Tehroner of Leek

In terms of public life, his record could have been cleaner

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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-

  1. Stick A Fork In Weiner
  2. Weiner: I’ll Stick It Out
  3. Weiner’s Rise And Fall
  4. Weiner’s Second Coming
  5. 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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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Squaloner of Leek

His secret is eating a breakfast of kelps

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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.

Moving on.

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.

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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.

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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.

“Whaddya doing!!!!”

“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.

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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.”

 Touché… <sobs>

Squaloner of Leek

Babkoner of Leek

About her freshwater kin, I’ll cast no aspersions,

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Or she’d poison my IrnBru, it’s Nicola “our only hope” Sturgeon!

I decided to use my opening photo reference for good rather than… well not evil but mocking nonsense as is my norm. I kinda need to keep leaders of other countries sweet right now. You already know why.

So my monthly unblogged weekend has passed and thusly my blog gland drippeth (forsooth!) with what I can only assume is hilarious anecdotes, quippery and the very height of befuddlery that I have cobbled together to call my human life.

Life bit the first! Last Saturday I woke with a start to see that my car to the airport was waiting already outside my door. Due to an alarm-setting malfunction (lack of doing the thing) I slept through to the minute I was meant to leave for the airport to head to New York, but being the canny traveler I am I leave loads of time for such foolishness and made it to the airport after taking the retrospectively merciful move to take a quick shower. The overnight humidity these past weeks has my morning plums as ripe as a doonbuggy on a Lousiana corncob. Apologies, I’ve been talking to Americans for a few days. That’s how they all talk.

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“I been bucking like a hoohaa on the 4th of July eatin’ mah backtack ‘n’ scrapple and doin’ the Charleston on a cottonpick.” – 21st President of the United States Chester A. Arthur (pictured)

After arriving at the airport and getting my newly refreshed plums pawed at by mayor of the gropetown, I was into the building and after demolishing some stale pastries I got onto my plane only to realise that the fools had bumped me like a late dinner reservation to the waft zone by the toilets. But in this case, the Bidness Class toilet! Victoire! Yes as a governmentally-acknowledged fancy boy, they planted me into a full reclining seat with all the modcons including champlane, air d’oeurves before my meal (just one more, keep it going Marky-boy, that’s my new nickname for myself BUT NO TIME FOR THAT NOW) and a really, nice… jet towel? For my neck. Oh no. I’m sorry.

My first two days in NYC, were both hot and chafy but heightened by the presence of one Ian Prince, a former Japan inmate (no really it was great(no really it was a prison of the body AND the mind (beanpaste as a dessert made to look like chocolate!? (these are just some words to have a quadruple bracket closing off my bloggy bucketlist)))).

We sauntered around like cocks of the walk, perusing the finery and giving our heart valves over to a strict and strenuous regimen of alcohol, pork and salted salt. The Americans really know how to destroy an organ legally and with utmost, albeit short-lived enjoyment. In this vein (and still in my veins) was a fresh and sugar soaked chocolate babka.

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If that specifically New York confectionary sounds familiar. Congratulations/commiserations, we are kin.

It glistened in the afternoon sun, steamed with just-baked sweetness and bounced off the disgusting New York Union Square pavement as we dropped half of it and tasted even better when we picked it back up and continued eating. It was insane. Calories easily in the thousands. Shame in the millions. I want one! (tears off t-shirt Hulk-style to reveal a flabby wrinkled torso, babka flakes suspended in my man-breast-fluff).

I regret nothing.

We continued the food tour to include the birth of New York hipsterdom in Brooklyn. As they say in New York, you can’t spell Brooklyn without… all the letters. And some education. A pen. Or a mouth. It’s a nice spot. Brooklyn!

Inspired by this brush with trendiness I also engaged in several highly trendy behaviours.  One such move (I call things I do “moves” now, it’s trendier that way) I went to watch Ferris Bueller in a park in Manhattan, swigging Cava from a communal bottle and trendily mixing up Mia Sara with Mia Farrow. Easily done, but one of these didn’t stumble upon the creepy fact that her boyfiend (no typo, typno) Woody Allen was shtupping her young  (and I mean YOUNG!) adopted daughter.

Director Allen and his wife Previn pose at premiere of "To Rome with Love" in Los Angeles

How could he… resist? And of course his appeal is. Obvious. <leaves room>

Another trendy move (it’s already passé to call it that) was to go to a house party in Harlem. As we approached the house there was a lot of shouting and policey lights in the area we were heading to but we veered hard right before anybody did any crimes to this simple country lad. Instead we had a boozey cheese sandwich party, where we discussed theatre, publishing and the complexities of the nomad life. I’m also pretty sure I straight up weed on her floor. New York rules are that New York Rules! And pee goes eeeverywhere.

In other news… Brexit. I need to stop talking about it or I’m going to get both sad and angry for the umpteenth time since the turd-gobblers that constitute 52% of the voting UK public pulled back their dribble-soaked “Britain First” bedspreads and smeared their democratic contribution to the world across the walls of their padded voting booths. And I will stop talking about it after this one spindly point. 52% of people did a dumb thing, but this thing has been coming for a while. This place is way more f’d than people thought, me included (though perhaps I should have known better and assumed worse) and if there is any positive to come from this squirt-fight liquid dumbness it is as a warning to others. US, Ireland, anybody anywhere that cares about where they live (an admittedly long list) look at what’s happened and rid yourself of complacency. Real bad stuff can happen and on recent evidence, it bloody well will.

I can hear Meg sleeptalking upstairs. “I’m not an expert!!” Might be time to give her a break on discussing this blighted land.

Creme brul-hey-that guy’s on an airplane? Naw, you should go, this ain’t getting better.

Babkoner of Leek