Gwen Stefoner of Leek

He beat up his schoolmates when they called him a girl-man,


It’s granite-faced grumblepuss Ron “rent-a-toughy” Perlman

That photo is a bit less Dr Frankenfurter and a bit more Professor Hogroast.

So the last bit of info-broth I ladled out was that Meg and I had been bumped up into the lower echelons of aerial luxury on our way to Canada. We arrived into Toronto as we have many times before, knowing several things.

One was that the border guards, though looking and sounding much like their humourless, twitchy US counterparts were much less likely to prong their guns in my face and accuse me of being an Al Qaeda if I passed some well-deserved post-flight gas at the desk.

Those lads in JFK are too much. “SIR, PLEASE SUCK BACK IN YOUR FART!”Thank God Agent Orange is building that wall eh? Pfff.

Another thing we knew was that Meg’s parents would have soft drinks (which in Ontario is referred to as “pahp”) in the car. A very welcome habit of their’s and much like mothers internationally, Meg’s mom is highly attuned to the preferences of guests. Thus she had noticed some time ago I was keen on Snapple so she had filled their garage with cases of every flavour of the delicious sugar-wet from Kiwi Dream to Kumquat Ebola and everything inbetween.


She didn’t exactly pull my Snapple-love out of thin air to be fair to her.

The following day we stormed down through central Ontario, bellies filled with all-Canadian sugarballs (aka “TimBits,” aka “Timothy’s donut rinds” aka in some US States due to orders of the Surgeon General, “Diabits.”) We were attending a rooftop wedding in Windsor, just across the water from Detroit. Apart from a brief thunder storm forcing the ceremony indoors and the occasional spattering of small arms fire from across the river the whole thing went swimmingly.

There was however a dude in the foyer who had vomited his mother’s spaghetti on his sweater and kept threatening to “drop bombs.”Meg assured me he was just a local lad who was struggling with his life as a nutless pheasant.

I think I officially have a “Rap Beef” now. Call up Drake. Tell him his songs all sound like he doesn’t open his mouth all the way and Rinnana needs to put on a hoody or she’ll catch her death.

Might say something about me but I’ve only been invited to two weddings, both via Meg so I’m probably not an expert but they had prime rib, a pasta bar where all the pasta was al dente and more meaty sausages than the 1974 Buffalo Bills.

That sounded like a real reference didn’t it? But nope, just nonsense.

Anyway, the food was boss. Oh also, the local high school hotty from 2002 was mixing the drinks, Meg was super excited. Tony Bean. Chet Lighthouse. I dunno some North American garbage name. Hey Meg, what’s his name?

Jonny Bratt. His name is Jonny Bratt.


And this is my North American cousin. Tuck… Napsack. I don’t mention him much, because he’s awful.

Anyway Meg and I were storming it on the dancefloor, with me whipping passers by with a hail of briny sweat as we jammed it to a selection of Motown hits (Detroit is only a heavily polluted river away after all) and probably less predictably, Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani.

Sidebar. I really like several of the songs from that album and frequently sing Rich Girl but where I change the lyrics to be all about chicken dishes. Meg has to deal with a lot.

Original Lyrics-

Come together all over the world
From the hoods of Japan, Harajuku girls
What, it’s all love, What, give it up
What (shouldn’t matter [Repeat x4])

Yes ma’am, we got the style that’s wicked
I hope you can all keep up
We climbed all the way from the bottom to the top
Now we ain’t gettin’ nothin’ but love

Changed by me to-

Cup of gravy all over the bird
If you want a chick make chicken sando girl
What, it’s sando, What sando
Chicken sando [repeat x4]

If you want to have some chicken
You can eat it in a pie
You can eat a wing of chicken
Or you can even eat a chicken thigh


G-Stef and me are peas in a pod. Sidebar #2, peas go great with chicken.

After the wedding we went back to Toronto and prepared to receive my dear mother who was flying in to meet Meg’s parents for the first time. Sorry to say there were no major anecdotes or serious mix ups that were worth reporting, all was fine though there was a topless woman just kicking it sitting on a pile of dirt as we went in for pre-dinner drinks. Bit of a conversation starter that one. Free the Toronto two and all that.

Then Meg went home with her folks for a few days and Ingrid and I flew to Newfoundland for a trip that Meg would have hated.  There was a lot of overcast skies. A lot of light drizzle. A lot of walking up hills just to see what was at the top. Meg has a famously low tolerance for an incline. Any more than 2° and you’ll see a side of her you don’t like.

I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean everything she’s said on those occasions though. The Koreans had a rough time of it when we visited the quite hilly city of Seoul.


They’re still looking for her after the hand gesture she made after hiking up to the border though

Newfoundland was lovely as it happened, though bizarrely like home. Accents, landscape and even music were basically like being in West Cork. That said I’ve never heard radio stations in Cork complain about how Quebec is stealing their hydroelectricity and they should just tear up the contract and if those goddamn jokers up in Ottawa have a problem with that they can get off their little soft three-ply quilted toiletpaper wiping asses and come here and tell us so!

They’re not so keen on being Canadian. Curious why? Well some arsehole you know has just done Newfoundland for series 2 of 80Days Podcast. Which brings me to my new section- Plug This Arsehole <waves> I’m the arsehole.

Just to underline how I’m now an internet sensation (just like, please pay attention to me but totally casual cause I’m cool about it like George Clooney or Kanye) I will be devoting these final lines of the blog to plugging my various online nonsense receptacles.

Firstly there’s the biggy, 80daysPodcast (the aforementioned)that’s where we look at a poorly-known area of the world, the other two (Joe and Luke) research it and I make rude noises in the background as they attempt to discuss genocides and funny hats.

I’m also on Instagram as I’ve previously mentioned, mainly taking photos of pictures with rude implications and occasionally doing the photos-of-my-own-food thing. Just to prove to my mother that I’m not only taking in calories through beer and microwaved tubs of Nutella like I did in college. A packet of Hobnobs in milk was another one. You’re welcome.

I’m also on Twitter and you can just search me out on Facebook. I’m not gonna put a link in for that, just follow the smell of curry powder and BO.

And now after that hard sell I bid you adoo…

<sound of flapping> Caw CAW!

Gwen Stefoner of Leek

Anne Robinsoner 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

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