Star Oscwars

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

mh6-resized
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.

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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.

gold-trophy

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.

Fart.

Star Oscwar of Leek

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