Golden Coffoner of Leek

If he’d lost all that poundage, all may yet have been fine and dandy

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It’s roly-poly 80s corpse, John “should have changed my name to Carrots” Candy

I mean I kid, but was a major Candi-maniac. For the twenty minutes that I was aware he existed before he Uncle Bucked off this mortal coil. Did ya like that one?

We’re gonna get on fine you and I.

Well staring into the business end of a new month, I have recuperated from my three-in-a-row marathon run of consecutive blogposts. I’m like a blogging jackhammer! Or an incontinent dribbily blogging bowel. Three blogs in a row like, seven days apart. That’s clinging to an inner-tube commitment right there! I am developing a blister on my thought-brain but apart from that I’m limber like a chimp.

As well as slacking off blogwise, I have also not been exactly smashing it up with the recording of the podcast, but all that changed last weekend. Myself and fellow turdcicles Joe and Luke regreased our saddles and climbed back on the podcast pony. A well-greased saddle is the cornerstone of any horseriding session as any codpiece waggling dressagist will tell you. That and smashing your chickentenders into the back of a horse that probably has become visibly aroused by the experience. But not your chickentenders. My chickentenders.

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Like all normal childhoods, horseriding was one among many summertime activities my family encouraged me to sample to slow my slide into total sociopathy. You be the judge.

We sat down to record an episode zero this weekend past. Don’t worry if you don’t know what that means. It’s just one of the many clever manipulation moves I recently learned from this dog-eared book I found on the train. “How to Get Gurls to Take Off Their Bras by Being All Shifty Like A Reptile.”

Lesson 22 was talking like a flash harry and bamboozling them with nonsense. It sounds nuts but it really works. For instance, I bet in the last few seconds you just stood up and poured yourself a cup of chilled malt vinegar. Oh no? Look at the table in front of you. THERE we go. Spooky right? Now drink your vinegar.

Lesson 23, dehydrate them.

Episode Zero is just industry talk (although industry erroneously suggests we’re getting paid) for introducing who we are and apologising for the litany of mistakes and insensitive jokes about highly contentious historical events. “Aw yeah, reading about that genocide was a real bummer.” That kind of thing. I won’t even tell you about the stuff I write about in my episode notes. Actually it’s mainly cartoons of me with slightly more hair. Damn this Boyle hairline. I hope I don’t give it to Meg.

Lesson 24, make her think she’s going bald.

I could go on with this Lesson joke for a while. Don’t have a follow up, just stating facts.

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The shape of things to come for this intrepid moulter

We’re hoping to launch this hopefully infotaining shitshow in the next week or so so stay tuned for that. Though that is contingent on me being our IT support to get our warblings listed on iTunes. Steve Jobs would be spinning in his… golden coffin for arseholes.

Not to show how the auditory sausage is made but we have pre-recorded several of the episdoes cleverly to get a step ahead of our releases. Thank goodness there hasn’t been any major world events in the past few months that might date it. Turkey, known for its strong levels of trust between government and military. You might call it uncoupable! The bond between Britain and the EU is an unshakeable pact of steel. Italy isn’t filled with philandering parmesan fiends.

I was just yanking your chain with that last one.

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It’s the pasta that really gets their dander up

In short, it’ll be great but also… not perfect. As I believe I’ve mentioned before, you’ll notice a point in pretty much every episode where I lose interest in the subtle cultural iconography and traditional ribbon dances and start listing out the historical cast list in order of estimated phallic deficiency. The ones with the rude names go first.

The rest if my time has been split between trying to shift pork weight by stomping up and down the Thames river and reading about murderous Japanese pimps on my commute. Keeps me level.

In between these worthy endeavours Meg and I (mainly Meg) have been putting together the intercontinental shindig to end all shindigs. March 27th, the day when the universe legally shackles the cojones of history’s greatest ladies man. No not Rod Stewart or that 25 year old grand-dad from Jeremy Kyle. I meant ME! I’ll get into trouble with Meg for telling you this, but let’s say that there might be, a surprise guest or two…

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Reception afterward at the Young Mans Christian Association

We’ve also decided on party favours of rocksalt soaked in maple syrup (maple for Canada and salt for my weakened heart valves), three meat choices for the dinner (all rashers boiled at slightly different temperatures) and the readings will be given by a cow I have taught to speak, but can I teach it to know love?

It’s fun to joke about things that matter. Wait who could be calling me at this hour? Aw feck… it’s Meg. I’ll be right back, you can show yourself out. Ignore the shouting.

In other news, Meg has been completely haphazard with her extra-slumber activities lately.  As well as the standard trope of “THERE’S A SPIDER ON MY FACE!!” (we get a face-spider about once a week) she also recently slept for two hours on the couch in a very well-lit room. Only when she was passing into hour three of her mega-nap did she realise this however, accusing me of having turned on said lights. “Meg are you asleep?” “Of COURSE I’m asleep” she thundered before stomping up the stairs to bed.

 <in the hallway>

“What are you doing here?”

“I came up to give you a kiss goodnight Meg.”

<exit Meg> Memories = zero.

 Golden Coffoner of Leek

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Madame Buttoner of Leek

He’s finally givin’ Hill-dog clap-handers,

It’s Larry David’s alter ego Bernie “Feel the Bern when I pee” Sanders

Doesn’t it feel like he’s reaching out to pick your nose? Maybe your nose is cleaner than mine.

A merry halloo to you and yours, I write this in a haze of body stink. Meg and I are still shrinking visibly but our bodies now go into gassy spasm when we put real calories into our distended bellies every evening. The real hell comes the first time we drop the diet fully and deign to eat chorizo like some kind of mad spanish pork pirate. Turns you from a walking, talking, broccoli-stalking thought-thinker into basically a spongy meat-syringe filled with wet poop. And you don’t want to be in our neighbourhood when the plunger goes down.

Bit of a graphic start, but when you’re on a diet, all you can think of is your body’s opinion of food. And horsing winter logs of chorizo down into your tubes just to feel ALIVE!

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“Get yo ass to Mars. And poosh.”

We, like pretty much everyone else were watching the UEFA European Final, complete with weird black and white movie moments like insects landing on the faces of weeping entertainers. Madame Butterfly meets Pagliacci. Oh yes, I just made an opera joke. I’m classy as f.

Meg was actually keen to watch the thing as she put a two-shpotter bit on Portugal to win the whole thing outright. Which they bloody well did. I on the other hand made a bet that several septegenarian Italians would drag themselves away from their paddling pools full of olive oil to play a little football. I was a dope. Meg has since promised to buy me a North American ice cream when we go in a few weeks. I would like to think I would have been as generous had the shoe been on the other foot. I like to think many fine things. But I am a pretty bad guy when it comes down to it. Just look at the posters on my wall.

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“You were my chief, always!” 

I think that’s the first time I’ve ever re-used a photo in this blog. Or I mean the first time my alter ego the Toner of Leek re-used a photo. Did I ever pretend like that was the thing, that I was actually some other person who was obsessed with green edible symbols of Welshness as opposed to the unfragrant shambles I am in real life? I’m really asking.

Anyway, that’s how much Rom-bot means to me. Rom-bot love capitalism. Rom-bot loves robo-boogy. Rom-bot goes to Skegness.

The job has been real 9 to 5 normal-fest with me even lecturing a bunch of blow-ins (can you imagine!?) on the London tube that they need to stand on the right. I remember it happening to me years ago and not exactly being thrilled about the instruction. But they need to get in line cause this is Mah Tawn. Toughy alert.

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I was always more Anthony Michael Hall than I was Judd Nelson. I mean have you SEEN that denim jacket? And he calls cigarettes, “smokes.” Outrageous.

I’ve even gone back to packing sandwiches to keep my hard-earned queenbacks out of the hands of the Moroccan cafe across the street. With their charred sweating wads of halloumi dribbling onto herby chicken and couscous base. They task me.

Apart from a quick trip to Brighton next week, my work travel regimen has quietened down a lot, due in part to the relative quite of the summer. Though Brighton is usually good value to see a burnt-out crusty or two and one would imagine their numbers should be replenished with Glastonbury just ended.

In Weybridge news, there was a robbery last week down by the train station where some “yoofs” attacked a guy with a knife. They did such a terrible job stabbing the guy, he merrily walked 15 minutes up hill to get some help.

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Guys, the city of Limerick is embarassed for you.

In a few weeks time myself and Meg are bringing our parents together to swig cocktails (a little less tail and a little more… tail to result in unchanged aggregate levels of tail) in downtown Toronto. Then Ingrid and I are travelling to Newfoundland where I will spend 5 days trying to trick her into eating seal.

Don’t tell her, but I’ll be targeting breakfast and road snacks. I’ll get her. Don’t worry.

Meg and I are both sanguine about our parents meeting, after all we’re pretty agreeable and our parents can’t be THAT far from our natural levels of charm and grace. Incidentally forget all the terrible things I’ve said and done over the years and re-read the above lines. Oh and not the poop-syringe stuff earlier. Forget about that. Just the stuff at the top of this paragraph.

Ahh, there we go.

On the topic of families, Meg’s Dad has a legendary tendency to disinterest himself with the actual names of things. As far as Meg goes this has been enormously convenient for me as Meg believes a bunch of things in the world are named something other than what they are.

For your consideration, today Meg told me that she saw a car today with really big whalers. I thought she meant some of Bob Marley’s taller backing bandmates. Then I started to think maybe it was some maritime bumper-sticker that all Canadians know about. Like the Tragically Hip but in bumper sticker form. You don’t know it but that was a GREAT obscure Canadian reference. And their crap, so awful I want to put all their work in a box and melt it with battery acid. Now I’ve lost all of you. Symmetry.

As it turns out what she meant was spoilers.

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Are you ready? Naw like really ready? Okay. SPOILER ALERT! Totally worth it. & The Hip still suck.

Aren’t you glad you read that? I’m glad I wrote it.

In other news Meg isn’t superjuiced by our new Primary Minister. “Theresa May? She sounds like she should be in the Dukes of Hazzard. With Boss Hogg. And Cooter.”

I really think Meg’s starting to understand this politics lark.

Madame Buttoner of Leek

The Toner of Gleek

If he said he was altering his mood, he wouldn’t be a liar,

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It’s cocaine-soused omegaman, Richard “two-becomes-one-nostril” Pryor

I think we can all agree he would love some gameless punk cracker-ass making fun of him with the lyrics to a Spice Girls song. It’s clearly what he would have wanted. Also, where’s his top? Put on a t-shirt hotshot, the vicar’s coming for tea!

So I had a couple of days to recover from New York, passing a couple of cleveland steamers on the way. Actually I don’t rightly know what those are but if it doesn’t mean passing a turd the size of that boat from Fitzcarraldo I’m totally barking up the wrong tree.  Pound upon heaped pound of wadded meat’ll get ya there.

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There. Eventually.

I had heard that Eleanor Hammers Boner, but I’d never believed it until now. Bwaha! I’m sure she was lovely. Oh no wait, the producers in my earpiece tell me she spied for Bismarck in the Franco-Prussian war. The devious Hun.

A few bits I forgot to mention from New York, first among them I got to see me some showtime boys. Now I call a lot of stuff ____boys, because you got to make yourself laugh. I for example refer to myself as a fancyboy in every second blog or thereabouts. I enjoy changing every reference I see in day to day life from a gentleman to a gentleboy. I’m even tumultuously excited to see that fire ants are getting referred to as “spicyboys.”

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I think it’s something making some larger point about intellectual property online but it’s difficult to learn how as there are only two words in that article that I give a fig about.

A figgyboyt.

So when I was told I might see the showtime boys, I really didn’t care what was about to happen, I was already satiated.

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I mean it looks cool and all, but he’s gonna want to wash his hands before he eats his jam sandwiches.

They did a serious routine for 1m30s in between stations and in an impressive gesture of New York couldn’t give a sweet candied-f, one onlooker was able to simultaneously totally ignore an upside-down twirling dancer while ducking his head back to repeatedly dodge a high-speed shoe as it swiped past his face. The whole package was impressive indeed.

Another seen-in-New-York moment occurred as I stomped the street with my man-mate Ian, himself an actor trying to headbutt his way through the queue of earnestly-hopeful turkeys to get the next hot juicy role. A hot juicy turkey roll as it were.

As we walked along a random street we saw 3 (kinda) people in hippo masks, dressed in business drone-wear destroying a fake office to the loud booming audio of jungle sounds. This was all visible through a large perspex window facing onto the street. It was very artsy. But crap. Obvs.

As we stared in, he started to give a commentary on this miserable nonsense we beheld.

“Yeah, you’re acting aren’t ya?! Ya see I’m tapping the glass so that she has something to react to, they eat this shit up.”

I worry the city is taking my friend the actor and making him into my friend the rough and tough New Yorker.

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Actually, he’ll probably be fine.

In the past week I took the train over and back from Brussels and on my way home I guess I must have fallen asleep because I woke up. After looking around and making sure I wasn’t showing any more skin than was strictly legal I felt a sense of relief. I had been a bit groggy since returning from the US and it was relief that etched itself across my increasingly wrinkly brow. Then I looked down and noticed a slight discolouration flecked across my white shirt. I knew it well.

Ah food grease, my old compadre. Speckler of tops. Augmenter of meals. Once again you christen me with permanent testament to my messy eatership.My forefathers, saw your pioneer missionaries, departing a boar leg under an African sky to rest on an animal loin cloth shielding the seeds of us all.

Turned out it was actually drool that had shot out in what is called a “gleek.” It’s what happens when you dribble with your salivary glands uncovered, it shoots out like jets of cobra venom. It’d be cool if you could do it on demand to intimidate wildlife and parking attendants, but it just something I do when asleep on public transport.

Actually that’s pretty good.

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 The Gleek has 0% with being a fan of that thing about the paedo and heroin addict who try to destroy music through the power of having no creativity.

This past weekend we went up to Manchester and were genuinely surprised by the amount of construction going on there. It’s now… a boomtown I guess? This is a little hard to take given Meg and my experiences of only two years past. Meg got propositioned creepily on the street a lot. A guy once spat on the back of her head and called her a “fucking bitch.” She also had to give a reasonably well-to-do guy £3 to get home as he had just been beaten half to death and was bleeding out of all the holes in his head. Some of which were specially created for the purpose.

In fact as we now talk this whole thing out, I’m starting to think that Manchester is a pretty safe city, but Meg has a Fight Club like alter ego and her reign of terror is almost at an end. Naw to be fair, I did find a woman in a hedge who didn’t know how she’d gotten there or who she was at 2pm and frequently bumped into bargain-basement hookers on the way home as I walked to work in the morning. Actually now I’m pretty suspicious about myself. Eh, whaddya say let’s just forget the whole thing.

Let’s FORGET the whole THING. <nods>

In other news, despite our swerves from the diet over the weekend, we are both still losing weight. Checking my Body Mass Index, (BMI, which can also mean bowel mess inside) I read that for my height I am technically overweight. Fair enough, except that after telling Meg this she is now referring to me as “Clinically Obese.”

Did you forget it yet?

Dern.

The Toner of Gleek.