Born in a cave by horned Norse demons
He had the tie and was right time right place,
It’s Chevy “was that what passed for handsome in 1982” Chase
Jeanie, look at that hole in his chin! Maybe it’s where he kept snacks. Bombay mix. A refreshing handful of grapes. You could really fight a hunger with the space in that pit.
Well hello fancy festive folk! The second week of December is upon us like someone standing too close to us on a train (it’s called foreshadowing) rummaging in his (because let’s be honest with ourselves, we’re picturing a guy here and with good reason, we’re gross) little pants. We hope counting his change for the parking lot. Ick.
December is a scumbag.
In honour of the crucifixion of Santa, Meg and I played hooky for a day and wandered into Londinium to squander some money on consumerist expressions of emotion. When will comrade Corbyn rid us of these capitalist shackles and let us gift homemade lengths of sackcloth as was surely Friedrich Engels’ dream?
Actually we like this tradition and do this every year. Take a weekday in December off from work, sleep in like we’re coming down from a glue-sniffing bender and kill off our Christmas shopping list in the overheated hallways of the humanity-clogged department stores.
London does do Christmas right, with baller light displays, the Trafalgar Square tree, small platoons of amateur choirs, 12 days of Christmas pubcrawlers and the tousled suits of office Christmas parties out too long and half thinking they should tell Shirley in accounts what they REALLY think of her.
“I love you, but we’re both dreadful.” – for instance. If they’re being honest.
Why am I only finding about this now… it is ON!
It’s due in part to one of the manias that tends to afflict London and that is Oxford Street in December. The footpaths fill up with…. well bloody well everyone. Oxford Street is a bit of a weird one as on one side you have Selfridges (Jeremy Piven is suspended from the ceiling in a box filled with formaldehyde), House of Fraser, House of Niles (I’m hilarious) and several other super British sounding high street titans of retail.
Incidentally the row of department stores includes British Homestores which in classic British tradition was gutted for its pension fund by a guy with massive turkeytits that he likes to baste in butter and sun. The door is now closed on it which is for the best as it was a singularly depressing experience to pass its fetid threshold due to the whole place smelling like a old lady tights and looking like 1993.
God I’m such a pinko. Too much Corbyn on the radio that’s my problem.
I take it back dear leader. Lay your hands upon my evil head. Teach me the ways of tofu and repelling swing voters. And who did your “Corbyn” nametag? It’s so leadery.
After lunch in Ma Clucker (which I have called at various points Ma Plucker, Po Ducker and Chicken Bo) a fried chicken shack of some repute, we eventually called it a day just before a separate but similar mania took ahold of the city. Meg has never had to do the London to Weybridge battle that I suffer daily, but she did get a sense when after we got our seat and the aisles duly filled with professionally dressed cattle.
Then there was a clatter on the window like drunk pigeons bonking their heads on the glass. Bonk bonk bonk. BONK. MUCH MORE BONK!!
So started a rant for the ages. Some wienerless wonder had just realised that the train was full, as full as it was going to get in any case. This guy screamed at the windows, running up and down glowering at people and bellowing “MOVE DOWN! Make some room and move DOWN! Bonkbonkbonk. I am so bonk. Would you like a bonk? WHITHER SHALL WE BONK!?”
Did you know that William Ewart Gladstone’s father was also -BONK BONK
With every bonk he accessed all the terrible things that had happened in his life to make him the nightmare that he was. Maybe if Mommy hadn’t preferred BONK to me I wouldn’t be so BONK. That kind of thing. Eventually, it was like he was communing with the heavens with each BONK. Bonks themselves were proof of the divine and his way of joining, even making love to the whole universe and everything in it. BONK BONK BONK!
Now to be fair to the beleaguered Londoners who were not only looking at a standing room only journey in a roasting train but were being bellowed at for their trouble, they made a show of trying to shuffle even closer (they were already only two centimetres away from making babies) until he would realise this still meant he was missing his train and go for another round. Even the trainguard could see his Basil Fawlty incandescence on the platform and asked several times for people to move away from the doors.
You had to feel for the last guy whose little stink butt was hanging out the train door and was having to contemplate being pressed up against this feral poop-flinger.
Meg was agog.
Incidentally are you watching WestWorld? Jaysus now there’s a show. Anthony Hopkins acting like Grandpa Lecter and James Marsden gets murdered or cuckolded once an episode or you money back. Do yourself a favor, neglect your children and/or careers and pick up this show. I may be writing this while watching it. There is a distinct possiblity.
In other news myself and the boyos at 80DaysPodcast just finished off a Christmas podcast that will surely put you in the festive spirit. Though I do make a lot of racy jokes about Santa and his reindeer. The reindeer jokes are particularly racy. For example musing about the physiological reasons for Rudolphs red nose. The cold weather or an unwanted souvenir visit to a Thai brothel during the summer months? We can never really be sure. Anyway keep an eye on our feed for that and the first snibblings of season 2 which is also being recorded every time we can co-ordinate three schedules across a spread of continents. So fits and starts. Check the link below to find us!
Gladstoner of Leek
He kept on keeping on because his organs were built to last yo,
It’s pasty nasty Fidel “exploding conch shell” Castro
“And over there Commandante, you’ll see a to 20ft half-scale model of your massive balls.” Incidentally “exploding conch shell” in the above is a reference to one of the stupider ideas knocked about by RFK for killing Castro who really had more centimetres in his nut-circumference than you’ve had hot dinners.
Not to push my venerable blog to degenerate into total a plug-fest (partial is okay), my knowledge of Castro comes in large part down to the fact that we recently profiled Cuba for season 2 of our totally balling podcast for maximum pimp-people.
Well hello there me ole chickensalts. As the year chunders towards it’s inevitable gee-eyed conclusion, Christmas is finally being thrust at us like the dry heaves at the end of the vomit-binge that was 2016.
Peaceful and solemn seasons greetings you all.
You’re welcome. We need this this year of all years. Aw dang. I just found out the dog in the hat voted Brexit for president. Hope he chokes on a bauble.
The focus of our week was the wedding of Simon Greene and his now bride Shannon Coco. Like myself and Meg theres is a trans-Atlantic romance. Unlike Meg and myself they have now been unburdened of the million tiny agonies that come with wedding planning.
How many canapés per person? Well Bernie can really put away the cocktail wienies but girls are devils for leaving a plate pass them by. And how about the cake? How many tiers? Round? Square? Marizipan model of my face on top commanding the tides to turn their shameful faces and dampen my shores nevermore?
Some choices make themselves. My marzipan modellers are skilled but this one turned out a little less commanding and a little more like someone interrupted my number 2.
We did ourselves no favours by trying to get to this wedding the day of. We got up at the crack of nonsense and shovelled in caffeine and calories so we could get through the first half of the day without turning into crab-apples. There have been so many early morning flights from Gatwick to Ireland for us of late, I’m starting to recognise the dead-eyed drones that make up the Ryanair check-in counter. They hate me.
To be fair they also hate their jobs, themselves and the smell of freshly cut grass. The bastards.
Despite me suiting up from the morning, Meg had a much fancier sequined garment which would have gotten banjacksed by wearing it through the flight so she decided to change once we landed. Living with Mariah Carey like. Once she had glammed up we got our rental car. That is to say Meg did. I am too new and too testicled a driver to pay for a car rental without selling all my bone marrow and clean pee for the next 22 years.
Taking all reasonable bids.
We then picked up some boxed sandwiches (the lunch of the desperate and joyless alike) and scurried out to our sub-standard Nissan Micra (which given the relative pantheon of Micras is a crushing insult). After swerving through the now familiar succession of roundabouts and off ramps that bring you from the Budget carpark to the succession of refurbed houses and boutique hotels that make up the spidersweb of wedding venues across County Meath we headed off to another wedding (bringing my life total to 3).
Apparently that’s the only thing bringing money into the county. That might sound harsh until you go to the main town – Navan. Ireland’s only palindromic town that doubles as a Sliding-Doors style warning of how your life could have turned out if you had made every decision in your life incorrectly.
Say hello to that stranger on the train? Bad luck, they murder you with a hammer.
Soup or sandwich? Bad luck, they’re both filled with mercury.
Lead a life devoid of meaning or satisfaction? Bad luck, you’re in Navan.
<swallows hard> Navan… BABY!! <shoulders slump>
As we revved up the motorway in our wedding gear we apportioned out the dining to make it work. I savaged my Christmas Turkey and Cranberry Sausage sandwich in record time in order to free up my hands. A sandwich which I referred to hilariously as my Turkey Bryan Cranwidge.
Then I had the free hand required to pass Meg her first sandwich which she ate from her sequined lap. Then the following happened-
“Okay what needs to happen is ONE I’m going to need a sip of Diet Coke, then TWO feed me the meat out of that sandwich, no not the bacon just the sausage and THREE you’re gonna have to find me some music I like.”
All she wants for Christmas, is to be hand-fed slices of sausage on the motorway.
Isn’t that all any of us want if we’re honest?
In other news, a very genuine congratulations to Shannon and Simon on their new matrimonification. Theirs is a love that in the pantheon of great loves will be eternally defined as… the opposite of Navan.
Hurrah that all the world is not (entirely) fucked!
DiCaproner of Leek
If we judged people on how they understand theatre, we’d judge him to be kinda dense
It’s Number Two-rump squinting-makes-me-hate-ovaries, Mike “sword of Damocles” Pence
Ahh, how refreshing. I took a little weekend off from the blog which mean I was able to finally squeeze in my normally customary monthly teeth cleaning. You should see these chompers. As yellow as a ripe banana playing centre-back for Borussia Dortmund.
Though I partially jest, life admin does take a hammering when you have back to back (to back to back) weekends of wandering this scorched earth.
Last weekend I returned to the mütterland to both see Munster play some hardcore oval-ball and generally irritate my family with my presence. It might have been the hours spent outside or that toilet seat I licked, but as the weekend whiled on I could feel a familiar swelling in my throat.
And not like what I felt when I tried to complete the Chiquita “no-chew” challenge.
I was getting sick. Despite being in my youth a wheezy sickly little Tsar-child (great Rasputin reference there for the Russian history buffs <punches chest> I got you…) I haven’t been particularly sick over the past few years. Since once catching light hypothermia on a PARTICULARLY terrible date and almost losing my leg in India after getting human poop in my mosquito bites (not even my own poop, how embarassing) I have been pretty much illness free.
That said, with almost perverse regularity I get a 36 hours flu, complete with bone-aches and flopsweats once a year. I have missed one day of work for sickness in my life. This one occasion was because in the same job I had come in sick to work previously. This work was with autistic kids who in response to my sneezes and lack of ability to respond, would then go spare and start punching me.
They were pretty clear about me staying home.
Another choice flu workday was when I was in Japan and I fell asleep on a piano. It doesn’t make me a better worker, but it does not necessarily make me an absent one. This last week was no different, with one full day of me sweating through my thick sky blue sweater and at one point accidentally slapping my computer screen.
I have a good track record with Apple products. I genuinely just had this photo from my life.
I later found out that no one had realised that I was ill, which either speaks lengths of my ability to hide my suffering from a cold and indifferent world (also works for hiding more murderous impulses towards my fellow commuters on the 08:11 for Waterloo) or betrays much about my day to day levels of sweatiness.
The real low point of this bout of November speed-flu, came the night after a day of explaining away splotches on my sweater as careless beverage consumption rather than excess man-tit moisture. I set myself up on the couch and cooked up a bellyful full of fajitas… and maybe washed it down with an inebriating beverage that was not a what you use to whip eggs, but was like it.
Whisk-y. It’s my little reward for when I am totally banjacksed with illness. It did make me real emotional and this threatened to spill over into a full blown meltdown when I ate a particularly good chocolate cookie and felt overly grateful for the sweet ennervating sugar crust. It wasn’t a tear. It was like 1/4 of a tear.
God I want a cookie.
What’s that universe, I deserve 2? You generous F you.
The future travel itinerary is thick enough, with a commute to Brussels this Tuesday and a wedding in Ireland on Thursday.
The challenges of work travel are myriad but the baseline is getting up very early indeed and then sitting still while getting dehydrated and holding in a number 2 that you ran out the door without addressing because you wasted loads of time trying to find the tie with the fewest mayo stains. This much can be assumed.
We had a weekend visitor in the form of fellow #TraleeBoy Colin, who both gave us an excuse to shovel pizza into our gizzards and keep me company through the trying time of a latenight boozy movie doubleheader of Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot and and The Color of Night a piece of Bruce Willis erotica. Which I think we can all agree is the only genuine type of erotica.
Interesting thing about him, as well as an erotic artiste, he is also an accomplished dendrologist. Indeed Bruce Willis is the only former members of the Planet Hollywood ownership crew to have a tree named after him.
I give you- Spruce Willis. Are your legs sore? I had to bring you a long way for that joke.
The rest of the weekend was very grown up, including getting through a lot of life admin. I even drove us to the HomeBase. Like a baby deer that had cocaine injected into the base of its spine. But I did drive us.
As a little reward for doing something I’m less than keen on, we decided to basically empty Aldi out of their range of delicious boozes now that we had the boot to get it home. Note how I didn’t say “buy.” They will remember the day we darkened their door for some time. Even used their own off-brand Black and Deckers against them.
I wonder what the headline will be? “Budget Alcohol-Crazed Powertools Massacre Aldi Staff in Surrey (We Can Only Assume).”
In other news, Meg had some interesting thoughts on the rugby recently. We were watching the lead into the Ireland vs All Blacks game, when she seemed uncharacteristically interested in the Haka.
After finishing, she was silent for a moment, taking in the aftermath of the ancient and even mystic ritual she remarked “Wouldn’t it be awkward if you forgot the moves? <waggling her index finger> HOOKI HOOKI!”
Wouldn’t it be awkward indeed…
Oh and in a final punchline after writing a bunch on how I don’t take sick days, I ended up taking Tuesday off after being struck down with stomach cramps and vomming up a shepherds pie so hard that is splashed back up in my face and when I blew my nose after a chunk of potato came out.
Time doth make fools of us all. And shepherds pie.
Shepherd pie doth makes fools of us all.
The Color of Leek
On the offchance the US is freaking you out then,
In terms of public life, his record could have been cleaner
It’s court-appointed boner-owner Anthony “well done dummy” Weiner
Ah lads. This shitshow is going all Brexit on us isn’t it?
An FYI about the turdcicle above, he’s under investigation for sending pictures of his… surname to underage girls while calling himself “Carlos Danger,” after having been disgraced as a congressman twice for sending pictures of his bulge to random women. His wife at the time worked for Hil-dog and now the world is heaving chunks over the side of the boat as the polls level and Duncan’s horses eat each other.
Incidentally, I was going to use a far more insulting image but I’m trying to use less copyrighted material in case anyone litigious ever reads this. That said I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the hot nonsense I got when searching for said insulting photos. Here are the top 5 tabloid headlines I encountered-
- Stick A Fork In Weiner
- Weiner: I’ll Stick It Out
- Weiner’s Rise And Fall
- Weiner’s Second Coming
- Beat It
So how does one distract oneself from the noise of toilets being flushed on our collective bonces? Well I went some places. And now will say some things about the places I went.
For those among you with less than cascading waterfalls of interest in my travels, well I’m sorry but it’s this or I start sexting Donald Trump with pictures of seal’s penises. Actually I might do that too.
Steady on guys, I meant the arf arf kind. But as you’re so insistent I’ll tweet him and see if he’s up for it. Nothing ventured like.
So I left you with me in the Islamic Republic of Iran. A note on the name, it’s a bit on the nose, but naming your country is half the attraction of any revolution. When I took over Den-Mark, no one noticed my subtle rebranding of their country. But they’ll certainly find out the bad news when a portrait of my fuzzy arse is on the 10 Krone coin.
Incidentally why would our ancestors have evolved such hairy arses? Where is the advantage that I’m not seeing? It’s like sitting on a wig! I digress.
After arriving into my hotel from the airport I hoarsely got my room number off the receptionist and hobbled up to my room passing a who’s who of international arseholery. All the sycophanting burblers of international governments have been into Iran since the dropping of sanctions, including my own MP Phil Hammond who since the post-Brexit purge has been wedged into the Chancellor position. Apparently named by his colleagues “Box Office Phil.” Entirely sarcastically.
How does your humble narrator deal with such ratcheting up of pressure by comparisons with world leaders? By falling into a deep but short sleep apparently.
Intercontinental jetlag pre-meeting sleep is not the best sleep.
The following day I awoke, a bit more kill-me-now than zap-biff-pow but nothing that endless rounds of figgy cake couldn’t fix. The Iranians are a decidedly good looking bunch but how they avoid swelling up like Violet Beuregarde is beyond me. The next two days were a relentless march of meetings upon meetings, with a constant vein of low quality but mercifully plentiful coffee throughout. Most of the coffee in Iran came in single all-purpose sachets of instant coffee, creamer (I hardly know her… I’m sorry) and sugar (I hardly know, oh no that one doesn’t work does it?)
The food on offer was a mix of Iranian (delicious meaty savoury slops), local neighbour foods (the Lebanese have cracked this whole food thing lads) and a single portion of 4/10 lasagna.
Some observations from my 48 hours in Iran-
- The people are easy-going, friendly as feck and from my limited sampling a damn sight more worldy than the chickenheads that populate most other countries (eat it without salt The Phillipines… and everyone else)
- Though for sure they have rich and poor like every country I got the feeling that people are pretty much on a similar level without the weird Wetherspoon-populating serfdom that exists in the UK.
- Traffic is the sticky icky icky (as Snoop Dogg would say) that binds Tehran together as a city. Everyone mentions it and everyone’s plans are subject to it like being teabagged by your violent carbon monoxide producing cellmate. You just gotta let it happen and wear comfortable underpants, because you could be sitting them in for a long time.
Always better to have the rule be comfortable underwear everywhere because otherwise stuff like this happens. Behold, the DingALingSling. Then forget it immediately.
Once I found the monstrosity above there was no way it wasn’t making it into the blog. My whole trip to Iran was an excuse to get this photo in. Not entirely.
I finished my trip to Iran piling back into another taxi off to the airport after shelling out a wad of freedombucks to the hotel as they still can’t take international bank cards. After plopping into my ample seat I drifted between sleep, reading and rewatching Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (a solid piece of tobacco stained John Hurt misery). As we approached UK airspace I heard the familiar jangle of the drinks cart.
“Would you like a drink sir?”
“What do you have?”
“Full bar sir.”
“Umm.. Huh. I don’t really know how to respond to you at this stage.”
Heroically, I forwent. Also it was 10am.
My time at home was brief because I was right back on a plane to Athens the next morning where after getting a taxi to the hotel, my cab was rear ended in front of police as we pulled up to the hotel. It was a dramatic entrance for sure, a bit of peril does wonders for sleepy MFers who haven’t had a proper kip in a week.
Athens was a much briefer lap but one highlight was dancing on stage with the Greek band flinging colleagues hither and thither like some mad cathartic Fight Club. Finally on Friday night I got to sleep ten coma-like hours which still only returned me to the stage of staring at people inertly as they walked slowly up to me in an empty foyer and then exploding with motion like an epileptic firework when they spoke to me. It was a few more nights before I was once again, the 8/10 ballbag you know and lo… that you know.
In other news, we also went to North Wales this weekend past, my first time driving on a motorway. Everyone who has ever driven should be chased off a cliff with a pike. Including me. That is all.
Tehroner of Leek
Being married to the man is apparently not “the shit”
It’s admittedly gar-geous but probs a ‘mare Brad “The Sweaty Arm” Pitt.
So I know I’ve been slacking on the blog a bit lately, but I’ve actually been really busy mainly with work.
The memoir will be called “Fur-tive Glances” if I ever move into a less controversial industry. Actually I might save that for my soul album. I’ll be holding a sax with a grapefruit on the end of it. No reason.
This weekend just past, Meg and I went on a mini-holiday to Windsor. The town where the Queen keeps all her ceremonial knickers and residents live in fear of being savaged by ferocious over-sized corgis.
We had been talking about going there for so long, my dear Mater got sick of hearing us yak about it so she got Meg a Christmas present of a night in a Windsor hotel. And guess who tagged along, ruining the luxury getaway vibe with trivia about the British Navy’s embarassing (but oh so invigorating) hazing rituals and constant references to the Queen Mother’s gusset?
This is the kind of classic crotch gag you can enjoy by following my Instagram feed. There’s also the odd photo of stuff I eat. Mainly pencaps and Tictacs. I understand trendy things.
So a bunch of little incidents to report from this.
On the way into Windsor, I looked up something on my phone. On a bit of a whim I had liked Cliff Richard’s Facebook page (also liked Daniel O’Donnell’s in the same session but Daniel has decided that his fanbase are a bit more analog than digital) but hadn’t really delved into his depths. Now the first photo I saw set me laughing, but as I kept swiping through it unveiled a whole series of bizzare mini-dramas that left me panting, weeping and indeed dribbling as Meg apologised to the others on the train for ruining the library in a vacuum ambience of the quiet-car. A big deal for the limeys.
Firstly Cliff has apparently bought shares in a vineyard in Portugal and is lacadaisically flogging his very orange brew to elderly women via his photo feed. In one amazingly restrictive promotional event, he was turning up for a tight two hours, where if you bought three bottles of his grog (€20, a total shteal) he’d write his name on a piece of card. Also a lot of the people who were commenting on Cliff’s inane updates had profile pictures commemorating the man himself and urging him NEVER to retire. And there’s a hell of a lot of saucy promotional images of Clifford himself for his albums (Just… Terrific Rock and Roll is on pre-order now) and his calendars.
Mister February 2015 here. His page is full of horrifying dream-invaders like this image. No way to know he’s wearing underpants here guys. No. Way. To. Know.
Just an idea for anyone looking for Christmas ideas for me, those calendars are in shops NOW.
As Meg and I walked down the main street of Windsor, we could see what in the distance and poor light looked like a group of men spread out across the otherwise deserted high street. Owing perhaps to our days in Manchester where stuff like this can go sideways fast and our own upbringings proximal to Limerick and Detroit we have a sensitivity to diceyness. Probably a good thing.
As it turned out, the large group of men was two small separate groups. One was a group of rotund midgets drunk off their arses and crammed to their tiny gills with Windsor fudge (probably a metaphor) and the other was waiters clearing the tables at an establishment called Madame Posh. Not the first or last time since moving down to the Thames Valley that we were the scum to be viewed suspiciously.
There was this flabby 7 year old lad in the station sucking on a Bounty bar (coconut is a fruit) and eyeballing all the other candybars in the vending machine in what could only have been a threat.
Our hotel in Windsor was lovely, but there was obviously something going on at breakfast as the staff were disorganised like 4 year olds at a birthday party. At one point a lady in denims stormed up to our table and dropped a bunch of brown bread toast on our table and quickly before she ran off I blurted “This isn’t ours <no response> um I don’t want this toast.” The penny dropped and she realied it wasn’t ours and her eyes darted around the room.
“Good morning. <no response from the guests>… GOOD MORNING!!!”
Some people actually awkwardly chorused “good… morning?” and one guy got his toast. A tale as old as time.
There was a lady on the train wearing shorts in 15 degrees to show off her varicose veins the size of tiny knuckles poking out of her calf and brown curled toenails like she had been trying to use her feet to find a penny in a pile of her own fecality.
What I did trying to avoid looking at those uncharitably uncovered hooves
Other tidbits from the weekend, I stole 11 soaps from the housecleaner’s cart, the hotel totally nailed the angle of the toilet mirror (100% view of the TV while sitting on the toilet) and Meg and I got smashed on Moroccan wine.
Also apparently there is such a thing as Moroccan wine.
We watched a TV show where obese people were literally publically weighed in front of their peers which included such gems as “I had a tough childhood, my sister was hit by a truck” and “your husband lost twice as much weight as you did and HE’S not even following my program!”
It was a rich full weekend.
In other news Meg called me excitedly with news from her work-at-home day. There had been one of those door to door meat salesman that we’ve all heard of arrive onto our road like a bacony Willie Lomond and Meg obliged him by signed us up to an £80 a month meat club.
When I heard that some travelling flesh-peddler had been taking the fancy of the local women with his fantastic line of thick juicy sausage, I was about fit to round up the village men and hang him from a tree like Mussolini. Then bang on time we got a box of admittedly high quality meat (the % of which orginating from the local morgue being undeclared) which has meant the whole thing has turned into a draw, but we decided to cancel anyway as we can’t have the neighbours knowing we have meat notions.
Still think I’d rather this cuckhold squadron didn’t know our address. I won’t be able to get to work in the morning with shady spivs plying me with pockets full of ground beef and their drawers full of tripe.
“Hallow me owld Choina salt, whadoowehav heeyah then, a lovely bit of kidnay foh da misses.”
Gotta go, I hear someone’s at the door.
Morroconer of Leek
His secret is eating a breakfast of kelps
It’s bumpkin-headed human jet-ski Michael “Swimmy Boy” Phelps
He really is a swimmy boy.
In my first Olymblog, I would like to tell you all how much I like the Olympics. The type of much is not bloody much. Smarming BBC personality vacuums wander around a car park on the outskirts of open-sewer favelas, as their joyless countrypeople perform obscure tasks (the bloody omnium is it!?) in lycra while the four Brazilians that turned up to watch threaten to inject the judges with Zika if they don’t win the cockless doubles. I know how it’s meant to be spelled.
This is compounded by the fact that my normal stream of youtube thug videos has been interrupted by stroppy internet that won’t co-operate and won’t get any ice cream if it keeps behaving this way.
What’s a thug video I hear you crane your neck in and ask? Well I’m very glad you asked.
Pasty children taking swearing to nuclear levels and general unexpected intenseness.
The Olympics better watch out, because if I have to watch one more person rolling around on a bench with chalky feet I’m going to go over there and feed them all that seawater they have with the flesh-eating diseases. Yes that’s a real thing.
Oh apparently they just arrested the head of Olympics Ireland for hawking tickets. Marvellous. They’re making the World Cup look frigging moral and that’s just an excuse for a few grubby Swissmen to try and plant their seed in the local women while inhaling big wadgers of cash. I’m getting worked up.
Meg and I had an adventure last Sunday. A really depressing adventure.
We were walking home through a small laneway with all these cutsey English houses, named dumb things like Kettle House, Wysteria Cottage and Fig… Pudding. The laneway is about 100 metres and ends in a 90 degree angle leading to a harsher crueller world. In the corner is the biggest house of the lot, a little less sprucey goosey but basically white. Two rusting childcatcher vans sit right outside the front door with an unnervingly thin piece of twine draped across the 3 metre deep courtyard.
Why thank you Google. This is the gaff. You can almost hear the muffled voices of the Lindberg baby in the boot.
Despite having walked past the place about 100 times, on this particular day the idea of walking by without investigating couldn’t have been further from my mind. I bent up my little getaway pin and swung it over the twine followed by gam number two. Meaghan glared at my daring form as I shuffled up to the window and peered through the living room and into the backyard. It was filled with grass up to about two metres in height.
“Meg come over here and look at this”
Meg mumbled her reply but I was now very interested in the piles of old papers which were giving me a clue as to how long it had been since someone lived here. I did not recognise any of the brands and everything was coated in thick dust and grime. So a fair old while. I was wondering how long it had been since some over-privileged little inbreedling had inherited the house and immediately forgotten about it because he was auditioning for Made in Chelsea. Then I heard someone shout “BUP!”
Meg’s audio track faded in. “The window’s open. Someone’s in there!”
“BUP… BUP BUP!”
She turned and started marching like a POW in Manchuria up the path. With some amount of haste. Barely not running.
Meg would later tell me she could see something like this rushing towards the front door, through the filthy glass
Thinking I didn’t want to be right in front of whatever was making that noise when it burst forth into the August sun I got back on the other side of the twine passing the two rusting kidscoopers and started walking away after Meg. Slowly.
One of my many hard-learned life lessons is it rarely helps you to look guilty or fearful. Especially when you are indeed guilty and fear… let’s say fearish. I’m clearly too much of a toughie for actual fear.
I looked over my shoulder to see what had spooked us and it was an older man, about 60 or so, leaning out the front door topless and sporting a spidery beard. Perhaps he was the legendary 6th Spice Girl I thought, Spiderbeard Spice.
“Um I was just looking in the window there”
“Well why don’t you knock on the door if you’re gonna look in the window”
As this last sentence made no sense and I was speaking to a guy who lived on a throne of garbage I decided to raise my hand in a “my bad” fashion and started back off after Meg, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to check he wasn’t chasing me with a wicker basket filled with his turds.
Yes I can see the link is tenuous to this photo. No I do not care.
I continued to amble nervously along while Meg shouted encouraging words like “he’s at the f-ing door!” as she sprinted away from me and around the corner. As we continued to walk along the main road towards our own house, Meg kept twitching whenever a car approached as she assumed the guy had revved up one of his old paedo-mobiles and was going to chase us down to sacrifice us to his rubbish bride.
As much as it was fun to frighten Meg, it was a deeply grim experience realising that the fella was clearly living in miserable squalor. I mean, Meg might use the dry shampoo two days in a row the odd occasion and I could probably clear out some of the slacker pairs of underwear I have. Especially those ones that are shall we say, pre-Obama but lord save us (I was actually raised in Ireland, not that it often shows) this place was next-level awful.
Might look up whether there’s any council services I could send his way. Though they generally only concern themselves with stopping house building (would dilute local prices doncha know) and keeping an eye on local suspiciously foreign Remain voters.
Those handsome bastards.
In other news Meg cemented her claim as emotional assassin with the following exchange from last Monday.
“Um, I’m not sure that’s right Meg”
“Well I give plenty of wrong answers. Like when I said yes to marrying you.”
Squaloner of Leek
If he had the money he should have taken the plane,
It’s the Titanic’s resident baddie Billy “cool guy” Zane
Jesus he’s hot, like a young lickable Brando. But the poor boy had the last drop of acting beat out of him like he was an almost finished bottle of ketchup in the cafeteria of a government-run shelter for the clinically untalented.
This past weekend I headed to Edinburgh to attend the stagging (you can tell by my deft use of the terminology I’ve done this a lot) of a college chum and former housemate. As someone who has lived with me and not been disappeared by my hoodlums during the brief nine days I was head of a Massachusettes gang of streetwise bakers (trust me it’s a thing) I kinda gotta keep him sweet. He knows all the freaky stuff I’m into. Though he still thinks his hamster threw itself into that wood chipper.
Maybe he needs to.
So I took the rustically-named Caledonian Sleeper up to Scotchland. This is the name given to the overnight train between London and Edinburgh and surprisingly it was really comfortable.
The other, better known Caledonian Sleeper. What’s under his kilt eh ladies? A pasty Celtic shmekle. Obvs.
Before I had got on, I’d purchased an intoxicating beverage with the hope that it’d help me get off to sleep, but as I sat into my seat I felt it perhaps a little vulgar and was reticent to whip it out. That was until I saw the lad beside me pull out his can of Special Brew.
Special Brew for those of you mercifully unacquainted is a super strength lager that can barely be contained by the thin layer of aluminum that manufacturers have recklessly put between it and humans. The noxious fumes released by the metallic click and hiss were all I needed to tell me… I was among friends.
After a 7.5 hour journey, we slid into Edinburgh which was looking its foreboding best under a clear sky with the last wisps of morning mist driven out on a sharp coastal breeze. I’m really painting a picture. I’m eloquent as f brah!
With The Irish Imposition as one of my many nicknames, I promptly darkened the door of true Tralee Boy (Ardfert division) Philip. Despite a late night, he put up with my tea-sucking nonsense for a few hours before we wandered out for further caffination and a crescent length of pastry.
Actually Mark, it’s called a croissant and it’s from France. There are many kind of bread from all over the world. This has been another info-blast, from Bread Man.
Hahaha. That’s just my friend Bread Man. He lives in the equipment shed of the electricity sub-station behind our house. Hey Bread Man, did they ever find those evil baker gang (told you it was a thing), the Bakers Dozen that put your wife in that oven?
Bread Man doesn’t want to talk about it apparently. Don’t chime in if you can’t bring the friendly patter Terry! Arsehole.
Ermm… Edinburgh! Yes, so I met up with the stag and cohort of mentype beings who were decidedly the worse for wear after the pints consumed the previous night. The smell of accumulated sweaty man bottoms brought back to my various childhood experiences in summer camps, even back to first year in college when I was sharing a room. Sharing a room with men is a whiffy business. Especially when my smelly bottom is added into the broth.
We then hiked up Arthur’s Seat. A steep enough climb up a massive rock that is pretty much glower powering over everything in Edinburgh, like Mr Burns freaking out some hippies. I was happy to find that despite not having done any hiking to speak of over the past few years to speak of, I was still among the first to the top.
It’s important if you’re going to sneer at Gods creation, to do so from a good vantage point. And yes that is me in the photo. We should talk more often eh?
From then on we mainly boozed, napped and saw some grade-A comedy from the Fringe Festival. To recount my favourite joke from that day (David O’Doherty for the win), “When Steve Jobs died, they tried to bring him back to life by jamming him into a giant bag of rice for three days.” As a stag, probably the seediest thing about it was my rendition of Ignition Remix by avowed child fan R Kelly.
After we were chucked out of the karaoke bar there was talk of seeking out an establishment called “Fingers,” but a quick Google showed it to be well closed by the time my poorly advised haggis burrito (you have not LIVED!) converted our small singing booth into the chlorine wafted fields of Flanders. No survivors.
They used to crack these babies out when I made my patented 8 bean and diesel salad.
In other news, Meg and I are watching the skintight shitshow that is the Rio Olympics. Don’t swallow the water or your kidneys will fall out your arse and on the offchance you get elected president, enjoy your last few moments pre-impeachment. And not bs Bill Clinton poling-the-electorate impeachment. “Madame President, did you steal that oil rig?” impeachment.
Some things we’ve noticed include that the music the gymnasts do their routine to, is being played out of a 2002 Nokia enhanced with speakers held together with tinfoil and and biscuit tin lids, the pool for the diving hasn’t been cleaned since Pele started doing those boner-pill adverts and UK commentators have dropped all pretence of unbiasedness.
An actual quote from a BBC commentator on the British sync divers: “Taaaaake your tiiiime…. do it right.” Fortunately the commentators for the gymnastics were far more forgiving of the bendy lasses of Team Brexlympics.
As they slipped, slid and fell on every damn bit of their body but their feet, the arseholes at the BBC were constantly trying to explain away their vertigo-addled stumblings. “Oho, she fought that well there.” You mean gravity!? That’s the gig Chuckles. “Great effort there.” The judges don’t seem to agree. “Unlucky there.” TO BE BORN WITHOUT JOINTS!?
I’m hepped up. Need something to soothe my nerves, what’s on? Dressage.
Mightn’t be here this time next week if I’m honest.
Caledoner of Leek
If it’s anti-gravity ice cream, he knows where to stuff it,
It’s elderly stockmarket tycoon, Warren “All you can eat ” Buffet-t
Between the Dairy Queen and the Burger King he owns it’s a dang miracle he’s got to 208 years old. I guess $60bn buys a lot of jaguar glands. That stuff’ll get you where you need to go.
So in case you didn’t notice, we launched our podcast. It pops, locks and busts the freshers! Rap talk. Anyway I want to take up the first few lines with a thank you or two for those that helped with the thing. Thanks to Meg for holding in her various toilet needs during the recordings. Took some convincing but I told her that I would demand we didn’t edit out any… background noises. Thanks to Luke and Joe for inviting me to do the thing and putting up with me chuckling through endless sombre accounts of war-crimes. Finally thanks to Meg again for letting me disassemble our bedroom to form a sound-dampening studio environment every second Sunday for several months. The bed ends up looking like I’m trying to build one of those monsters from the end of a Power Rangers episode
Probably this creepo, he’s not allowed near schools anymore.
I just looked up the original cast. Did you remember that the pink one was the girl, the black one was a black chap and the yellow one was Asian? Yeesh. Though I will say, Zordon’s looking well.
Anyway the podcast is good and I will also say gets generally better throughout the ten episodes as we learn to be a little less bashful and gradually come to the realise that human history basically amounts to people named “penis” laying waste to entire villages of men, women and children. I also make a rude joke or ten.
Subscribe here, as hard as yeh can!
So that’s written & audio media addressed. Now I’m cornering the visual medium with my youtube videos of me forcing soapbar husks together. Next medium? Maybe smell…
Suggestions for the name of my personal fragrance on the back of a stamped-addressed envelope please. The smart money is on “Dusk of the Musk.”
Meg had a tough old week of it. As well as me rabbiting on about a podcast that she views the ultimate endgame of is for us to get physically and amorously involved with each other to “get it over with,” she also had to deal with the high pressure scenario of picking “the dress.”
One of her bridesmaids had travelled down to be in the hizz-ouse for the whole thing. She travelled around hells half-acre (her phrase that I am stealing like so much reduced-to-clear ham) to find the right dress over a 48 hour period and in the end made her decision so, happy ending. And not the Thai massage kind.
This was doubly so because we were able to avoid any interaction with the mutants on that show “Be Forced To Say Yes To The Dress.” Monty. Anne Robinson. The whole freak parade. I watch that show waiting for somebody to snag their sleeve on the wrong candelabra and all the furniture spins around to turn it back into Montys abattoir-themed sexclub that he operates there in the evenings.
Welcome to Monty’s F-Palace. Wednesday is wife-swappin’ and ribs night.
Don’t like the look of that fist he’s made. Especially with his drug-ring there to snag on… stuff.
After deciding where she needed to go, we headed out towards the edges of the city to an area I had staunchly defended as being perfectly fine for us to wander around. Most of the areas of London that people know as being a bit tasty or a bit stabby are being gentrified hard. Though that may slow down now as Boris has kicked all the Belgians out and they’ve taken their money with them. As we emerged from the dehumanisingly named Tube, we realised that we weren’t going to be able to walk our intended route as there was a police cordon blocking the road.
Maybe it was something to do with the Ride London cycling (and procreation) event? Doesn’t go near there. Lemon meringue tasting class? It’s not the season for lemons you fool! Maybe, they cordoned it off because it’s too… nice?
Naw. After “socialising” at a boxing event some young fella got sliced up a treat by local ne’er-do-wells. Cocknies. The cockney massive got him. Eastenders style!
This murder of a human made Meg understandably skittish and we flaked it out to the shop and back home in record time. Knifey cockneys woud stab up their own mother to get their hands on an pricey frock. As the horsey burds from Game of Thrones will tell you, “it is known.”
It is known. That are known. It’s all bloody known lass. Oh and the last shot of every season has to be a dragon cawing at the viewer like a bloody great big chicken. Because it is known.
As well as all the walking we had done, we also broken our diet hard with mounds of Brazilian beef and a little bit of afternoon booze. The end result of this was our evening being spent prone on the couch, drifting in and out of a garlicy slumber as an impacted bolus of cow, blood and salt clambered through our intestines driving everything else before it like it was chasing lemmings off a cliff.
If ever there was a time we wished the lock on the toilet actually worked, it was this past weekend.
In other news, I am shlepping up to Edinburgh this weekend for the stag-do of a former housemate and the person that makes the sentence “no I am not the first of my friend group to get hitched” not just a lie I say to take the pressure off our wedding planning.
To honour this important rite of passage, please enjoy this photo of me wearing his face stretched across my passage.
Congratulations on the engagement and upcoming marraige Simon and Shannon. But if you guys steal my idea for having a nude sauna backroom at your wedding, we are done as friends.
We’re still doing that right Meg?
Anne Robinsoner of Leek