Golden Coffoner of Leek

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


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.


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.


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.


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…


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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