay banal weather report is spiced up as the presenters perform in front of a live firing squad. Little do they know, the machine guns are harmless water pistols but if they get the weather wrong, their next of kin are married off to Nazi war criminals. Will they crack and blurt out “Typhoon in Bromley!”?
Raped by William Shatner
The former Star Trek big cheese and an excitable contestant are locked in a derelict hospital. Capt Kirk shuffles around, buggering popular songs in his inimitable dementia inducing spoken word style. Can the contestant avoid their mind from unraveling and find the Spock Ears of Freedom, avoiding the inevitable scat rape frenzy? Not if the viewers get their way – they can give Bill clues by pressing the red button on their sky remote. Like an interactive Deal or No Deal with non consensual raunch.
Beatbox Bingo Bonanza
Bingo numbers are announced urban style by street yoofs. “Yo, all the one’s bra bra bra!” and “Oh my gosh, 6!” for example. Instead of shouting “House!” the elderly winners have to do the worm up to the announcers’ podium. Prizes include a street tagged caravan and a years subscription to Channel U, Home of Grime.
Heston Blunenthal gets Crunk!
Famed experimental Michelin star dinner man Heston gets fucked up on crack and liquid nitrogen to produce some truly twisted lunatic recipes or ‘outlandishes’. Giraffe eyes with Apartheid Mash, Monotheism vs. Egg, Cheesy Swan Aorta and TexMex Tears.
You can smell the house prices rising.
The humble, nay banal weather report is spiced up as the presenters perform in front of a live firing squad. Little do they know, the machine guns are harmless water pistols but if they get the weather wrong, their next of kin are married off to Nazi war criminals. Will they crack and blurt out “Typhoon in Bromley!”?
Raped by William Shatner
The former Star Trek big cheese and an excitable contestant are locked in a derelict hospital. Capt Kirk shuffles around, buggering popular songs in his inimitable dementia inducing spoken word style. Can the contestant avoid their mind from unraveling and find the Spock Ears of Freedom, avoiding the inevitable scat rape frenzy? Not if the viewers get their way – they can give Bill clues by pressing the red button on their sky remote. Like an interactive Deal or No Deal with non consensual raunch.
Beatbox Bingo Bonanza
Bingo numbers are announced urban style by street yoofs. “Yo, all the one’s bra bra bra!” and “Oh my gosh, 6!” for example. Instead of shouting “House!” the elderly winners have to do the worm up to the announcers’ podium. Prizes include a street tagged caravan and a years subscription to Channel U, Home of Grime.
Heston Blunenthal gets Crunk!
Famed experimental Michelin star dinner man Heston gets fucked up on crack and liquid nitrogen to produce some truly twisted lunatic recipes or ‘outlandishes’. Giraffe eyes with Apartheid Mash, Monotheism vs. Egg, Cheesy Swan Aorta and TexMex Tears.
You can smell the house prices rising.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Saturday, 21 March 2009
500mg Paracetamol, 500mg Erythromycin and 30/500mg Co-Codamol
Woe is me. Listen to me whine for a moment.
Day One Sore throat.
Day Two Very sore throat. Sucks being in work. Buy Strepsils and Beechams All In One. These products are USELESS. Get about 1 hours' sleep in total.
Day Three Call work telling them I'm sick. Constantly salivating and it's absolute agony to swallow. Like Sonic the Hedgehog set on fire thinking Dr Eggman is the inside on my asophagous and he must tear/burn him to death. As slowly as possible. Zero sleep possible. Going slightly demented.
Day Four Feel even worse. Text colleague at work telling them I can't come in. Go to A & E at first light. Miserable old boot woman on reception tutts at me and shook her head because I had the sheer audacity to turn up without an appointment and aren't registered with a Doctor. Excuse me for having an emergency, hag. Finally see Doctor. He tells me "It's nothing to worry about." and prescribes 5 days worth of pills . If it wasn't total ultra pain to swallow, I literally would have sucked him off to get something to relieve the pain or help me sleep. Choke pills down. Too sore/sad/dramatic/deviod of emotion to weep in my forlorn dismay.
Day Five Email work incoherently babbling my symptoms. Poor me blah blah. Night and day = agony. No sleep, can't eat, can't even sip water. Daytime TV + no fluids = slight dehydration dementia. Try to eat ice cream. Heave uncontrollably for some time. Call A & E. Would cry down the phone if possible. Nice man prescribes stronger pills. These help. Get 2 hours sleep.
Day Six Wake up feeling better! Call work. Gargling Co-Codamol every 4 hours helps. Manage to eat toast and drink tea. Guts hurt but feel more satisfied with myself than Piers Morgan post morning mirror wank.
Day Seven Wake feeling even better! Eat tea and toast! Instantly poo it out in liquid form! My own poo drips on my ankle. I die a little inside.
This is where I am at the moment. I'm basically a brave version of Anne Frank. I woke up with morning wood the other day, that's probably a good sign. Until the next time...
Day One Sore throat.
Day Two Very sore throat. Sucks being in work. Buy Strepsils and Beechams All In One. These products are USELESS. Get about 1 hours' sleep in total.
Day Three Call work telling them I'm sick. Constantly salivating and it's absolute agony to swallow. Like Sonic the Hedgehog set on fire thinking Dr Eggman is the inside on my asophagous and he must tear/burn him to death. As slowly as possible. Zero sleep possible. Going slightly demented.
Day Four Feel even worse. Text colleague at work telling them I can't come in. Go to A & E at first light. Miserable old boot woman on reception tutts at me and shook her head because I had the sheer audacity to turn up without an appointment and aren't registered with a Doctor. Excuse me for having an emergency, hag. Finally see Doctor. He tells me "It's nothing to worry about." and prescribes 5 days worth of pills . If it wasn't total ultra pain to swallow, I literally would have sucked him off to get something to relieve the pain or help me sleep. Choke pills down. Too sore/sad/dramatic/deviod of emotion to weep in my forlorn dismay.
Day Five Email work incoherently babbling my symptoms. Poor me blah blah. Night and day = agony. No sleep, can't eat, can't even sip water. Daytime TV + no fluids = slight dehydration dementia. Try to eat ice cream. Heave uncontrollably for some time. Call A & E. Would cry down the phone if possible. Nice man prescribes stronger pills. These help. Get 2 hours sleep.
Day Six Wake up feeling better! Call work. Gargling Co-Codamol every 4 hours helps. Manage to eat toast and drink tea. Guts hurt but feel more satisfied with myself than Piers Morgan post morning mirror wank.
Day Seven Wake feeling even better! Eat tea and toast! Instantly poo it out in liquid form! My own poo drips on my ankle. I die a little inside.
This is where I am at the moment. I'm basically a brave version of Anne Frank. I woke up with morning wood the other day, that's probably a good sign. Until the next time...
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Arrgghhh! My dog RIPPED OFF my ears!
First, I get funny looks for sniggering at the lady mags, then dirty looks when the camera comes out. No wonder German teens go on shooting rampages. Yuck indeed.
GHOST IN MY WOMB
Lady mags or 'cliterature' (ahahahahahaha like a fanny!) are universally terrifying.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
I’ll be travelling to foggy old London town this weekend
The things I’m most frightened of happening:
Getting stabbed by a cockney
Angering a Grime fan
Contracting leprosy on the tube
Denying the Holocaust on the London Eye
Having a prison 3-way
Inadvertantly becoming a suicide cult leader
Being mistaken for a serial rapist
Dying at the hands of The Recession
Racially offending a tattooist
Marrying a Bearded Lady
Getting stabbed by a cockney
Angering a Grime fan
Contracting leprosy on the tube
Denying the Holocaust on the London Eye
Having a prison 3-way
Inadvertantly becoming a suicide cult leader
Being mistaken for a serial rapist
Dying at the hands of The Recession
Racially offending a tattooist
Marrying a Bearded Lady
Sir Mix A Lot - Bhaji Got Back
To be sung to the tune of Sir Mix A Lot's Baby Got Back
I like big naan’s and I cannot lie
You other cuisines can’t deny
When a dish walks in with an itty bitty spice and some tasty pilau rice
You get chutney
Pretty good from Putney and it won’t make you cut your knee
So hurry, eat curry coz it ain’t your average luxury
I eat with your daughter. The hell with the water
It's hot, got a lot, can't finish another poppadom, Not!
I'm tired of magazines saying bland foods are the thing
Give the average man a curry and a beer
There's no fear, he won't leer, he'll be dear
So Korma (yeah!) Bhuna (yeah!)
So good they make you howl at the moon (hell yeah)
Tell 'em Dhansak, (shake it!), Madras, (make it!), bake that healthy butt
Bhaji got back
If you're reading this Mack Daddy, you're welcome. A credit in your next album's sleeve note will be fine.
I like big naan’s and I cannot lie
You other cuisines can’t deny
When a dish walks in with an itty bitty spice and some tasty pilau rice
You get chutney
Pretty good from Putney and it won’t make you cut your knee
So hurry, eat curry coz it ain’t your average luxury
I eat with your daughter. The hell with the water
It's hot, got a lot, can't finish another poppadom, Not!
I'm tired of magazines saying bland foods are the thing
Give the average man a curry and a beer
There's no fear, he won't leer, he'll be dear
So Korma (yeah!) Bhuna (yeah!)
So good they make you howl at the moon (hell yeah)
Tell 'em Dhansak, (shake it!), Madras, (make it!), bake that healthy butt
Bhaji got back
If you're reading this Mack Daddy, you're welcome. A credit in your next album's sleeve note will be fine.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Getting Dumped Made Me Bald!
The trip to go food shopping is occasionally spiced up by an inappropriate erection or being stared at by middle aged humans for flicking through the glossy pages of women's interest magazines such as Take A Break, Nice Boys Fortnightly or Spring Clean Vulva. Perhaps the greatest headline I ever saw was "Sausage Rolls Saved My Hubby's Serevered Arm!" I couldn't take a picture though, as I was embarrassed at my girl's mag voyeurism and had already crushed my lettuce with a hastily packed pineapple. I could handle no more of the tutting Nazi on the till. "Stop judging me, Wendy!" I wanted to roar at her but instead made a feeble kind of robot beep, sweating as I fumbled with my change in the charity boxes. RNLI or the one with poppies?? This is what it feels like when doves cry. Like a tumour growing in your testies.
Anywho, look how fucking happy Mrs Baldie is. Maybe OK! gave her a fat cheque for a wedding like Jade Goody.
Future headlines I yearn for: "Man Shits Own Head In Image of Jesus", "Plumber Cured AIDS Ironically Killed By Rape Monkey", or Septic Mess In Nora's Mouth Brought Back Deceased Budgie". I think I love this hideous bullshit.
Monday, 2 February 2009
Superbowl XLIII - the myths, the facts
You have to hand it to the Americans. In the midst of the world’s greatest depression for 60 years, they only go and blow $100 trillion (approx figures) at Superbowl XLIII.
To open things up, they inexplicably had not one, but two gurning divas belting out Team America style uber ballads at biological weaponry decibel levels, complete with a full gospel choir.
Then for a simple coin toss, they had a USA Army General, so over-decorated he looked like a Benny Hill character, do it. His toss was so weak, I couldn’t stop hearing the theme tune playing in my head and him dropping his trousers before saluting and chasing cheerleaders around, stumbling occasionally on pom-poms. I was fully expecting a 21 gun salute. Then a fleet of Red Devil style airplanes made a pass.
The half time entertainment came in the form of patriotic-Americaner-than-thou Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. The highlight being Paulie from The Sopranos wailing on guitar. The Boss ran and leapt into a (sadly choreographed) knee slide and rammed his crotch into a camera. There were about a dozen band members including the bald guy from The David Letterman Show on piani, and the return of the gospel choir, but none stood out more than the guy bizarrely dressed like a wizard hammering his funk through a saxophone and later, a solitary cow bell. At an almost constant rate, the sky was lit up with fireworks rivaling those of the opening ceremony to the Beijing 2008 Olympics, bringing an Apocalypse Now feeling of dread to the occasion.
Oh yeah, and some bearded men ran around with a ball. Stopping eight times a minute to debate every single play. It’s a game of four 15 minute quarters, but the BBC gave it more than 4 hours coverage. The ultra stats constantly being pounded into my eyeballs made me feel like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. I was so wired after watching the first twenty minutes, I had to watch it all. Well, I made it to the end of the 3rd quarter. It was like spraying liquid crack into my corneas after running a marathon dressed as a waterbed.
So, what about the entertainment for Superbowl XLIV? Fire nukes into the Moon? Suspend the arena in mid air by Chinooks and Blimps? Exhume the corpse of Elvis and have him jam with The Monkees using tiny robots?
To open things up, they inexplicably had not one, but two gurning divas belting out Team America style uber ballads at biological weaponry decibel levels, complete with a full gospel choir.
Then for a simple coin toss, they had a USA Army General, so over-decorated he looked like a Benny Hill character, do it. His toss was so weak, I couldn’t stop hearing the theme tune playing in my head and him dropping his trousers before saluting and chasing cheerleaders around, stumbling occasionally on pom-poms. I was fully expecting a 21 gun salute. Then a fleet of Red Devil style airplanes made a pass.
The half time entertainment came in the form of patriotic-Americaner-than-thou Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. The highlight being Paulie from The Sopranos wailing on guitar. The Boss ran and leapt into a (sadly choreographed) knee slide and rammed his crotch into a camera. There were about a dozen band members including the bald guy from The David Letterman Show on piani, and the return of the gospel choir, but none stood out more than the guy bizarrely dressed like a wizard hammering his funk through a saxophone and later, a solitary cow bell. At an almost constant rate, the sky was lit up with fireworks rivaling those of the opening ceremony to the Beijing 2008 Olympics, bringing an Apocalypse Now feeling of dread to the occasion.
Oh yeah, and some bearded men ran around with a ball. Stopping eight times a minute to debate every single play. It’s a game of four 15 minute quarters, but the BBC gave it more than 4 hours coverage. The ultra stats constantly being pounded into my eyeballs made me feel like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. I was so wired after watching the first twenty minutes, I had to watch it all. Well, I made it to the end of the 3rd quarter. It was like spraying liquid crack into my corneas after running a marathon dressed as a waterbed.
So, what about the entertainment for Superbowl XLIV? Fire nukes into the Moon? Suspend the arena in mid air by Chinooks and Blimps? Exhume the corpse of Elvis and have him jam with The Monkees using tiny robots?
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Celebrity Come Dine With Me
Hello and welcome to another thrilling instalment of Celebrity Come Dine With Me starring such luminaries as Super Barack Obama, Manic Mayor Boris Johnson, Cheeky Chappy Robert Mugabe and The Nation’s Favourite Pop Starlet Cheryl Cole.
First up we’re at Barack Obama’s modest abode, the Whitehouse. Having been successfully inaugurated, Barack is eager for some down time and relishes the opportunity for a relaxed evening “I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors.” before prepping some grilled cheese on toast for his starter. Wife Michelle just can’t wait for the guests to taste his grits, dramatically served aboard Air Force One. Barack ends the night with “Top that, plebs.”.
London Borough badboy Boris Johnson is up next but he’s not feeling the pressure of following the world’s most powerful man, “Pyramid of piffle.“. That’s no way to speak of Barack’s elegant Ferrero Roche desert, Boris. He opts for an unusual concoction of “Davidstow cheddar and a few tangerines. Also half a litre of Chilean red wine of some description.” Just to have an effect on the night’s scores, Ken Livingstone calls Boris, confusing him with algebra and he ends up burning his pork belly. After babbling incoherently about bendy buses and falling to his knees in tears, Cheryl ruffles Boris’ hair in a caring embrace and whispers “you’ll be reet like, pet”.
Wanting to improve spirits after last night’s debacle, Cheryl gets busy making husband Ashley’s favourite jelly and ice cream. This cheers Boris up no end but Robert just furrows his brow and pokes at it muttering something about only God being able to choose his pudding. Barack is moved to utter “On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.”. Profound, Mr President, but nobody noticed once Cheryl started tickling Robert to get him to crack a smile. Robert loved this and even helped with the washing up. “Who said genocidal despots are all bad, like?! I think I’ll give him backstage tickets to the next Girls Aloud show in Zimbabwe!”.
Tons of fun Robert, is hosting a costume party for his night, in a bid to move away from his ‘horrific tyrant’ image the bloody press have generated. He’s hired the best Top Gun outfit Zimbabwean Dollars can buy and looks the spit of Maverick playing topless volleyball. He’s pulled out all the stops; dolphin hearts for starter, the cryptically titled ‘the meat’ for the main course and gingerbread child soldiers for desert. Boris cracks everyone up, arriving in a toga and looking hilariously like a drunken cave man angel. Cheryl turns up in a very convincing Stephen Hawking number and Barack has secretly sent his Fillipino lookalike. Occasionally strained but mostly wonderful times ensue.
Cheryl shares the £1,000.00 prize because she’s so thoroughly down to Earth and because Robert was getting cranky.
First up we’re at Barack Obama’s modest abode, the Whitehouse. Having been successfully inaugurated, Barack is eager for some down time and relishes the opportunity for a relaxed evening “I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors.” before prepping some grilled cheese on toast for his starter. Wife Michelle just can’t wait for the guests to taste his grits, dramatically served aboard Air Force One. Barack ends the night with “Top that, plebs.”.
London Borough badboy Boris Johnson is up next but he’s not feeling the pressure of following the world’s most powerful man, “Pyramid of piffle.“. That’s no way to speak of Barack’s elegant Ferrero Roche desert, Boris. He opts for an unusual concoction of “Davidstow cheddar and a few tangerines. Also half a litre of Chilean red wine of some description.” Just to have an effect on the night’s scores, Ken Livingstone calls Boris, confusing him with algebra and he ends up burning his pork belly. After babbling incoherently about bendy buses and falling to his knees in tears, Cheryl ruffles Boris’ hair in a caring embrace and whispers “you’ll be reet like, pet”.
Wanting to improve spirits after last night’s debacle, Cheryl gets busy making husband Ashley’s favourite jelly and ice cream. This cheers Boris up no end but Robert just furrows his brow and pokes at it muttering something about only God being able to choose his pudding. Barack is moved to utter “On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.”. Profound, Mr President, but nobody noticed once Cheryl started tickling Robert to get him to crack a smile. Robert loved this and even helped with the washing up. “Who said genocidal despots are all bad, like?! I think I’ll give him backstage tickets to the next Girls Aloud show in Zimbabwe!”.
Tons of fun Robert, is hosting a costume party for his night, in a bid to move away from his ‘horrific tyrant’ image the bloody press have generated. He’s hired the best Top Gun outfit Zimbabwean Dollars can buy and looks the spit of Maverick playing topless volleyball. He’s pulled out all the stops; dolphin hearts for starter, the cryptically titled ‘the meat’ for the main course and gingerbread child soldiers for desert. Boris cracks everyone up, arriving in a toga and looking hilariously like a drunken cave man angel. Cheryl turns up in a very convincing Stephen Hawking number and Barack has secretly sent his Fillipino lookalike. Occasionally strained but mostly wonderful times ensue.
Cheryl shares the £1,000.00 prize because she’s so thoroughly down to Earth and because Robert was getting cranky.
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Friday, 16 January 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)