Another Foolish Idea!

I recently got a new graphics tablet and a copy of Illustrator. So what I want from you lot is some ideas for drawings. Seriously, tell me what to draw and I’ll do it, probably badly. But that just adds to the fun, huh?

So, please please please tell me what you want to see, and I’ll do the best of the bunch! Leave your suggestions in the comments box. Oh,. and as added incentive, if you add a caption that is worthy, you may get your suggestion as a tee shirt, courtesy of the lovely fellows at Fetch Me My Musket. Marvelous!

DO IT!

In Memory of Bill Bentley III

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is with a heavy heart that I write these words. At approximately 3:17pm on April 20th 2011, one of our more beloved friends and fellow CYI artiste extraordinaire, Bill Bentley, died after a fall from the roof of his house after trying to fix the television aerial, as the snooker was on.

I’m sure that you’re all choking on your tea/coffee/creme de menthe at hearing this news. Imagine how Nöel felt, especially after warning Bill to not go up on the roof in the first place, as he had a weak bladder and probably should have listened to his doctor. On a slight tangent, that woman has incredible common sense, even after the “incident” with the shotgun. But I digress.

A little back history. William Enoch Bentley III was born in the heart of the Shire in 1954 to Laverne and Eustice T. Bentley. He was raised as a stout Catholic, evident in his music taste, love of the ale, and the fact that he hated those god damn gypsies so much. His mother instructed him in the best way to tie a perfect Windsor and to appreciate and worship the stew. He attended his first village fete in 1958, aged just four years. It was at this time-honoured event that he first met the then 63 year old Norman Groves, who had been displaying his enormous and prize-winning pickles since the late 1920′s.

Enamoured with the old man and his enormous cultures, Bill and Norm became sound friends. Norman taught Bill the art of pickle-carving, and the smaller and more imaginatively whittled specimen’s were a hit with the local Women’s Institute, so much so that Bill and Norm set up a small business together until 1975.

In 1981 Bill left Bentley and the Shire behind, in search of a mystical spice used to give stew such orgasmic qualities, it was rumoured to have been paralleled with riding a unicorn through a field of lime jelly, while narwhals shit glitter all over your chest.

While up a mountain in Tibet, Bill met his future wife, Nöel Lavinia Bentley, an enormously-breasted tartlet who was making a living milking yaks to make a fragrant local butter. The pair married in 1983 on their return to England.

Norman and Bill started their musical careers separately, but came together in 1990 for a series of albums, before being signed to Charming Yet Ill Records in 2001, for three-bob and a packet of pork scratchings.

Bill’s last album – did he know something we didn’t?

It has hit the head office of Charming Yet Ill records particularly hard. Dayne-Z, the company’s Managing Director and heroin-addled rap guru, had this to say.

“I honestly don’t know what to say. I needed at least another two Bentley EP’s to pad out an already sorry-looking back catalogue, and now the bugger’s gone and done himself a mischief. What a selfish git.”

Well quite. Thankfully, some of the other CYI artists have chipped in with slightly more constructive responses to the bad news. Tim Hull, the creative mind behind the electro/industrial project The Choir Invisible has contributed these kind words.

“I am moved to the point of laughter to hear about the passing of such a prodigiously fat wanker. He was absolutely the most horrible obese man I’ve ever had the misfortune to have met, but having said that, and having gone through his iMac, I now have more than enough music to plagiarise an entirely new career, possibly with Dayne-Z on board for the ride! I can’t thank Bill enough, although honestly, it would have been easier to have just nicked his idea’s for free, rather than spending all that money on grease and a dodgy ladder.

“Anyway, you can see that I have a lot to do right now, so would you mind terribly if I told you all to fuck off?”

A true gentleman, certainly befitting of the CYI brand. And speaking of befitting characters, Norman Groves had this to say.

“Bill and I have been firm friends for many a year now, I remember many delightful things that we shared. The Four Marks Winter Olympics, pickle-whittling, all those sorts of things. And the ale. Oh the ale… [sniffs and chokes back tears]… I’m dreadfully sorry. It’s hit me particularly hard. I have plans though. Oh yes. I have a good length of rope, some bolt-croppers and waders. You know, just in case the grave-soil is particularly sodden.”

And so, dear friends, I hope that you’ll all don your best rugby tie, pour yourselves a pint of ale and chase the slowest of the fast women in a tribute to a mammoth man-mountain of musical mirth. A majestic maestro of melody. A massively magnificent muso. I give you…

Mr. William E. Bentley III (Rest in Peas, right next to the potatoes).

How Not To Get A Job pt.2

Following the recent trouble with the hacking of PSN (PlayStation Network), Tiffany Jacobs applies for the job of Online Engagement Manager for the UK’s branch of Sony Computer Entertainment Europe.

Good morning/evening/brunch,

I am writing to apply for the Online Engagement Manager’s position that I recently saw online. The mere fact that I saw it online means that I am obviously a good choice for an Online Engagement Manager. I managed to get engaged once to my boyfriend Hank, but after a while he decided that I was too high maintenance and kicked me to the curb. Please allow me to tell you a bit about myself, as I’m sure you’re all keen to know.

I, like many Americans, was born in the USA, where computers were first invented in the late 1990′s by Bill Gates. But you know that. I got my first computer (an AMSTRAD) at the age of 7. It had the cassette tape games and the loading times were approximately 25 mins to 3 hours, which is around the same time that it takes to download a 3MB update from your network on my crappy internet connection.

Since then I have become an avid gamer. My favourite games are World of Warcraft, Super Mario Bros and Wii Fit (obviously). I also have that new movement sensor thing for my 360. I have never owned a Playstation, as the controllers are too small for my large hands. When the rumble pack is on it’s like trying to hold an injured pigeon. I had considered grafting my fingers to the buttons onto the controller so I could play with ease and then buy a PS3, but initial tests proved fruitless, and I was thrown out of my local branch of GAME for getting superglue on their stock.

Despite these set-backs, I believe that I would be perfect for the job. Here’s why:

I believe to be as competitive as your offered salary, provided the competition is tired from Zerg-rushing Japanese kids online at 3am.

I own an iPhone, which as you know is the pinnacle of gaming technology. I even have Doom on it. It’s awesome.

My last job was as game tester for a well-known jigsaw company, and it was my job to remove one piece from each box, in the top-right, so anyone who planned on framing the puzzle upon completion would find it as irritating as finding out that their credit card details have been hacked into on some gaming network.

I haven’t attached a CV, as I’m confident enough that you will snap me up for the job. I have enclosed a picture of me playing my favourite game, Simon’s Quest on the NES.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Peace out,

Tiff. xxx

I haven’t heard back yet, but I’d expect that my application is now sitting on some hacker’s hard drive.

UPDATE 11/05/11 from an aggravated “Tiffany”

Dear ‘Tiffany’

I find it quite galling that you would use my picture in various job-applications, as well as my real name.

You clearly know a lot about me, my gaming habits, where I was born and all about my somewhat fractured relationship with Hank.

While I understand that you are clearly a confused and broken soul, I want you to know that if I get any more emails or phonecalls from various lawyers I will be passing on your contact details to them, as quite frankly I am sick of being sued by ‘the hands guy’ from the Nintendo picture, or ‘red bikini taking off the bottoms girl’. Although I am a little pleased that she contacted me, as it made Hank be quite friendly to me in order to get at my converted Amstrad.

Agitated;

Tiffany Jacobs

Online Dating with Thomas

Yes, you read that correctly. Everyone’s most-trusted love guru, Thomas, has once again put himself on the market. This time, he tries his hand at internet dating. Valuable lessons are contained within.

About me, your Adonis

Hello, my name is Thomas, pleased to meet you. Thanks for reading my profile, I hope that you find it refreshing to read an honest profile, completely free of boasting and pretention. Allow me to tell you a little about myself.

I am 46 years old and I am a sex-god. I am the most amazing love-deity in known history. If there were a contest for sex gods on Mount Olympus I would definitely be the winner. It’s simply a fact, and a burden that I have to carry to my grave. If, by some crazy luck there were any doubt about my prowess in the bedroom (or indeed on the dance floor), the heathen would be struck down by lightning bolts in the shape of flaming dildos, showing the wrath of my spunky retribution.

The kind of girl I am looking for is the kind who sees past the black-rimmed glasses and recognises the agonising pain of one who so far has been destined to remain alone in life and love, because most mortal women simply cannot handle the Thomasmeister. That’s what I introduce myself as when I’m sliding across the dance floor like a lubed-up, corduroy-clad mongoose, ready to entrap any weary snakes that I may come across.

She must be sexy, tall (at least 4′ 2″), with hair either blonde, brunette, redhead or dyed a strange colour in-keeping with the times, and have a love of all the things the kids are into these days. I am into extreme water-sports, and extreme ironing, at which I am ace. I can do all my shirts (including the starching of the collars) in under three hours, and never once did I use the extra steam thingy on the iron itself.

Also, breasts are a necessity, so please have those. I really want to find out what they look like in real life, and what they feel like. My friend Justin, who I meet in the park to smoke fags with says they can feel like a stress ball, so I’d like to try that out too.

My ideal woman is between 18 and 25, although honestly anyone up to 55 will do. In fact the older the better as they’ll be more proficient at looking after mother, (who spends all of her time in bed, the lazy cow.) Preferably please don’t have kids, as I find them irritating and they smell funny. Unless they are grown-ups, in which case that’s either fine, or very weird (for me, as I would be dating you).

I keep in such good shape by flexing my muscles in the mirror for a minimum of two hours each morning. I do it in my pants, so if you’re lucky enough to hook up with me, you may get to see that.

I am, of course, a gentleman, and I would buy my ideal woman some flowers from the petrol station for our first date at Pizza Hut. I have vouchers. If you don’t like pizza you can always eat the salad. If you don’t drink that’s a plus for me, as the refills on the soft drinks are free.

My interests include:
Disco-dancing and strutting my stuff, my cat Sprinkles, nylon shirts, corduroy, tripping on the cord to my mum’s dialysis machine and eventually plugging it back in, foreign films about girls with big bazookas (and large boobs too.)

So, does this sound like you? Want to take your chances where all others have failed before? You bet your cute bums you do! Write me an email, drop me a message and I’ll make you the envy of your friends. Probably.

I look forward to meeting you, and thanks for reading!

REPLY No.1
You handsome beast.. ok so what do you really look like? I mean without the syrup, the stick on tache, and rubber nose let alone the 1970′s starsky n hutch style of attire and glasses!! If that really is you I do believe under your disguise you are a man of at least 78 years and the nylon corduroy dancing trousers gives the game all away… Bless that man where ever he is .. he looks like a spy from the plot of pink panther.. good grief I need a drink !! XX

REPLY FROM THOMAS
It has been said that I’ve driven women to drink, which I can only assume is a good thing. My friend Justin, who I hang around with outside Tesco smoking B&H Silvers, says that women who drink a lot often let you touch them under their jumpers. As such a sex god, you can imagine that it’s quite a cross to bear when even getting close to women makes them lose control, obviously overcome with repressed sexual urges. They often start screaming uncontrollably and running away from me, which makes me feel like one of The Beatles when they got off the plane in America. I understand that you don’t quite believe that it’s me in the picture, because of the pure handsomeness. But listen, sweet-cheeks, I can assure you that it’s me. I have spent years of my life working on my rugged and buff appearance. My mother says that my moustache is very handsome and reminds her of Tom Selleck in Magnum PI. I don’t know what that is because my television is broken, but he sounds like a stud. When I comb my hair to the side, I look like Gary Oldman in Dracula, but the bit where he is in red armour, not when he’s hanging from the ceiling by his feet, or when he has the hair that looks like a bum. Do you like the idea of Pizza Hut? I went there once with my friend Norman, he swallowed one of his own teeth and had to be given the Heimlich. It flew across the room and landed in someone’s drink, but they didn’t notice and then swallowed it. They needed to be given the Heimlich. You can probably see where this is going.

ANOTHER REPLY
I suppose I am to be impressed you can spell Heimlich(so good you typed it twice).. which I am of course!, If only because most of the jokers on here cant spell “anyfink at all and speshully big or forin werds”.. except of course “babe” they are usually quite good at that one..oink oink wink wink…

ANOTHER REPLY FROM THOMAS
I’m very sorry to have to break this to you, but I’m afraid that I cannot continue emailing you like this. Firstly, you have not left a space between the word “Heimlich” and the open bracket in the first sentence, and you seem to be unaware that an ellipsis has three points, not just two. I am disheartened by this flagrant disregard for our wonderful Mother Tongue, and it’s lucky that we’re not on our first date right now, because I would be forced to throw my pint of Creme de Menthe all down your horrid polyester blouse. GOOD DAY!

REPLY No.2
Hey sexy Fancy showing me some of your Moves

REPLY FROM THOMAS Hello, I read your profile and I must say that I think you fit what I’m looking for almost exactly. I’d say that there is at least a 37.44% chance that we would probably get on well, if you don’t spontaneously erupt into a ball of flame upon meeting someone as mind-blowingly hot as me. I am a big fan of banter, (which we all know is the politically-correct way of saying “I like acting like a twat.”) I am also very into motor bicycles, especially the ones with three wheels. I had one when I was a small boy, growing up in rural Manchester, as I did. I once ran over a pigeon when I was riding shotgun on my friend Justin’s 50cc Yamaha. It sounds like a hairdryer in a wind tunnel, but on the plus side it has a selection of fantastic 80′s drum beats built-in, not to mention the 18 keyboard sounds, which all sounds like a Casio digital wristwatch having a fight with a ferret in a metal dustbin. I like your dress in your picture. My mother has some curtains like that. My cat, Sprinkles, wee’d all over them the other day, and the lazy bitch just got me to clean them rather than doing it herself.

Thomas has told The Lollocaust! that he will continue his search for “The One”, so check back here soon.

Album Review – “An Audible Jocularity”

October 2010, Hampshire.
So in between writing numerous drafts for blogs that will never get used (due to being utter guff), I tend to drown my sorrows with music, simply music. And cider. Simply music and cider. Oh, and masturbation. Lots of frivilous, horrendous, shame-enducing wanking. And crying about it. While wanking. Simply music, cider and cranking. Anyway, I was recently contacted by the head of CYI (Charming Yet Ill) Records, Ian Paul Daynes, who asked me if I could review the latest album by Stew-jazz legends, Bill Bentley and Norman Groves. And here it is.

The Back-story
During the phone call with Lord Daynes, he told me that “getting the opportunity to review a Charming Yet Ill album should be likened to winning the lottery, being sucked off by Katy Perry or meeting Jesus.” At least, that’s what I thought he said. I couldn’t really hear him over the noise of giggling women and booming hip-hop. Knowing him, he was sat in a hot-tub with a bevy of exotic women, champagne in glasses shaped like dollar symbols, diamond cufflinks sparkling in the midday sun as it reflects off the Miami skyline, waves lapping on the sand of his private beach. He also said that I would have to collect the album personally. This of course got me very excited, and I immediately cancelled my back-waxing appointments and packed my bags.

You can imagine my disappointment when I received the second phone call, and was told that I would be meeting Lord Daynes at his manor in the wilds of the Shire. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was enjoying a mojito in the departure lounge in Gatwick at the time. Damn that Dayne-Z.

Three hours, one crazy taxi driver and a forty-five minute slog knee-deep through cow poo later, I arrived at “Casa del Daynes” (which turned out to be a caravan in a field, with a dog tethered to a post with baling twine.) I hadn’t been this disappointed since I was mid-toss and then saw Lady GaGa’s willy.

Lord Daynes flung wide the door to his “crib” and beckoned me in with a gnarled claw. What I had mistaken for girly laughter on the phone was revealed to be his mother (or perhaps sister) rocking back and forward on her knees, surrounded by empty gin bottles. I tentatively sat on a bean-bag full of straw and he passed me a decidedly suspicious jiffy bag. Inside was a signed photo and a CD. I thanked Daynes and promised to get around to the review when I could be bothered and had got sick of watching re-runs of Jerry Springer, before leaving him to wallow in his shithole of a squat. For good measure I shot the dog with a BB gun just to put it out of it’s misery.

The dross in question.

First Impressions

Late February 2011
Upon reopening the jiffy-bag and spilling its contents onto the table, the first thing I noticed was the artwork. It’s a modest picture of the two artists, Bill Bentley and Norman Groves in front of their local pub, The Bull. The two are represented in cartoon form, and the artwork is possibly one of the only redeeming features. The paper on which it was printed looks like reconstituted paper towels and smelled faintly of wee. The ink was smudged in places. The photograph that came with it was Bill and Norm circa 1964, after a fishing trip, and was signed in marker. I have included below the liner notes, as it contains an insight into the horrific traumas endured during the albums production, and should serve as a clear reminder that no one should EVER attempt to become a music superstar, and to stick to futile blog-writing instead.

A MESSAGE FROM BILL BENTLEY

“Dear Listener,

Thank you for downloading mine and Norm’s latest opus, ‘An Audible Jocularity’.

We have spent most of the last few months in the shed at the bottom of Norm’s
garden, making sure that the album was nurtured to perfection. We were very
lucky to have had some of the greatest names in UK music join us on the
album, as well as a couple of local hoodlums, namely Ray von Blaze. He lives in
a caravan near the village green.

We have laboured tirelessly over this album, and it’s been quite an emotional
journey, for me especially. As you will become aware, I lost my darling wife
of 49 years, Noël Lavinia Bentley during the recording of the album. I am deeply
saddened, although I must admit that I only noticed when she didn’t bring me my
stew. And although the sex stayed the same, the dishes are piling up in
the sink.

We hope that you enjoy the album, and why not pop down to the village hall of
a Thursday night, Norm does a weekly stew jazz evening so he can woo the
ladies, drink himself silly on the sherry and pass out in his chair by the fire.

Legend.

With love and gravy,

Bill “Bull” Bentley III (Hampshire, England.)”

All music and lyrics by Bill Bentley and Norman Groves 2010
Ray von Blaze appears courtesy of his mum. Dayne-Z appears courtesy of himself.
In memory of Noël Lavinia Bentley (1932-2010) R.I.P

All tracks are copyright 2010 Charming Yet Ill Records.

The Album Itself
The album starts off at the Stew Lounge, at Bentley Village Hall. Those of you familiar with this increasingly famous hamlet nestled in the wilds of the Shire will know that it is renowned for its village fête, as well as the pickle-growers association, of which Norman is the chairman. The album is introduced by two of Bentley’s more famous newscasters, Jonathan Hardcastle and Eric Davis. The crowd goes wild as Bill and Norm strut out onto the stage and deliver a pounding (and very updated) live rendition of their 1946 classic “An Evening With Bill and Norm” that then moves straight on into “Live at the Stew Lounge”. It would appear that the pair have tried their hardest to make the first few songs on this recording sound live, though if I didn’t know better I’d have said it was recorded in the same caravan in which I picked up the CD. Quite how they managed to get at least two-hundred thousand people (not to mention Jonathan and Eric) in there is beyond comprehension, so I have to admit I’m probably just trying to pick holes.

One thing that really does absolutely shine about this record though, is the guest artists. I had to guzzle down a few glasses of Tizer to stop my mouth from going dry, for the wit and humour surely has that effect. Notable guests include the now world-famous Dr. Leo Hawkins, Emeritus Professor of Sausageology at the University of Hampshire. Being a particularly learned lot, you probably don’t need me to tell you about his amazing discoveries into the healing properties of the sausage, particularly moose bratwurst. But that’s probably for another blog.

Also appearing is a talented young MC named Ray von Blaze, who despite being from America really does sound like he’s lived in Medstead his whole life. The song on which he appears, “We Can’t Abide The Gypsies” tells a heart-warming tale of social outcasts encroaching on the lives of rural village folk, pinching wheels from cars and generally becoming a nuisance, before the brave Bill Bentley rides in to save the day with an incredibly waxed moustache and a veritable arsenal of musketry.

Nearing the middle of the album we meet a troubled individual named Derek Collins, plagued by “fits”, who has evidently had an awful time while visiting his dentist. At least, that’s how it appears at first. By the end of the track the listener is left wondering if they are losing the plot themselves. I couldn’t understand why a dentist would be trying to chloroform an old man. My dentist, Tiffany Jacobs, is a lovely young lady and would never do such a thing. I always leave her practise feeling elated from the happy gas, but walking like John Wayne. I have no idea why, but her sense of dental hygiene is impeccable.

It was about 20 minutes into the album that I realised why Dayne-Z had asked me to collect the album in person. His appearance on the album is entitled “CYI” and seems to be a diss track of sorts. He rambles on incoherently about someone called “Mister G the Gentle Sublimer” which makes absolutely no fucking sense. I believe that Dayne-Z was trying to show me that no matter how much hate you have towards someone, it rarely makes the world a better place, and that to hate is merely the short-road to living in a decrepit mobile home, reeking of beetroot and shitting your pants from excessive heroin use. Perhaps he knew that I would chronicle his unfortunate downfall into poverty while reviewing this awful record, and is trying to tell us, in his own tragic way, to all do our part to eradicate hatred and spite from the world, piece by piece.

Fucking hippie.

I could go on and on about how utterly shite this record is, but frankly I have Jeremy Kyle to watch. I’ll just give it five out of five stars to shut Charming Yet Ill up and get on with my day.

I will leave you with a picture of me with my signed photograph of Bill and Norm, which I proudly framed, before throwing onto the fire in disgust.

If you really want to subject yourself to this mockery of real music, please click RIGHT HERE to listen and download. Enjoy, suckers.

Happy Birthday Duck-Face!

As you may know, the star of some of my posts, Tiffany Jacobs has been a busy girl recently. She’s applied to be a stripper, and offered her commiseration to a grieving nephew. However, her real life namesake, Tiffany Morris, has been just as busy. As it’s her birthday today (and I’m such a good friend), I thought I’d let you know a little more about her. Everything in the following post is 100% true. Kind of.

The Early Years.
I have known Tiffany for about 6 years now, when she was living back in good ol’ Blighty, before fucking off to the USA like a traitor. Just kidding. But she is in California now. Here is all the background knowledge I have about Tiff, for as far as I can remember.

“What the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

Tiffany was born on this day, 22 years ago. She was born in a tree on Hampstead Heath and raised by squirrels. This is the only reason I can think of as to why she loves nuts so much, and hiding things in holes halfway up trees. By the age of four she was already an accomplished hunter-gatherer, accruing an enormous harvest of acorns and making her squirrelly parents very proud. When not gathering foodstuffs and frolicking around in the undergrowth, she would spend her days making pictures out of twigs, Mars bar wrappers and bits of string. She even learned how to make her own clothes, using sustainable resources from her woodland home.

By the age of eleven, however, Tiff felt that her true calling was the city of London, and moved there with her parents in the autumn. For a year she enjoyed the tranquility and calm that can only be found by surrounding yourself with a city full of intolerant, rude and horribly impatient people. Everything was perfect for Tiff and her squirrel-folk. Until disaster struck!

That Fateful Day.
When Tiff was 12 she was walking back through the rain from a movie with her parents. I think it was the My Little Pony movie. I forget what she told me, but I’m pretty sure it was that, or Jaws: The Revenge. Either way it involved cute cartoon animals, or a giant man-eating shark.

Anyway, the party was accosted at gunpoint and though the battle was bravely fought by Tiff’s furry mum and dad, alas they did perish at the hands of the mugger. All the killer got for his dastardly deed was a copy of Hustler and a few broken cigarettes. Left alone, tears welled in Tiffy’s tiny child-eyes at the sight of her parents laying dead on the street in front of her, their fluffy tails sodden and the light gone from their eyes.

Their nuts rolling in puddles.

Heart-breaking isn’t it. It was at that very moment that Tiff’s life changed forever. Fueled with a hatred for the cities human filth and turbo-charged with an estrogen high, she swore to forevermore protect the streets and the innocent people who walk them. She dedicated her life to mastering the ancient arts of Kung-Fu, meditation, and ballet. She made a costume. She worked diligently, mastering the awesome powers of science and utilising the very latest in modern technology, built-in underground nests by specially grown ants. With hats on. She became what every evil-doer fears. Her pouty face is known throughout the criminal underworld, both feared and revered. After moving to the United States she began working in the Colonial Division of the Shire Protection League, and has remained there ever since.

She is…DUCK-FACE!*

*Absolutely no Photoshop has been applied to Duck-Face’s lips.

Facts about Duck-Face.
For as long as she can remember, Duck-face has always wanted to be a Broadway performer, but couldn’t get the costumes on over her enormous plumage and webbed-feet.

Duck-Face’s arch-enemy, The Toothless Moose, is actually not a moose at all, though he really has no teeth. He relies on his unique ‘Halitosis’ attack to bring his victims to their knees.

The Colonial Division of the Shire Protection League is based in San Jose, California. It recently suffered a terrible blow to morale after two of its members, Milk-Man and Paper-Boy were killed in a freak mix-up of super-powers. Milk-Man was suffocated under a giant stack of paper, while Paper-Boy drowned in milk while eating his Lucky Charms. Not so lucky after all, it seems.

My Tribute to Duck-Face (or, me pulling a silly face.)

Happy birthday sweetheart! MWAH!

More Than I Can Chew

I apologise to readers who are overweight, and “can’t help it”. Like, you “can’t help” STUFFING YOUR FUCKING FACES. Just put the fork down, fatties

Never, EVER forget to tuck in the label. How embarrassing. Think of the children.

My name is Monica, and I am a fat-fighter. I don’t actually fight it, but if I did, I would be all over its flubbery arse like Cammie from Street Fighter. POW POW POW!

9:25am
My alarm just went off. I think it’s here but it’s probably buried somewhere. I used the handy contraption that was fitted by this lovely young man called Roman, (he calls it a “Pick-U-Up”) and hoisted myself out of bed to try and find the damn clock. I got distracted by a piece of pizza I found stuck to the wall. Mmmmmmm, pizza. The pepperoni was a bit stiff, but needs must. Normally I wouldn’t get up at all, but there’s a half-full box of Mars bar fun-size on top of the telly. They’re fun, because they don’t touch the sides. Anyway, found the damn thing and threw it at the wall. The noise it made when it slowly died was like a drowning puppy. Or delicious pudding sliding down a feeding tube. Mmmmm, pudding.

9:52am
Light breakfast today. Just half a grapefruit and some dry toast. With five fried duck eggs. And a leg of lamb. I’m making real progress, I can tell. I don’t make the bathroom scales implode anymore. Doctor Beau will be really impressed with how much weight I’ve lost. I lost a five-pound note once while I was standing at the fridge, and I’m damn sure I saw it flutter behind the chocolate mousse. Mmmmmm, mousse. After eating the mousse, and the celery sticks (health-conscious), I discovered it between my third and fourth abdominal flap. It smelled like pork loin. Mmmmm, pork. I have to get dressed for my big ‘date’ with Doctor Beau, and I know that with all the weight I’ve lost I can finally capture his heart! I just love his mullet. Mmmmmmm, mullet.

10:13am
I can’t find Sprinkles. His bowl is full, and he has more than enough biscuits. I even tried coaxing him out with some catnip that I found in the cupboard, but I ate it. Mmmmmmm, nippy.

01:12pm
HOLY SHIT I FELL ASLEEP. My chin tastes like butter. The last thing I remember is making a snack for the road – nothing big. Just a hamper of chocolate rice cakes. Like that’s going to last long. Monica, don’t push it, think of Doc Beau. That’s what I keep telling myself. And he’s right, I won’t ever get to fit into that bikini this summer if I don’t cut out the “moose-knuckle”. Not sure what he means, but he’s the professional.

03:46pm
Just waddled back. Took the door off the hinges, but thankfully B&Q have a sale on. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. It’s lucky that the girls in Mortal Kombat don’t pick a fight with me, I’d have ‘em. But then again, I look awesome in my Cammie costume. Acid spit my arse!

06:37pm
Just found Sprinkles. The poor bugger had been hiding on the couch the whole time. He was difficult to spot, what with all the Domino’s boxes and Chinese takeaway meals strewn everywhere. To be fair, sitting on him probably didn’t help.

08:01pm
Doctor Beau just called. Apparently I have something called “Compulsive Eating Disorder”. Doesn’t sound too bad, I mean, I don’t need to eat. I just finished eating Sprinkles, although he was a bit gristly. The leftover pizza sauce helped. Never let an opportunity go, that’s what mum used to say. Having said that, she died of a massive coronary. The only weird thing is that when I look at myself in the mirror, my back’s saddle-bags look like boobs. In fact, they’re a lot better than my front boobs. I’m so terribly confused.

9:39pm
Time for bed, good night world, I am absolutely certain that I can squeeze into my costume now. I will make Doctor Beau proud. Oh… his mullet. Mmmmmm Mullet.

There’s Something About Brian

Or… why you should never put your email address on Facebook. Let’s wind some people up.

My condolences
…
From: Tiffany Jacobs
…
To: *******@hotmail.com

Hi Martin,

Just wanted to say I’m really sorry to hear about your uncle, Brian. I know how you must be feeling, my uncle passed away a few months ago, after a long fight against Alzheimers.

If you need me for anything, just let me know.

Love,

Tiff

Re: My condolences
…
From:
*******@hotmail.com
…
To: Tiffany Jacobs

Sorry, who are you? I think you have the wrong person.

Martin

Re: Re: My condolences
…
From: Tiffany Jacobs
…
To: *******@hotmail.com

I’m pretty sure that your uncle’s name was Brian, that’s why I sent you the email, I am truly saddened for you.

When my uncle Stephen died I was a mess for weeks, but thanks to my friends showing me they cared (emails, cards, taking me on a four-day drug-fuelled bender and waking up naked in a phone-box in Scotland), I was able to cope.

Right before he died the Alzheimer’s was so bad that Uncy S would sit in his chair silently for hours, before suddenly exploding into song, usually something by Danish supergroup Aqua, or The Vengaboys. His renditions of ‘Barbie Girl’ were truly sensational, especially as he did all the voices. I used to take my kids round and the poke my uncle until he would sing and then leap out of his chair and do all the dance moves. It could only have been better if he also had Parkinson’s. He never remembered any of it though, which is why he enjoyed it so much.

Anyway, again, sorry for your loss.

Tiff

Re: Re: Re: My condolences
…
From:
*******@hotmail.com
…
To: Tiffany Jacobs

I meant that I am the wrong person, you must be thinking of someone else. I don’t have an uncle Brian. And what the hell is wrong with you anyway? Jeez.

Re: Re: Re: Re: My condolences
…
From: Tiffany Jacobs
…
To: *******@hotmail.com

Martin,

I know you don’t have an Uncle Brian anymore, that’s why I’m sending you my condolences. I have to say you’re taking his death remarkably well.

At Uncy S’s funeral we were going to have a selection of hymns and poetry readings, but we had to use the kid’s stereo, and little Sally obviously had been messing with it, and we couldn’t get the CD tray open. So we ended up having a collection of children’s TV theme tunes instead of Dvorak and Pachelbel. Spongebob Squarepants seemed to go down the best, with the kids really singing and shouting along. It was tragically hilarious.

Tiff

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: My condolences
…
From:
*******@hotmail.com
…
To: Tiffany Jacobs

Leave me alone! I don’t know who the hell you are just leave me the hell alone you loser.

At this point I used a different email address and emailed him back.

Brian – Not actually deceased.

Apology needed young man.
…
From: Brian St. George
…
To: *******@hotmail.com

Martin,

How can you be so disrespectful. I’ve just been chatting to this nice man named Stephen up here in Heaven, and he says you’ve been very rude to his niece, Tiffany. I think you should write her back and apologise. It’s the done thing. And another thing, lying about me being dead huh? You little rat-bastard. You can sort that out as well.

Those things aside, while I’m here I guess I should tell you about this place. It’s huge! They have a bar and a pool table and everything. Free booze too.

To be honest, I was quite worried about getting in because of our “special times” when we were camping back in 1998, but St. Peter told me that as Heaven is predominatly Catholic it’s hardly a sin anymore. In fact, they liken the severity to things like ‘not opening a door for a lady’, and ‘farting in a lift and blaming it on someone else’. So I was very relieved.

Anyway, just apologise to that Tiffany girl. She seems nice. I’m packing my tent and sleeping bag for a jolly with a few choirboys.

Be good, or I’ll haunt your ass to your dying day.

Best wishes,

Uncle Brian.

Strangely I never got a response.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

Like all children who grew up in the magical place that is The Shire, I had an interesting and varied childhood. Here are some childhood-related things that I’d like to share, all (meaning most) being completely true. After all, the 80′s were serious beeezness.

Thundercats.

When I was 7 years old, I had a VHS copy of the original pilot episode of Thundercats. I remember little about the plot, but I do remember that Cheetara was naked for pretty much the whole thing. It made me feel very confused, but strangely excited at the same time. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom back then, a habit which seems to have continued into adulthood. Now I lie awake at night wondering why she had no nipples. If anything, she should have had eight.

Actual screenshot – Photoshop notwithstanding.

Transformers.

A couple of weeks ago it was my son’s sixth birthday. When I asked him what he wanted, he said that he wanted a real Transformer. I was a little taken aback by the request, which he had clearly not thought through, (though I am immensely proud of him for taking after his old man and planning world domination from such an early age.)

The main problem is that if I could somehow procure a real-life shapeshifting robot the size of a house, is that I would keep it. I would keep it disguised as a Ford Capri, or a robot moose, which no one would question, as everyone round our way has one. What they don’t have though, is a robot moose that transforms into a massive moosy killing machine with lazers on it. If my spawn had one as well, there would no doubt be some kind of giant metallic turf-war, and half the houses on the road would be squashed by gigantic HOOVES OF DOOM.

In the end though, I buckled and parted with my money in the way that only parents can for their children. He got his real transformer, and I settled for a smug victory.*

Probably not what he actually wanted.

Cow Pat Golf.

When I was about 11 years old, my friend Simon and I were bored, so we grabbed the golf clubs and headed into the field at the bottom of the garden to smack some balls into oblivion. My younger brother wanted to play along with us, but being spiteful little shits we thought we’d just torture him a bit, (we get on fine now, but he’s bigger than me and could kick my arse.)

Approximately 15 minutes later he was back at the house, covered in cow shit that we had applied via the medium of a good golf swing. The rest is fairly hazy, but I remember my mum getting very cross.

My Imaginary Friend.

I didn’t have an imaginary friend when I was a boy, because I was probably too busy fawning over Cheetara from the Thundercats. Anyway, I could have one now I’m all grown up, I expect it would be a lot more fun.

My imaginary friend would probably be a less attractive version of myself, so I don’t lose any street-cred when hanging out with him. He would like all the stuff that I do and we would hang out all the time and play video games. We would share opinions on movies, books and comics. We would burn copies of Twilight together, get drunk together, cry and have manly non-gay life-buddy hugs. We would have such great fun and be practically inseparable. Things would be great for a while, but as we all know, things change.

One day after work I’d come home and find my other half in bed with him. She would be riding him like a pisshead rides a mechanical bull at a corporate team-building exercise, but with less coordination. The discovery would cause me to go completely nuts, possibly standing in the doorway wearing a blank face of disbelief. I would curse and throw stuff at him as he scrabbled to get out of the bed, all the time saying that she meant nothing to him and it’s not what it looks like.

Inevitably he would trip while trying to get his trousers on and bang his head on the bedside cabinet, snuffing his imaginary lid. My other half, now hysterical would be panicking and saying things like “Oh my god, you killed him!”, “You monster!” and “He was way better than you anyway, shagging you was like trying to push an oyster into the cashpoint!”

Being the bigger man in the situation, I would slap her and throw his imaginary arse out of the bedroom window to make it look like he fell, before calling the police. I would never forgive my lady, nor my ex-best friend for the betrayal and would become a recluse. Realising that I was clinically insane for getting so upset over something that never actually happened, she would leave me for a dental assistant named Kevin and go to live in a house that wasn’t covered in dog hair, despite the fact that the dog died several years before.

Actually, that all sounds horrible. And now I know why adults shouldn’t have imaginary friends. It’s inevitable that you’ll either end up being cheated on or you’ll become religious. And neither of those things really appeal to me.

*I actually bought him LEGO.

Thomas – God of Love

Hello, my name is Thomas. I am 45 years old and I am a sex god. I am the most amazing love-deity in known history. If there were a contest for sex gods on Mount Olympus I would definitely be the winner. Because I am such an amazing lover I have decided to let you in on how to score with all the fitties at your local club, in a handy step-by-step guide. I am the shizzle.

Step One – Looking The Part.

The first thing you have to do is make sure that you look as sexy as possible. Of course you’re not going to ever look as sexy as me, but that’s because I’m a modern-day Casanova. If I take off my glasses I look like Brad Pitt. I spend at least two hours every day standing in my underpants, flexing my biceps in the mirror. My cat Sprinkles usually walks out of the room when I do that, but that’s just because he’s jealous of my hunky bod.

I then choose something to wear by rifling through my expansive wardrobe. I have a very neat wardrobe because my Mum folds my clothes and puts them away for me. I would do my own washing, but the lazy cow just sits in bed all day anyway. I tripped on the lead to her dialysis machine once. I plugged it back in again a few hours later but she was pretty cross.

Anyway, you should always choose something that isn’t too scratchy, in case you get to bump uglies later in the evening. I don’t know what that actually means, but if it involves fighting then I usually pretend I have to make a phone call and run away. You can’t risk damaging a face as rugged as mine. I find that a pair of polyester slacks and a tank-top are a good choice. Always clean the lenses on your specs too. Mine are broken at the moment, but as they are black frames, I used electrical tape to fix them. Women don’t spot things like that when you bust moves like me.

Step Two – The Approach.

I always find that having a drink at the bar first is a good idea when stalking your prey… although they usually come to me. I’m a 100% prize fanny-magnet, but I’d expect that you may need some Dutch courage.

I like to stand with my back to the bar, with one elbow resting on the counter. I have my anorak slung over my shoulder. I saw some men in the C&A catalogue doing that, although they obviously copied me. Look around the bar while sipping something that shows how manly you are. Galliano, or a cocktail. The best cocktails all have dirty names, like ‘sex on the beach’, ‘slippery nipple’ and ‘minty-minge’. Anything with umbrellas and sparklers are a must.

When you have spotted a “piece of ass” that you like, put your drink on the bar and walk over to her. By the way, I’m using these phrases to show you how amazingly hip I am. I wouldn’t recommend typing “piece of ass” into Google, because there are a lot of pictures of women and donkeys for some reason. I wasn’t too shocked though, I have been to a nudist beach in Southend, although I didn’t take off my clothes. It was cold and I didn’t want anyone to be embarrassed by my huge man-hose. So yeah, walk over to her.

Step Three – The Line.

I expect that you’ve probably tripped over your turn-ups by now, but not me. I glide over the dance floor like a hockey puck covered in baby oil. Anyway, pick yourself up and apologise for spilling mango juice and vodka over her, you amateur. I have never done such a thing, and if I did, I would flash my winning smile, the one where my moustache completely rises up and reveals my teeth. Mum says my moustache makes me look handsome, like Dick Van Dyke. I don’t know who he is but he sounds like a right lady-killer.

Try and deliver the best chat-up line you have. I usually try something jive and hip, like “your legs would make a lovely scarf”, or “your eyes are like two olympic-sized pools of loveliness.” As an award-winning pussy-puller, my lines never fail to woo.

Step Four – Taking Them Home.

Because I am a gentleman, I never try to touch a lady’s garden on a first date, and I’ve never got as far as taking them home. Although they always act like they are rejecting me, I know that they are desperate to get me into bed. It’s probably my haircut. You will probably get rejected for real, because to be as sexy as me takes ages. Well, I was just born this way, but it will take YOU years.

Once you do get her home though, remember to clear away your My Little Ponies, and make room for some candles and incense. I find that putting on a romantic cd is a good idea too, it simultaneously sets the mood and drowns out my mum shouting for her bed-bath through the wall. Something like MC Hammer, Milli Vanilli or Slayer should work just fine.

Always lock the door behind you once she’s entered your love-boudoir. You don’t want to let her leave, as she will not get to experience the pleasure that only you (under my tuition) can now provide. Steal your mum’s bedpan and pop it under the bed in case your girl needs it, and it’s probably best to hide her mobile phone too.

With these expert tips, you will now be well on your way to being as enamouring as me. Well, not quite, but you’ll be on the right path.