Star Oscwars

In wearing unusual clothes, they were the all-star pupil,

It’s 1970’s freak out club, Mott The “is it wrong to assume they were outed as Cosby-style pervs just because thery were famous in the 70’s” Hoople

Look at those trousers and tell me they weren’t lacing Capri-Suns with barbituates.

I write this as I taxi across the Heathrow tarmac, listening to overly optimistic sentiments about me surviving a 500 mile-an-hour slam into the Alps if only I keep my phone’s 3G off.

Air travel has long since lost all sense of adventure and discovery for me and now compares unfavourably to my time spent on the terlet (see my last blog post for discussion of the term). On the toilet at least, I’m losing weight. Plane journeys merely swell me up with a mixture of fluids pooling in my feet, full fat mayo on the sandwiches and swiss-watch predictable gusts from my own airborn fart-factory.

The pilot’s talking. My arse apparently can tell where I am and is attempting to respond.

We have new people in work, fresh-faced and clean-limbed, strutting their youth around the office like I’m sure I never did and making me rain tears down upon my handheld mirror as I wonder what ever happened to the little boy who dreamed of winning the lotto and giving his single-parent mother a competitively-priced loan.

Actor Jim Carrey as Ebenezer Scrooge

Me: Aged 6.

That’s not a joke by the way. I told my mother that. It’s among a great many things my family has never forgotten about, including how once I brought shame upon myself by being excited to see a girl I liked (about the only female in 40 miles who had no direct blood relation to me and wasn’t my teacher) and how I pointed out to my grandmother’s ailing friend that they over-focused their conversation on what I termed “body function problems.”

If you’ve ever met an Irish person over 60, you know I was bloody right too.

So my place of work is awash with new ideas and recently-opened tins of elbow grease and I have reacted by hopping the first plane out to Turkey. Little known fact, but Turkey is also the name of something that tastes slightly too dry to be a chicken and is a very PC insult. I am also very partial to watching youtube videos of wild turkeys stressing out north american varieties of panicky-moron with the fear they will rub them with their crimson throat-scrotum. Throatum.


Ick festival.

There are certain security concerns related to my current destination. The increasingly authoritarian and religiously demagogic president is increasing pressure on the domestic terrorists/freedomfighters in Kurdistan while Daesh (aka ISIS) are increasing the frequency and aggression of bombings and gun attacks across the nation. So this is a really good time for me to practice my good-guy smile in the plane toilet for those super-virile and nice-penised blokes in the Turkish border security. You guys are the best.

Meg and I have entered the spiralling slide of pain and anxiety that is the post-Christmas diet. There was some hint of the pain to come in the joy I experienced, shucking out a bag of greasy ribs into my microwaveable mini-trough with a song in my increasingly clotted heart that told me, “there’s another week of all-fruit breakfasts there, you delicious bastards.”

Now that I am perpetually hungry, I have just eaten the ever-loving feck out of my tepid portion of aerosludge, accompanied by a meagrely portioned water biscuit. The water biscuit is notable for being less palatable that the individual components of it’s port-manteau name. I hate you waterbiscuit and hope your only son runs away to join a white supremacists. Or the circus. Or a white supremacist-themed circus.

AKA the US Republican Presidential nominees, am I right guys? <snick snack snark>

Attempting to lose weight also means a lot more time spent by me cooking our meals instead of ordering in or eating out. Or meating-out. None of that. The loss of free time is doubly so for Meg as she has to clean up after my increasingly audacious and multi-potted meals.

This made it difficult to find the time to finish off the original Star Wars trilogy in preparation for the 6\10 MOVIE OF A GENERATION. Meg was suitably confused when mid-00’s talent-vacuum Hayden Christensen turned up at the end of Jedi as a ghost to smirk at Luke and say a last goodbye to his acting career and a nervous hello to being an infomercial host for anatomically-correct companion-dolls in his own likeness.

I do like a hyphen don’t I? Don’t answer.

In order to provide you, my loyal reader with value for money and fulfil my mission statement (to inform, invigorate and irrigate) I enclose below the as-yet unannounced results of the first ever Star Oscwars.


Just think, in a year’s time we can say, has it really been a year?

  • Finn, won the most subtle allusion to an inflammatory racial term award with “droid, please”
  • BB8 won the JarJar Binks commemorative award for most obvious attempt to engineer a must-have Christmas toy.
  • Mark Hamill scooped the gong for resentfully phoning it in for the ca$h monay, whch was closely contested by Alec Guiness’s lingering hatred of his own involvement.
  • Finally, forget about all I just said as every award ever goes to Skellig Michael, pride of Kerry, that stony island at the end which makes every other landmass whimper in the admission of their own inadequacy.

Take that Malta.

Hey! Look at that. My dumbass joke awards are more racially balanced than the real Oscars.

Really been staring at this colourless water biscuit for a while. Jesus, Mary and Joseph it’s starting to look pretty good. I’m gonna say I didn’t eat it but we both know what really happened.

Maybe they got more on this plane somewhere? Whaddya mean I need to sit down!?

Hey air bitches!? Heres the 411. Give me all your waterbiscuits or I’m taking this plane and everyone on it to Manchester for a proper cholestrotamity kebab. On naan, shove your bloody pitta.

I’m not myself. 7.5 pounds dropped and counting (with indeterminate amount of that being turd-mass and the ass-gas that I am irrigating this cabin with.) Sorry to have to inform you of my invigorated colon. I didn’t want to, but the reasons are all clearly there in my mission statement.


Star Oscwar of Leek

Terletoner of Leek

His wife’s constant warbling makes her a bit of a pill,


It’s Billy Joel lookalike Rene (Mrs Celine Dion) Angelil

He picked a pretty bad week to pop his clogs eh? But don’t feel too bad, he started that up when she was young. Weird young. Jimmy Page young.

This weekend past, Meg and I shot home for 24 hours of a mini-family reunion. Champagne was quaffed, tiny sausages were placed onto and then eaten from sticks and everyone inhabited a slightly larger volumed space than we last saw each other, myself, very much included.

Depending on how well you know me, you may find in your file that my family is Protestant. This is semi-exotic in the Republic of Ireland with the main differences including we’re very keen on making our own jam, baking generally and our church services lasts slightly longer(extra few lines on the Lord’s Prayer). Though in the mid-20th century, our church was less likely to end up in the middle of an episode of “To Catch a Cardinal”. This Protestanatanism is what I choose to explain the fact that my larger family has some pretty interesting names. There is an Arthur, which gets shortened to Autie. There is an Ernest. Shortened to Ernie. My own dear grandfather’s first name is Victor. Muriel. Myrtle. Valda…

… Xena.

Yes, my grand-uncle Richard is married to a lovely lady by the name of Xena.


Unlike the TV show however, my grand-aunt was not a spin off from the Adventures of Hercules. Though she did have a walk-on in Dr Quinn Medicine Woman (After Dark).

I think it was “Valda” that broke Meg, she ended up deciding that she wasn’t going to learn any more names and came up with one catch-all name for all my other family members she hadn’t met.

“Sheboof.” The name she chose was “Sheboof.”


Which would also be this guy’s nickname if he was in a power couple with himself.

Meg has learned that being with my family requires being Boyled, frequently and thoroughly. This term of her own creation means, you will be presented with a schedule. You will believe this schedule.

This schedule means nothing.

You will not be leaving at the time on the schedule. It will be much earlier. And you will miss lunch. In previous trips Meg has been caught on the hop but she’s starting to develop the prescient second-sight that I learned early on, unconsciously but correctly guessing the real start-times of things.

In a less financially punitive way than her engagement ring, it’s a good way of making her part of the family. Breaking down her resistance to things that make no sense but just are, which is pretty much how I define family anyway. Acceptance of nonsense.

Moving along, I ruined my back and neck on Saturday and did it in a predictably dumdum way. I was on the terlet and…

Oh, an aside. I have been calling the commode the terlet for months, maybe years now, I don’t remember ever starting. It’s mainly because it sounds a bit Tennessee and I like to drop into that accent from time to time ’cause I’m prejudiced against whitey. For example, I don’t eat maccaroni and cheese. I eat cheese maccarone. “Y’all see dat cheese maccarone?” I will say to Meg as we walk down the street. While wandering around with Meg’s family at Christmas, Meg, completely without realising asked her sister where the terlet was. The reaction was one of both incomprehension and disgust. The best part of all this is when others see a glimpse of the too much time we spend on this twat-talk (that’s a phrase of Meg’s that’s taken the opposite journey.)

Anyway I was on the terlet and I found myself reaching for the toilet paper in a strange way that struck me as both very familiar but immediately quite odd. As a lefthander I reached my left arm across my chest and over my right shoulder. That was not quite far enough to reach the paper so I used my right hand to give my left elbow an extra shove to get around to the roll. Text is really not the medium to describe this. Then I asked Meg how she did it, repeating my weird cross-body with righthand-helper technique as example. She said it looked weird and said she just uses her right hand. I attempted this and now I have to turn my entire body to look at things.

Meg has been increasingly influenced by my love of all things current events. Nothing gets me stoked like human rights abuses in the Sinai. She as a result found time to sort out the Republican party’s Donald Trump problem, that he is the unelectable frontrunner who shares none of their opinions and is alienating most of their potential undecided voters. She has sorted this by calling him Donald Chump. Yizzer welcome Yanks.


The Republican Party does in fact need her help, this is their current leader. Imagine what Trump would do to this poindexter. Odds are, attempt to deport and/or marry him. 

While searchinfor the above photo I came across the below. I can’t think of a context to make it relevant to anything else in this blog. But I’m gonna include it anyway.


I now don’t even see this when I look at it. I see all the times I will Google this image to cheer myself up in years to come. 

In a similarly unrelated, but-it’s-my-blog-and-I’ll-write-what-I-want kind of way, my friends from the aul sod have put me onto a wondrously unsettling Youtube account of a young man from my home town who has become a lifestyle coach. People from where I’m from do not normally go down this kinda route. We’re more of a sheep innocculation wholesaler kinda town. Some of them even end up working for he fur trade (imagine that!?) One of the most memorable of his beady-eyed direct-to-camera wafflings is about the empowerment he has attained from total cessation of all his below-beltline activities. He describes the movement as “No Fap” and it’s followers as “Fapsternaughts.” He thinks this is good. And not creepy. Which is what it actually is.

He’s… kind of a scary dude.

In other news, I’m slightly concerned about my aunt Shena (again, Protestant naming rules apply). She’s developed a slightly unhealthy fixation on Prince George, or as he will be known in the future George the Bloodlustful, Deathbringer of the Sandbox. She was very curious about his lunchbox while we were home, wondering outloud whether he’s into Minions. Our reaction is best exemplified by what happened two Christmases ago when she pulled up photos of him on the laptop and started showing them to my deeply unimpressed family. My uncle framed the problem best when he asked, “Why are you showing me photos of a stranger’s child?”

Clearly nonsense. Which I accept.

Terletoner of Leek.



Zsoltoner of Leek

His fluffy beard and silky voice, they really got me thinkin’


That he’s the rarest fairest fellow, it’s Mandy “Montoya” Patinkin

There’s a guy who’s good at his job. He is thing-improver. Add liberally and watch something unsuck.

This has been a major getting back into the old schedule kind of week. Except the old routine no linger fits due to my rapid accrual of girth.In Canada I had a different routine.

A poutine routine.

Having been away from home for Christmas I missed one among many Boyle Christmas traditions. After the final morcel of Christmas dinner has be shovelled into our gaping gullets, my grandfather glances around the table and declares: “That’s it for another year now lads. Fucking austerity-drive.” Though intended to kill the jollity of the table (and increase his own) these sage words are now keeping me to my noble cause of having deeply boring lunches.

I’m back stomping around the quiet roads of Surrey for exercise, altering my paces so if an urban fox leps out from behind a copse or boring conversation or similar feature of English life, I’ll be able to boot him in his prick foxy face without significantly altering my stride. On a single hour long run I might see as many as 5 or so of the feckers. It’s weird. I initially thought it might be to do with my chosen profession. If you don’t get that joke… you probably don’t know where I work.


Gwen Stefani is well aware what my job is.

My main bit of news out of the week is that I have, after 312 attempts passed my driving test. I am a drivist, as I believe is the technical term. Though I had been told I was making a swervy rod for my own back, I did all the lessons honking drunk, with the theory that when I tried the test sober, I’d smash it. So to speak.

That’s my excuse for the repeated failure and I’m sticking to it.

Apart from the stress that would drive me to sweat through layer after layer during my lessons and into the arms of my local pub landlord afterwards, I had a hard enough time with the instructors themselves. My first was Zsolt. Zsolt may have been a legally qualified driver, but sure as shiz wasn’t nomal. As well as occasionally not wearing a seatbelt as his fun thing of showing me not how to do things, (use your words deathwish!) he would occasionally get spooked by my driving and reach across to the steering wheel to wrench us out of the path of a 16-wheeler. All that was fine, but he would always say “Sorry to touch you” afterwards, in case I thought he was making a move.

Eventually he didn’t turned up to a lesson one day and that was the last I heard of him. He lived around the corner from me and I could see he moved out the next day. He must have thought he got me pregnant.

His successor, who got me over the line was Nigel. Nigel had some serious digestion issues and would sit beside me gurgling up his stomach-contents and making desperate swallowing noises as he rechewed his lunch-cud. The worst part was being able to itemise his diet by the stink of the second wave of his menus. There was a guy he ate too much chorizo.

Nevertheless, I intend on never driving again as it’s really not fun here. Greater London is a sprawling rat’s nest of roundabouts and douchery, with Maserattis and Range Rovers flinging cyclists over the hedge by the half dozen like those bin vans from Soylent Green.



As about as edifying an experience as when my Japanese employer went through my bins.

As it turned out, my tester aul Pauline (ah we were thick as thieves) had her mind’s eye on the leg of lamb in her oven and was inclined to overlook the ever-increasing amount of pedestrian-sourced detritus collecting on my bonnet (a minor fault as it merely occludes my view of the humans vanishing rapidly under the front bumper).

I’m not kidding about never driving again by the way. Even made the instructor drive me home.

Preparations for Toner and Jerks (as was my pitch for the title of our new podcast) continues apace, with a recording this week. Meg is not a great fan of these recording sessions as she is basically confined to the livingroom for the duration and cannot acheive the Mariah Carey-an level of outfit changes that she needs of a morning to get her day started in a truly primetime way. Her words.

The podcast will feature general disucssions on small and unusual countries and  territories from around the world. From brief research into a few of our topics I can give this sage advice, if you’re founding a country, make it proper sized. Small ones have a pretty grim proclivity for getting marmalised when all the bigger dudes throw down.

As we prepare to start actually publishing these things, prepare to be inundated with more plugs than Wayne Rooney’s scalp. That’s the European version of that joke. For North America replace him with, let’s say Jeremy Piven.



The guy on the left, he isn’t allowed to be in movies.

In other news, Meg has begun wedding planning. She’s ordered a book that I suspect will soon be referred to as “THE” book, we’ve sent out a few exploratory emails to possible venues and we have agreed that whatever happens, nothing says best day of your lives like an orange tuxedo. See how I snuck that in there?

I don’t know what all the fuss is about anyway, I’m sure I’ve heard weddings are very easy to plan. That’s why I just bought a PS4, a new set of earphones and a “Boyz ONLY” sign that I have sellotaped to the outside of the tent I just set up in the living room.

That should save me from having decide what kind of seat-covers define us as a couple.

Zsoltoner of Leek


Ant Coloner of Leek

It’s nature’s brute law that we do what he says,


It’s lean mean Emilio “Secret Sheen” Estevez

Doesn’t that high tempo freak-out shot make him look super-like his brah-brah? Maybe they roped him in as Emilio’s freak-out double. And then they stuck a wig on him and put his head up Molly Ringwald’s skirt.

I’d believe that before I’d believe anyone letting Judd Nelson get near their hoohoo.

Ragging on the Judd Nelson. Aren’t I recent? Keep scrolling down and I go to town on the Kaiser’s withered hand.

So I am now fully returnified from Canada, land of maple, constant apologies and slightly sub-USA portion sizes. Our last three days in Vancouver passed quickly and included a relaxed wander around an  improbably beautiful forest-gorge. They crapped out on the authoritive accent lottery, but they can sure do geography.


The ugliest place in Canada.

As well as scooting around the mountains a little, we got to spend a bit more time with Charlie, Meg’s new nephew. He’s only 3 months old but he’s already porking up hard (like I can frigging talk), developed a kick that can pierce a hole in a car door and going through enough facial expressions in a minute that he looks like one of those weird face switching suits from A Scanner Darkly. Little known fact, before having the lengthy course of hormone therapy required to become a quip with legs, Robert Downey Junior used to be an actor.

You heard me.

My return flight was without serious incident though not without call to narrate. As Meaghan has mentioned to me more than once recently, I am getting old. There is a clump of grey hair in my beard, my knees often sound like I’m stepping on cornflakes and my previously trustworthy belly, no longer takes my hearty abuse with the good humour with which it is intended.

After multiple days of ribs and pizza for breakfast (zero exaggeration), dodging edible plant-life of all descriptions and boozing through each evening to one degree or another, I awoke on New Year’s day, my final of the trip with about a 5 on the hangover scale. Unpleasant, but forgettable especially as it was the first one I’ve had this year. Hilarious.

My appetite was reluctant to fully return though and I was unable to finish my early pre-flight dinner of pizza (accidentally ordered a prawn one and was able to swap it for the one I had actually wanted, their fault for having something so gross on the menu frankly) and some ginger ale which I felt flooding my system with much needed hydration and calories. All was right with the world.


If you’re nervous right now, it just means your spidey senses are functioning normally.

As we trundled along towards the airport, the car got warmer, or did it? My seatbelt started to tighten along my middle, or did it? Man these brakes are sensitive, keep jerking me forward in this seat. Feck, that’s just what brakes are meant to do.

We pulled in outside the terminal and I hopped out, feeling a minor hiccup rise in my ches- AAAAGHGHHHHHHHGGAGAGHGH!

There was more of it than anyone could have imagined. One single 37 degree celsius orange torrent, rising and falling and rising yet more, like a Fanta Amazon during monsoon. Heaping itself upon itself, with a simultaneous spirit of renewal and utter devastation. It drove itself on with an industrial determination, irrepressibly heartless, but magnificent like the baleen of a whale or an ant colony on fire.

My moustache must have looked preedy-good.

Feeling infinitely better, we boarded our flight home and I know this is going to sound a bit Fancy Dan but jaysus it is hard to settle back into economy class after getting a taste of the good life. I’m a real softie now. It’s the new me. But some things will never change.


Like I still manage to get out of a toilet using a maximum ever of three sheets. Creative folding and lots of fibre. M’lud.

I waved goodbye to my last sniff of comfort as some kind of fratboy-Eminem bundled in beside me and immediately took off his shoes and socks. Like a criminal. Then he pulled out a huge notebook and started scribbling in it like he covers his cereal in methadone every morning. I assume methadone would make you write quickly. I don’t take methadone.

Glancing casually over, this was the kind of nonsense I read.

[Why why why? There is all the confusion. All of the corruption. It makes me want to. SHOUT.]

[No one is original now, didn’t they hear. There are so many questions, but who’s the brother with the answers. No one…?]

[I am a total imaginationless gimp, who has laquered my ceaselessly steaming ballbag in Lynx (Axe for the North Americans) Africa, the most nauseatingly sickly sweet scent in the greasingly-pubescent arsenal of the 14 year old.]

And this turd was almost 30! He then proceeded to lean his sweaty ham-bone shoulder across the armrest and onto me, soaking his acrid stink into my shirt.Through my shirt. Into me.

Now I gotta take a slight tangent. I know, how unlike me, right?

Keep outta Belgium you gimpy-limbed so and so. You will ultimately discredit Germany, both by your own deeds and those you set in motion throughout the first  half of the twentieth century. Yahah! Told that damn Kaiser good. This is what they call a comedy call-back. In the biz. This doesn’t read as fluidly as I’d like but my backspace is broken, I’m fairly jetlagged and here we both are.


In other news, we have not been reacclimatising well upon our return to the UK. We are off our sleep and meals by 8 hours and (speaking for myself) swollen from weeks of revelry. Our diet is broadening to reinclude items that never had hooves as well as to the more drab standards of UK cuisine. As we wandered through our local supermarket (sometimes I find myself staring at the freakshows in there grabbing scotch eggs, three per hand and wondering to myself, “What are you?”) we discussed the options for lunch.

“Sausage sandwiches?” I ventured.

“No! It’s not… luxury.”

Canada ruined her.

Ant Coloner of Leek