A bastard of my acquaintance is married to a wife I know nothing about. This inexplicably gets on my nerves. Who is this wife? Where’s my wife? How come he’s allowed a wife? I’m older than him. Where’s my damned wife?
Actually, I’ll broaden this to all men I know with wives – where’s my wife eh? How dare you have a wife! You know who you are. WHERE’S MY WIFE?
God I need a cigarrette.
So Justin Hawkins is doing a Eurovision song … huzzah! He’s put himself at the mercy of a Great British Public who last year voted for a song about kiddy-fiddling sung by a kiddy-fiddler (allegedly). Justin’s song – J’ai fait don de mes balles à la science et maintenant je veux que les soutiennent (I Donated My Balls To Science And Now I Want Them Back) – is up against one by that lunatic from East 17 who managed to run himself over the other year, another by some band called Stucco or Stoop or Shitter or something, plus one by a pair of tits that used to be in The Atomic Tits … he should walk it.
His song goes like this:
I donated my balls to science
But now I want them back.
They haven’t used them properly –
There’s a crack across the sack.
I donated my balls to science
The thieving bastards had me at a disadvantage.
I want my testicles back
Or I’m caling the police.
D’ye hear?
(Chorus)
Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!
Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!
Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!
Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!
GIVE ME MY FUCKING BALLS BACK!
Dear The BBC
I have a new idea for a television show you may be interested in. It’s called May God Have Mercy On Their Souls and the outline is thus:
Five Q-List ‘Celebrities’ (I’m thinking drug-addict Richard Bacon and that insufferable turd Max Clifford would be an excellent start) are kidnapped from their houses in the middle of the night by burly-looking men in secret police-style uniforms (gas masks, night-sticks etc.). They are blindfolded and thrown into trucks before being driven away to a farm in Wales or somewhere equally God-forsaken. On arrival they are stripped naked, beaten with rubber hoses and doused in gasoline. The public are then invited (via a premium phone-line, obviously) to choose who is set on fire and who is spared. The unfortunate victim is then burned alive. Meanwhile, the survivors are released naked into the mountains and hunted down with dogs and helicopters. Anyone who survives the night is captured in a big net and dumped in a barrel of acid to suffer an agonising fate.
Is this any good? And more’s to the point, how much money do you people owe me?
Yours
BP
With the current hoo-hah over Brighton and Hove District Council’s decision to award school places to children by pulling their names out of a hat, I’ve decided now’s the perfect time to wade my deeply ill-informed carcass into the debate. We all want our kids to get a good education (even the stupid ones who are destined from birth to stack shelves or steal for a living no matter how much geography you throw at ‘em), but that’s simply not possible for all of them because a lot of the UK’s schools are shit. So how do we allocate the few precious places we have? Which kids get them? In an ideal world there would be some sort of machine that would gauge whether your child will grow up to discover the cure for cancer or spend twenty years watching chat shows on Channel Five semi-comatose on drugs and Baker’s Oven sausage rolls. Sadly, no such machine exists, so here are some suggestions to decide which kids get to grow up to be rich and successful and which ones get to become tuberculosis-ridden scum ….
1. Sport
Remember the policy schools used to have in the olden days? The best pupils were seen as the ones who were good at sport. These big, strapping lads were preened for greatness by their schools, set up as the blueprint for what made a good child, and many went on to become highly successful middle-managers, probation officers, and insurance underwriters. So why not use the policy of discrimination schools used to use during P.E. to choose who gets to go to the good school and who gets to go to the one where the kids are no better than apes? So, all kids preparing to go to school in September are gathered together in a room that smells of sweat and dirty genitals. A paedophile in a tracksuit then picks the two biggest children who both take turns to pick children in a descending order of sportiness. The top 40% of these muscle-bound, dimwitted lugs could then be shipped off to the best schools, whereas the remaining 60% of fat, skinny and ’sensitive’ children who are last to be picked could be condemned to a sub-standard education. Play up and play the game!
2. Jousting
Why not make kids joust for a place? This solution offers children a level of competitiveness sadly lacking in today’s caring culture, and also offers adults something fun and vaguely medieval to watch at the weekends. Tournaments could be organised throughout the land with children battling it out on horseback for the right to a good education. This would be of particular advantage to fat children because their weight would anchor them to the saddle. Children with good hand/eye coordination would also thrive. Best of all, as jousting is an extremely dangerous sport, many children would not survive the tournaments thus freeing up precious places for those children prepared to pull their little fingers out and unseat all challengers. I’faith!
3. Survival of the Fittest
Why not let kids loose in the woods and hunt them with dogs and guns? It would soon become obvious which children deserved the quality placements because these would be the ones left alive at the end of the hunt. Best of all, this option would create an even playing-field for all children (except for girls) as the ones displaying the most cunning and forward-planning skills would survive regardless of their abilities in other areas – all except fat children who would be gunned down within minutes no matter how smart they were. Also, this option solves the current issue of what to do with all those redundant fox-hunts we currently have knocking about at the moment. Tally Ho!
4. Work
The Chinese have the right idea. None of this ’sat in your bedroom playing Grand Theft Auto‘ malarky for Chinese children, oh no. From the moment the little bastards can walk they’re put to work in factories making toys and cheap clothing for spoilt Western children who don’t know they’re born. So why not make our children work like their Chinese counterparts? Foremen could keep an eye on them and those that work like dogs (say, making 2000 pairs of underpants per day or picking an entire field of potatoes in an afternoon) could earn the right to a good education. Slovenly children would carry on working in factories until they die, thus boosting Britain’s economy, whereas children not afraid to get their hands dirty would end up in schools learning the skills they need to become the next generation of factory over-seers. Best of all, we wouldn’t have to pay these children for their time – their wage would be the reward of a precious school placement. Get back to work!
5. The Aryan Solution
Why not classify children along racial lines? Those with blond hair, blue eyes and light skin could be sent to the best our education system has to offer. Those with hump-backs, brown (or ‘dirty’) hair, strange facial ticks, mental disablilities, a bad attitude or a lack of commitment to the state and its Four Year Plan could be rounded up, used as forced-labour to build swimming pools and municipal opera houses, then gassed. Zeig Heil!
6. Trial by Fire
Is it too strong to suggest we simply set fire to children in a big pit and let ‘em fight one another for posession of the sole bucket of water provided? Hot stuff!
Hell’s bells and buckets of blood!
Jesus! Sandy Montes is a persistent little bastard, I’ll give him that. So far he’s tried to interest me in his photograph of a ‘teenage chick with a huge double-dildo’ (I’ll leave it to you to decide where each end of the dildo’s final resting-place lies) five times today. The thing is, if you click the link Sandy’s thoughtfully supplied, you are taken not, as promised, to a site where a luscious teenage lovely indulges in some solo fun with her battery-powered playmate, but instead to a site where a haggard-looking blonde with artificial boobs pretends to enjoy the rear-end attentions of a donkey-dicked OAP. She can be described as a ‘teenager’ in the same way I can be described as an ‘Olympic athelete’.
This is blatantly false advertising and I have sent a stiff letter of complaint to the Advertising Standards Authority.
How much fucking money IS there languishing in African banks anyway?
DEAR FRIEND
I KNOW THAT THIS MESSAGE WILL COME TO YOU AS A SURPRISE. I AM THE BILL AND
EXCHANGE MANAGER IN BANK OF AFRICA (BOA), OUAGADOUGOU BURKINA FASO. I HOPED THAT
YOU WILL NOT EXPOSE OR BETRAY THIS TRUST AND CONFIDENT THAT I AM ABOUT TO REPOSE
ON YOU FOR THE MUTUAL BENEFIT OF OUR FAMILIES.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/859479.stm
I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE IN TRANSFERRING THE SUM OF (USD$25) MILLION TO
YOUR ACCOUNT WITHIN 10 TO 14 BANKING DAYS. THIS MONEY HAS BEEN DORMANT FOR YEARS
IN OUR BANK WITHOUT CLAIM. I WANT THE BANK TO RELEASE THE MONEY TO YOU AS THE
NEAREST PERSON TO OUR DECEASED CUSTOMER (THE OWNER OF THE ACCOUNT) DIED ALONG
WITH HIS SUPPOSED NEXT OF KIN IN AN AIR CRASH SINCE JULY, 2000.
I DON’T WANT THE MONEY TO GO INTO OUR BANK TREASURER ACCOUNT AS AN ABANDONED
FUND. SO THIS IS THE REASON WHY I CONTACTED YOU SO THAT THE BANK CAN RELEASE THE
MONEY TO YOU AS THE NEXT OF KIN TO THE DECEASED CUSTOMER. PLEASE I WOULD LIKE
YOU TO KEEP THIS PROPOSAL AS A TOP SECRET AND DELETE IT IF YOU ARE NOT
INTERESTED.
UPON RECEIPT OF YOUR REPLY, I WILL GIVE YOU FULL DETAILS ON HOW THE BUSINESS
WILL BE EXECUTED AND ALSO NOTE THAT YOU WILL HAVE 30% OF THE ABOVE MENTIONED SUM
IF YOU AGREE TO HANDLE THIS BUSINESS WITH ME? AND 10% WILL BE SET ASIDE FOR ANY
EXPENSES THAT WARRANT ON THE PROCESS BEFORE THE FUND GET INTO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT
SUCH AS TELEPHONE CALLS BILLS (ETC).
BEST REGARD.
MR NABJIB IBRAHIM.
As per usual, I was only too happy to help … with the usual conditions of course …
Nabjib!
30% seems a bit mean my old, good, trusted etc etc friend. Considering you want to use muggins here as a pack-horse to shift this money you’ve nicked, you can bloody-well rethink your percentage, by God can you just! Basically, I want 75% or the deal’s off. And if you disagree, or back out of the deal, I’m going to hunt you down like a dog and plunge my knives into your face.
Yours
Hogan
P.S. I have eight knives.
So …
… I’m trying to give up smoking. Partly because the puritans have got their way and smoking will become officially un-fun in July, but mostly because I don’t want to contract throat cancer and have my tongue cut out for my troubles. So, instead of my early-morning cheroot I had a piece of fucking chewing-gum. Great. Yippee. Roll out the barrel, let’s have a fucking party.
How do I feel? Well … fucking furious obviously.
I seriously deluded myself this weekend. Y’see, the idea struck me that the work I’m doing on Herr Rowley’s BIG IDEA could be speeded up considerably if I used one of these new-fangled 3D programs that are all the rage in animation nowadays. Scott’s BIG IDEA involves recurring characters and I thought if I could construct them as poseable 3D models, I could slip ‘em into the pictures quick as you like and reduce my workload considerably.
Well … a-ha ha ha ha – that’s all I can say.
The first program I tried was Cinema 4D and twenty minutes into the tutorial I realised you needed a physics degree to make it work properly, so I gave up on that one. Trawling around the internet I came across a freebie 3D program called Blender. ‘Oh aye,’ thinks I, ‘Free equals shit usually’ … but then I found this guy’s stuff and thought, ‘Hey! You can do some pretty stunning looking shit with Blender! Huzzah!’ So I downloaded it and then spent the next two days trying to make it work. So far I’ve managed to ‘render’ a fairly unconvincing-looking gingerbread man. I can’t work out how to make the buttons on his fat stomach different colours and I can’t get the camera in the right place so I keep cutting off his head. I initially thought it would take me about a week to get up to speed on 3D. I now understand I’ll be able to produce work like this chap in about … oooo … four years maybe?
So it’s back to the fucking drawing-board … literally.
I just came across this whilst looking through some old discs. You could use it as one of those crappy, couldn’t be arsed to buy you an actual card, e-card things. Probably.
