Talking to myself

A Ducks Tale

2009-07-03T02:56:00.001+01:00

At 2:56pm on a rainy Sunday afternoon outside Charles De Gaulle station a man wearing a hat two sizes two big buys 2 cornetto’s for himself from an ice-cream van which was once regarded the toast of the town. He pays with change from a woman’s purse, which he had found the previous month and despite a frankly aggressive flyer posting campaign, has never found it’s owner. The ice-cream man, Jean-Claude Froit, notices the purse and assumes that that man’s mother is treating him from somewhere out of sight and gives him an accordingly judgemental stare. The man, Antoine Dechard, has a nervous disposition and assumes that the ice-cream man has judged him for his pink purse and is considering him to be some sort of rapist or serial killer who gets off on using his victims purses once the bodies have been disposed of. His over-thinking of the situation makes him fumble with the zipper on the purse and drop his two ice-creams in a most unfortunate manner. Where he is standing is to be the site of a new street sign proclaiming that ice-cream vans are not permitted on that road, but due to that particular ice-cream van’s previous prominence in the city’s history, the sign has not yet been erected. A small circular hole has however been made in the ground, and miraculously both ice creams fall into it, head to tale so they are standing up in it perfectly, with only the tip of the bottom of a cone peeking out. The man curses his luck but buys no more ice-cream that day, as he immediately sets off to find the owner of the purse and clear his name once and for all.

At 11:27am on an overcast Tuesday morning outside Charles De Gaulle station, the most famous duck in all of the EU is escorting his family to the train station for their summer vacation. General Constanz Quackismo always works hardest through summer, whilst his contemporaries do little but float, and this year would be no different despite his becoming a father for the first time. He has decided to send his family to the coast so that they will have to compete with seagulls for their floating and scavenging rights, and thereby hopefully become tough enough for a military life. Eight out of nine of his children had protested due to there being a summer camp for young birds being held in the base of the Eiffel Tower this year, and false promises of being sent there next year instead by their father didn’t quell the descent. However, the ninth duckling, Pierre Quackismo, had supported his father’s decision entirely, but requested that he alone be allowed to stay and study at his father’s side. General Constanz Quackismo loved Pierre more than all his other children for this one simple request, as never before had he met another duck who wished to study all through the summer months, but always he had dreamed that there be another out there like him. He could not however show favouritism to his children at such an early age so he had denied the request and had taken them all to the station.

At 4:16pm on a cold Monday afternoon, Jean-Claude Froit receives a terrible phone call from the authorities saying that despite his previous services to the great city of Paris, they would be going ahead with the banning of ice-cream vans outside of Charles De Gaulle station. Jean-Claude is furious and tells the authorities that he will not move without a fight and that if they want him gone they will have to send the army. Unfortunately Jean-Claude is in reality a coward, with no heat in his blood to fight anyone so on an overcast Tuesday morning at 11:30am when he spots an army procession heading towards the station, he takes flight in his ice-cream van not even pausing to turn on his trademark music maker.

Pierre Quackismo is in front of the van when this happens, and accepts his fate with remarkable repose for one so young. He pushes his sister Juliette Quackismo out of the way and utters a prayer to keep his family in crusts before the tire rolls over his tiny body. His sister at first believes the push to be a childish game, however as she sees her brother disappear before the beloved ice-cream van her heart breaks and she forgives him all his sins, and laments herself for all of hers.

General Constanz Quackismo is a hard working duck, stern in a way that no-one can explain. It is this dedicated and considered nature that led him to rise so fast in the army, however as he sees his daughter Juliette’s tears and counts his children, his composure disappears in an instant. He explodes into a feral frenzy not commonly seen in ducks and flaps and quacks terror into the hearts of all the commuters around him. A man drops his brioche out of fear, and perhaps as some sort of offering, and the Quackismo children run to gorge themselves on it, not being able to distinguish between sadness and hunger yet at this early age.

At 11:35am on an overcast Tuesday morning, the army regiment which Jean-Claude Froit had fleed from, arrives at Charles De Gaulle station to catch a train but instead find one of their most decorated generals sobbing in the streets. Inconsolable as he is, the troops rally and try to comfort the General, as this duck is more beloved than any mallard in the country. Nothing they say affects the General’s mood however, and it is several moments before they can ascertain what has happened. News of the tragedy ripples through the soldiers and the commuters as the ducklings proclaim their diminished number and tears spread throughout the area seeding the way for the rain that is coming. The Generals sobbing subsides into a brooding and seething nothing as he loses all joy and all hope. He stares blankly at his children and his men with nothing in his eyes but a desire for one of them to make it all better. His tears mix with all the others to form puddles of unlimited sadness. No-one moves, no-one speaks. Everything is grey.

At 11:40am on an overcast Tuesday morning, a miracle happens. A vet is arriving and asking to see the patient, quickly, vite vite, when an unaccounted for quacking is heard. The army regiment is quick off the mark to check the area for an extra duckling, and believing that he could be vitally injured, every man, woman and child in sight is sent to search as quickly as they can. A father, distraught and feeling alone wanders over to where his son was and quickly becomes pleased by the lack of any blood. He stops his high hopes in their tracks, as he is all too aware of the problems with counting chickens before they hatch, but waddles over to the place his son was last seen. The spot on the ground that would always hold nothing but pain for him, holds something else as well that he cannot yet know. On that spot, which is almost set for a lifetime of scorn and sadness, there is a hole covered by a flyer for a lost purse. In that hole there is a happy little duckling covered in ice-cream quacking for help. On that day there is an overcast Tuesday morning which is covered by cries of joy. The saddest puddle trickles into the whole and Pierre floats to the top perfectly into his father’s gaze. His father berates him with love and his happy faux-angry quacking soon brings back the now thousands of volunteers out searching for this fluffy little yellow fellow. The cheering from the crowd spreads like wildfire with the news of this magically missed tragedy across the continent and even a little further.

With this new joy in his heart General Quackismo becomes more famous and beloved than ever, and with the support of the people becomes President, eventually succeeded by his son Pierre.

Lazy Movie Bullshit #1

2009-05-13T02:56:00.000+01:00

Imagine the scene....our hero is running for his life. Sexy sweat pours off him, and for some reason he’s coated in a layer of grime that makes him look all the more manly. His face is panicked, scared even, but you can tell that he’s determined to live. A monster appears in the background slamming against a wall as it takes a corner hard and chases after him. It snaps its tooth filled gigantic head at our hero, but always narrowly misses due to luck or skill on this plucky young man’s part. He keeps running but his luck (and this scenes momentum) cannot hold up for long so eventually he slips or trips and falls. Oh no! Fear overtakes him so instead of getting up and trying to regain his incomprehensible lead on this beast he rolls onto his back, and he looks with horror at the teeth/tentacles/growly bastard that is slowly advancing on him. His doom is certain, and we all watch and think “shit, maybe they are going to kill him off pointlessly now. Maybe it is that sort of film”. Then suddenly from out of nowhere a larger more frightening beast slams into this massive menace and kills it within a moment. Our hero barely has time to look at this new even more terrifying killing machine and give thanks to it for saving his life, before he realises that despite it now having a very large meal in front of it, it wants to eat him too! The chase resumes, and once more our hero jammily outruns this new crunchy faced bastard despite there being no logistical sense in the comparative speeds of a human and a killing machine twenty times his size. This mega beast may have a new trick or two, but for some reason, despite having no compunction about the speed at which it killed the old cruncher, it seems to want to just chase our hero until some minor victory gives him a chance to escape.

Which is lucky for our hero, but not for us. Who cares about a monster chase scene in which there is no real peril as the monsters never act decisively when it’s time to kill the hero? Hmm? And no, a second bigger monster doesn’t make it more perilous if it’s the exact same chase scene again.

These scenes are about as surprising as not winning the lottery...”is it going to happen? Is it? Is it? No? Oh, I didn’t think so.”

I think all movie executives who want to include such a scene in a movie should have to be chased for a mile by lions first. It would give them some perspective.

Barista is an anagram of Bastard

2009-05-05T02:56:00.001+01:00

So, like you, I have long been a hater when it comes to coffee chains springing up all over the place and charging whatever they like for foamy hot water with melted hyperactive beans. The people who spend their hard earned cash frequenting these places are like so much mould on a pile of rotting marshmallows as far as I am concerned, but as I’m sure you’ll agree, none of us fought the good fight against it, so we lost the high street to these new age caffeine freaks long ago.

So yesterday when my friend invited me out for a coffee I decided to try it out and finally taste this jittery lifestyle which has long been old hat to almost everyone. To my surprise, there were several levels of interesting to such an outing that I had never thought of. Such as:

1) Drinking coffee makes you talk faster, so if you’re catching up with someone you can get through reams of information in a fraction of the time it usually takes
2) It takes longer to drink coffee than beer, so although rounds of coffee seem like much more of a rip-off than rounds of beer, your cover charge for the space you are occupying is significantly lower
3) Coffee is a good alternative to booze if you want to exchange information with someone during your conversation instead of just passing back and forth meaningless inanities filled with good vibes
4) Coffee houses are quieter and cleaner than pubs, so put you less on edge (if only you weren’t drinking coffee)
5) Coffee shops sell cakes, which are better than all pub snacks (except of course honey roast peanuts – which are basically cakes without the time wasted baking)

So Starbucks, Costa and all your crappy little friends, I would like to say I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve said about you. Well not all of them. Not nearly all of them in fact, but at least the one about you being worthless wastes of space.

Both are equally valid and scary

2009-04-21T02:56:00.000+01:00

I don’t think; I do. I don’t tell; I state. I don’t eat; I consume. I don’t complain; I vent. I don’t like; I enjoy. I don’t stop; I pause. I don’t rest; I recover. I don’t move; I go. I don’t believe; I know. I don’t fear; I prepare. I don’t vote; I choose. I don’t live; I am alive.

I don’t do; I think. I don’t state; I tell. I don’t consume; I eat. I don’t vent; I complain. I don’t enjoy; I like. I don’t pause; I stop. I don’t recover; I rest. I don’t go; I move. I don’t know; I believe. I don’t prepare; I fear. I don’t choose; I vote. I’m not alive, but I live.

Happy Financial New Year!

2009-04-06T02:56:00.002+01:00

I don’t know about you but I was fucking shit faced last night. Me and my accountant tore up the town financial style and it was fucking messier than my tax return. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk that many cocktails out of a shredder before, or eaten that much cake out of a ringbinder! And at midnight when we all held our calculators in the sky for 15% of a minute I never felt so united with numbers. Of course the old recession almost stole the heart out of the whole event as there were many people about trying to console their accountants over some deep fried hole-punch dots but once the bartender got out the economic cycle everything got back on track. If you’ve never done it, you’re really missing out – it’s basically an exercise bike attached to some pulleys on which you drink a shot every quarter (of what, who knows!) which keeps getting higher and higher off the ground until you "peak"' and fall off onto a crash mat. Everyone jeers with cries of "trough! trough!" when it happens and it appears to be the most self-loathing fun any accountant can have. We had a whale of time trying to balance on the giant balance sheet too and don’t even ask about the depreciation booth – some people are just into sick shit. Unfortunately Bankers turned up about 2am all yinged out of their faces, but luckily for us the FSA boys all kicked off just as they were getting in and they all got booted together. Good old FSA, always kicking ass and taking names.

All in all was a great night. Happy 09-10!

I know I won't be the first person to have said this, but...

2009-03-29T02:56:00.000+01:00

twit

–noun Informal.
1. an insignificant or bothersome person
2. a person who uses twitter

Bounce

2009-03-23T02:56:00.000Z

The bouncy ball said goodbye, to the shiny faced boy as he let it fly. They had had so much fun for more than a day, but now it was too scuffed and too dirty to play. It rolled out of sight and the boy didn’t chase it, as although he loved the ball he knew he could replace it. The ball stopped in a gutter until the wind hit a can, and that ball was kicked by the foot of a very angry man. It boinged down a hill and went very far, until it flew into the panicked glass of a passing car. It was flung into an alley were it rebounded lots at once, until it hit a fat cat’s fat fur that looked impressed by its stunts. The fat cat startled, jumped and span and then dashed and played with this little rubber man. The cat backed up and attacked again, hitting twice and twice as fast as it played with its new friend. The ball hit a bin and splashed in a puddle, the cat jumped away and got in a muddle. The ball rolled slowly to a stop with a wet line behind it, which lead neatly to the cat whose attention was undivided. The cat pounced, and jumped on the ball, and rolled on the ground, and then stood up tall. He batted the ball left, back, forward, down, up and right, he chased it a bit it and retreated with fright.

The cat bounced the ball until of course it happened, the ball splashed the puddle and the cats fun was dampened. The cat sat back and licked and shivered, disliking the wet his new friend had delivered. The ball rolled around not sure what to do, to cheer up this moggy who was now feeling a bit blue. Without knowing it though the ball had already saved the day, as the bin it had knocked down still had something to say. The cats little nose still snivelling and sad, smelt something it liked and suddenly things weren’t so bad. The cheese on the pizza that was open on the floor, would have been enough, but didn’t have to be, as there was much much more. The cat ate the food and purred as it was rich, and the ball watched the cat devour this very smelly dish.

That night the cat slept with the ball under his chin, and the purring and good times began to begin.

The G Word

2009-03-10T02:56:00.001Z

So I heard, through a friend of a friend of a friend, that Gordon Ramsay is gay. Now I’m not saying it’s true as I really don’t know, and I really don’t think peoples sexuality is fair game in the news, but if it’s true it’s quite interesting as it raises larger questions about the media’s news sources.

Anyway, apparently the tabloids found out Gordon Ramsey has been visiting rent boys for years and Max Clifford stopped them from publishing the story by offering them a deal for better stories. The whole affair story was to cover it up apparently and I guess it was the beginning of the “better stories” he had offered. Apparently it’s common knowledge amongst tabloid journalists, just like Cliff Richard being gay.

If I believed that there was any motive other than financial ones not to out either of these “British icons” I’d almost be impressed by this media collusion to not print something that’s really not their business. But I don’t, so instead I’m frightened by the power of PR and threats of legal action to stop the truth from getting out.

Do businesses not have savings?

2009-02-12T02:56:00.002Z

Bankers were being questioned this week, about them fucking up the whole world and that, and the big questions we asked them were mostly about pay. “How many bucks did you receive this year?” “How much extra did you give your greedy ass on top of that?” “How can you justify that when you’re a complete douche?” Shit like that.

I ask: who fucking cares? I think they are pricks for the same reasons you do, but them paying themselves shitloads of money is neither here nor there right now. The question on my lips is "How the fuck didn't you save up for this? You were making billions for craps sake, didn’t you put a little aside just in case your metaphorical momma gets sick, or your symbolic pony chokes on a gold brick? Where the hell is it all?"

Because it's not in their fucking pockets. Only Santa has pockets that big, but even then only because he's magic.

You are everything you always wanted to be

2009-01-28T02:56:00.000Z

Everything was just floating there in the nothing, kinda foetal in position, all hunched up snuggling in the blankness one Nothingday afternothing. It was uniformly dense and squidging itself into the smallest lack of space imaginable, when it yawned. It was Everything’s first yawn so without realising, it went big. It stretched and groaned and cricked it’s parts, and suddenly Everything was everywhere. It was expanding uniformly to start, and it was uniform still, but even with uniformity comes change. Billions and billions of infinitesimally small pieces of Everything so close to each other started attracting each other and forming larger lumps, then colliding and repulsing and spinning as they crashed outwards. As Everything had always loved being all the same up until now, it was doing this identically across it’s ever expanding spherical surface, however within Everything’s ball like explosion there were now differences from the outer edge. Each strand of everything in the 3d sphere was identical, but they were no longer the same all the way along. And this difference within itself was the first Everything had ever felt. And it liked it.

Everything nurtured it. Within Everything differences soon began to appear wholesale. Everything twisted and turned in every direction all at once, luxuriating in this new variety being sewn into the fabric of itself. Everything went everywhere in every way you can imagine. It made skies of every colour and wrote it’s name in every language across them. It went wild making identical changes across every strand of its existence, and with that it created our existence.

Everything changed and thrived, pushing farther and farther out into the void. It made the same difference to every strand so every strand stayed the same. Every here and every now, repeated and repeated within insane diversity and sameness as Everything went on repeating and changing forever. To Everything, our here and now is like a dot on a piece of hair on a very furry ball. And of course with the incalculable length of the hairs and the size of the dot, the likelihood of any of the identical dots actually seeing each other is less than successfully finding an m&m in a barrel of smarties.

And what, pray tell, does this mean for us? Just what you think. All the things we are going through are being gone through by others. Lots of others. Every tear, every fear, every smile, laugh and sigh is not yours alone. We share everything with more strangers than we’ve met, and although we may never know them, we should never forget it. Everything doesn’t. Everything loves it. Everything loves you.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day

2009-01-20T02:56:00.000Z

So on this auspicious day I feel like I should say something. Firstly, I don’t really know what auspicious means. Secondly

Have you ever noticed that no one judges politicians in (England at least) by how well they take care of wherever they are currently in charge of? Do you ever hear people saying “You should vote for David Cameron – he’s in charge of Witney and it’s well fucking tasty there!” No? Then why do I know that his wife is in PR and his house has a propeller on it, if I don’t know what Witney’s like, or even where it is?

Anyway, Gobama, and think about it hey. I mean, was Sedgefield a nice place to go for a picnic before Tony Blair left? Don’t you think it’s important?

What a way to make a livin'

2009-01-11T02:56:00.000Z

Work tomorrow

Home today

When am I ever going to be able to nothing but play?

Come down

2009-01-06T02:56:00.000Z

in my head
there is nothing
in my head, in my mind
there is nothing
in my head
i am screaming
you are screaming
at me

in my bones
there is nothing
in my bones, in my soul
there is nothing
there is hope
there is fear
there is something
i can't feel

in my eyes
there is nothing
in my eyes, in my sighs
there is nothing
there is regret
that i can't forget
there is one thing
that is me

in my life
there is nothing
in my life, with my strife
there is nothing
just my friends
the love i send
there is nothing
but great hope
and the scope
for something

I know about Speakeasy's but what about regular law abiding folk?

2008-12-15T02:56:00.000Z

Just some thoughts about something that's been bothering me - during prohibition, did fruit cocktail prices suddenly go through the roof to keep these bars afloat? Did people go to a bar and drink between 4 and 12 fruit cocktails in a night? Who would want so many fruit cocktails? Wouldn't all the sugar give them ulcers? Did they still puke up from drinking too much shit? Was that puke almost beautifully multi-coloured? Did people get sugar based hangovers? Were the hangovers like feeling sick after eating too many Maoam bars? Did people go to bars and just have water? Did they have to pay for the water? Did people order water and then cheekily add some Ribena under the table? Did anyone drink some Vimto for dutch courage? Was cordial counted as a spirit? Did people drink concentrated OJ out of shot glasses? Did people still pull at bars? Did people try and only pull people who had drunk the right fruity drink so they tasted like a nice fruit? Did ugly people have to dress up even more, as they knew that no-one would be drunk enough to pull them? Did bars even stay open? Did they stay open as late? Did people still stay until closing, or did they just go home when they were tired? Did people say "oi, everyone back to mine for some more smoothies"? Was there a mid-morning rush for people just wanting an apple juice with breakfast? Were the floors even stickier than usual? Were the toilets kept in suprisingly good conditions? Did they still smoke as much as ever while drinking non-alcholic crap? Did people realise that most barsnacks weren't actually that great? Did anyone bother to buy halves? Did everyone drive to the pub? Were there a shitload less fights? Or did everyones sugar rushes keep the nervous energy high enough for violence?

Were people not just bored out of their minds?

Fuck them pictures, we've taken enough shit from you already

2008-12-08T02:56:00.001Z

It struck me the other day, like a turd in the face, a simple truth which was sickeningly obvious and yet necessarily avoided. We have been pushed to the edge. To the brink. Non-smokers have forced us out, cramming us into smaller and smaller spaces, but keeping us distracted by making that small space the conceptually gigantic "outside". From the once privileged position of being able to smoke where we pleased, blowing hazy "fuck yous" in whoever's face challenged us we are now no better than rats. To enjoy our dirty little habit we have to leave the safety and warmth of the group to huddle around a stinking bin in the stinking cold. Yes we might get 10 minutes off when others must stay at their desks, yes we get to have a conspiratorial chat away from our woes, and yes we might look cool, but huddling around a bin? In the cold? And the motherfucking rain? It's an abuse that we will never live down and never recover from. I know that's the point, but still, I hope that every smoker out there is still thinking "fuck you" deep down in their blackened heart, whenever a non-smoker tuts or coughs like a self righteous prick. I say thinking, because god knows we don't have the breath to say it every time.

Renegades of this atomic age

2008-11-29T02:56:00.000Z

So it's happened twice now. I broke the law with a stranger and I was too into the moment to even look into their face. No it was't some sort of illicit sexual encounter (I can hear your derisive sniggering from here) it was a simple tresspassing fraud kinda deal. I was waiting patiently to go through the barriers at a train station, and the person in front of me didn't swipe their Oyster card properly and took a step forward. Assuming that swiping one piece of plastic on another is a relatively simple and trouble free procedure, I swiped mine too early. In some ways of course it was too late, as now I had swiped mine and the stranger was between me and the barrier what was I to do? Inform the nearest train guy that we had been embroiled in some sort of two for one scam? No, I pushed forward and cried "Shit, QUICKLY" and we both barged through the barriers together. It was a crime of passion you might say, considering the amount of adrenaline that very briefly pumped through my body.

What still gets me though is that I didn't look up at my co-conspirator either time. We broke the law together, we were criminals, outlaws, bonnie and fucking clyde, and yet I don't know their names, or even what they looked like. I smiled inside and was shocked by our actions, and I hope that they did the same but who knows. For a moment there we were in the thick of it, together, us against the motherfucking world, and then we separated, never to work the system together again. It was strangely humanising and touching (although as I said before there was no actual touching, you filthy minded freak).

If it had still been Kenny Ken Ken in charge, maybe I would have felt bad, but with fucking Boris "I'm a rich prick who says things that are funny if you don't keep in mind I'm a rich prick" Johnson earning my Oyster bucks, I was pleased by my crimes. Viva la resistance.

The Amazing Captain Splee

2008-11-24T02:56:00.000Z

I want to tell you about my first son, I owe him that much. His name was Chinny and he was a goldfish. He started life on another world, in another place, probably filled to the brim with fish. But he began life as my son on my mum's dining room table sitting in a little fish jail with his cellmate, swimming round and round. Unfortunately for Chinny he was the prison bitch of his cellmate Fishy, who was driven insane by the cramped living conditions. Every morning I would watch them while eating my breakfast and promise to save them from this tiny hellhole.

Fish love eating shit. That's their pastime; it's what they live for. Fishy became a bit too institutionalised though and would eat Chinny's shit straight from the source. Chinny was a passive little soul though and would barely swim away when he was pestered in this way. Fishy eventually lost it and, after several attempts, finally killed himself by escaping the bowl.

I kept my promise to Chinny though and when I moved out I took the little guy with me, and bought him a roomy tank with the space for 6 fish. We also got him a friend, Mr Bospangles, whom he loved deeply and they played together all day every day. Mr Bospangles was lost to us too, one tragic morning, and Chinny mourned more than I knew a fish could.

Eventually we got him two more friends, but despite Chinny's wonderful demeanour, they only ever got to achieving a friendly nonchalance. He would rub up against them, or chase them and they would be more freaked out than amused. He never stopped playing with them though, and they miss him too.

Last Sunday see, my first born died after a struggle with his buoyancy gland. He will be missed more than anyone will ever believe.

I loved that fish, and I hope more than anything that the 18 months in which I freed him from his little cell on my mum's table were the happiest he had. I sang to him, I played games with him, and I sometimes hugged his tank. He would get excited when I was near, and I even taught him a trick once, although he forgot it quickly. He was beautiful and wonderful and I will always be deeply saddened by the thought that I may have contributed to his death somehow.

I'll see you around little swimmer. I'll blow some bubbles for you.

My name is Katie Perry and I am a worthless whorebag

2008-10-27T02:56:00.001Z

My name is Katie Perry and I couldn’t succeed as a singer despite being amazingly lucky enough to be chosen to sing a song for a film about pants. And because I am such a fucking moron, I believed my agent when he said that writing a song myself would be the ticket, so I was surprised when my txt-spk-homophobic-slash-idiot-cough-hit-cough “Ur So Gay” EP got panned.

So I begged my record company to give me another shot, telling them I would do anything at all to be famous, as I am in fact a massively insecure and crazy bitch who is insanely desperate for attention. After sucking a lot of executive cock, a giant douchbag stuck his dick in my ear and told me that he wanted to make some money out of my worthless ass. He told me that my only chance was to say that I am a lesbian, so that stupid men would listen to my songs and think about lesbians, and even stupider women would listen to them so that they could try and ingratiate themselves to these stupid men. So I sang a song about making out with a chick, but got sick of it so said I was sick of it, and before I knew it, I had an executive wang in my face telling me that I best shut up or I’d be taken to the dump and shot. He also said I had to make out with a chick in public so that the idiots of the world would be confused enough to semi-believe in the possibility that I was a lesbian.

I think I sold a lot of records as I keep hearing me on the radio, but the executives keep me pretty much in the dark (for my own good apparently), so I’ve got too much jizz in my brain to tell. They did tell me that no-one gives a crap about me anymore though so if I want to keep people looking at me, I would have to appeal to kids who like stabbing this time, as they are also idiots. So I let them take some pictures of me with a blade, and I’ve got my fingers crossed that for some reason, it will make people like me.

My momma, and poppa, and grandma, and all my relatives in fact are pretty angry with me for being such a completely worthless whorebag, but at least that means they keep calling me, which gives me just a little bit more of the attention I so desperately crave but don’t deserve.

The thing is, which I don’t understand about this whole “I kissed a girl” hoo ha (and let’s be honest, I don’t understand most things) is that I’ve seen myself naked, and I know that I am rough as fuck, so how was it a good idea to try and make me all sexual and that? No time to think about it now though, an executive needs his balls brassed. Toodlepip

Hungry Hungry Heroes

2008-10-19T02:56:00.000+01:00

So yesterday I had a magically mega lazy day of doing nothing but watching Heroes season 2. As it was cut to just 11 episodes due to the previously-supported-coz-I-hate-Hollywood-Producer-bastards-who-seem-to-ruin-every-movie-but-now-resented-as-I-feel-the-effects-a-tiny-bit-like-with-pushing-daisies writers strike we thought we might as well watch every episode in a row. It was somewhere around hour 8 when we took a dinner break to eat the kindly and thoughtfully prepared steaks cooked by my delightful girlfriend. I was a bit worse for wear from the crazy things I had seen when I realised how warped my brain was, as upon the steaks arriving in front of me, I narrowly avoided almost committing the most nuclear powered smack down of pre-dinner-faux-pas- fuck-ups by not completely uttering the sentence “Do you think the cheerleader could mass produce s...

Raven

2008-10-14T02:56:00.001+01:00

I’ve always had an affinity for homeless people, or at least they’ve always had an affinity for me. From the time a homeless guy came and told me it was beer o’clock, to every time a crazy hobo chooses me to sit next to on the bus, I know that there is something which makes me closer to being on the streets than most people. It’s probably the furry face, or the shabby appearance, or most likely the forlorn look in my eye. Whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

The other night I was drunk on the streets, and puking on the streets, when a man from the streets came over to me to try his luck. “You got any spare change?” he asked. I had no idea if I did or not, and as my hands had been used to wipe the puke from my beard, I was loathe to jam them in my pockets and root around my unpukey stuff for some bucks. I generally give all my coins to any tramp who asks, but as I say, I was past drunk. “Come on man, not even a pound?” he begged again. “Nah man I ain’t got nothing” I said still wiping the smell from my face “You want a fag?”. He said “Yeah man safe....hey, you alright blood? .... You gonna be alright getting home?”. I mumbled something about there being a main road and wandered off, to eventually fall on my ass with my friends.

So a homeless guy asked me if I would be alright to get home. A Home-less guy asked me if I could get Home. To quote the late great Clay Davis

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.

That was a low.

A montage of the gibberish you missed while I was away...

2008-09-28T02:56:00.001+01:00

Three minutes into eating the cheeseburger, I didn’t like it. How did I know it was three minutes in? Because the cheeseburger had a stopwatch in it, and I bit that fucker right on time.

Elsewhere two peacocks argue over the rights to an ice cream truck, which both claim they have bought at an auction. “Fancy you buying an Ice-cream truck at auction on the same day as me and not telling me about it. What a coincidence!” Chernobyl the peacock says. “Fuck you Kaleido-dope, we’ll see who owns that thing, we’ll both call it and see who it comes to” replies the ugly one.

Before I thought of circles, I thought of triangles. So did everyone. But what was the question? It was simple: where do you go from squares?

Somedays I think about finding a pot of gold, and what I would do with all those bucks. Mostly I consider the magical mystery foods I would eat, or the insanely cute and numerous pets I could buy. But then I realise that I could have these things now, if I really tried, so why do I need to look for more pot?

Sarah Palin is to the Whitehouse, what a glass of white wine is to drinking. It’s like you’re walking down the street with your buddy, who’s dressed in a nice suit and is kind of a city boy and a bit of a prick, but who’s kinda charming so you like him anyway. So you’re walking down the street with him, having a conversation you’re slightly uncomfortable with, but you go along with coz of the nature of your friendship, when suddenly he starts hitting you in the face with his italian leather briefcase for no reason at all. It’s a nice suitcase so it’s a flat and padded, so just kinda gives you a headache rather than hurting you, and for some reason due to this, you keep walking and talking with your “buddy”.

Round in circles

2008-06-01T02:56:00.000+01:00

I’m sitting. I’m waiting. I’m quiet. I’m talking. I’m drinking. I’m nervous.

“Two minutes” a voice cries out and I’m nervous. The staff are all around, cleaning quietly, quickly. Acting as if nothings going on. We prepare ourselves. We make outlandish statements supporting one action or another, depending on what is about to come.

And then we hear it. A rumbling. A contained roar. An excitable drumming. And voices, way too many voices. It arrives and the doors open, but instead of people spilling out of the carriages, bottles fly out. A cacophony of broken glass drowned out by the sudden mob screaming at us to join them. Champagne and sick covering the floors. Guy Fawkes masks covering the troublesome ones and the out of place.

We step on, into the sweat and the sound. Into the cheering and jeering and steamed up windows. Cameras are everywhere, but everything is a blur. A kid stands in front of me and hears about drink and drugs and swearing and the police. We feel bad for those just going home. We feel bad for those still at work, in this….mess.

Suddenly we stop. The line is dead due to trouble ahead. The crowd goes one way, after making a stand against nothing but a disembodied voice, and we go the other. Phew.

For the last time, phew.

Dear Frank

2008-05-25T02:56:00.000+01:00

02/04/08

Dear Frank,

Let me begin by saying that I am a fan of the style of your advertising campaigns as they seem to cut straight to the heart of the matter, and will perhaps get through to your target audience.

However, I was just wondering why you think it's ok to pick on cannabis users with your current advertising campaign? Coke-heads are the worst people out there, but I don't think I have ever seen any anti-coke ads run by you. Is that because you are afraid of the backlash that would occur from the media if you did take a stand, as most of the media are coke fans?

Coke ruins lives and peoples health, costs loads of money and the effects are to make you an arrogant asshole and then after prolonged use, paranoid. Cannabis makes you lose some of your ambition, and perhaps become paranoid (to a much lesser extent than coke) and that's about it. The reports of it causing schizophrenia are unsubstantiated to say the least (read Bad Science).

I think it is appalling that a service that is supposed to be helping young people away from drugs is simply following the political fad to continuously reclassify cannabis (so as to make a show that the Government is doing something about drugs) rather than taking a stand against a drug that is equally, if not more prevalent than cannabis, and yet seemingly considered acceptable by most adults.

Your organization is in a particularly strong position to make a difference to peoples opinion of coke, but instead you appear to be taking the easier route of attacking a less dangerous, yet more visible drug.

Yours disappointed,
Swan

03/04/08

Hi Swan.

Thank you for your e-mail.

FRANK is a new drugs campaign, which aims to give information and help
to anyone who is affected by or wants to know about drugs. This is not a
debating arena. Your comments have been noted.

You may wish to search for free local help via the following link :
http://www.talktofrank.com/multimap.aspx?id=278

If you want to know any more, or would like to talk to one of our
advisors about this, call 0800 77 66 00 and tell them you've been asked
to ring for more information. Alternatively, you can get more
information at www.talktofrank.com

Hope to talk to you again soon.

FRANK

20/05/08

Cocaine at centre of government's Frank anti-drugs drive

LONDON - The government is to focus on showing 15- to 18-year-olds the ugly consequences behind the glamour of cocaine, the price of which is at an all-time low, in the next phase of its Frank drugs awareness campaign.

The £1m cross-media campaign will be announced today by drugs minister Vernon Coaker as part of a new crackdown on cocaine, which the government claims is the only drug that has risen in use since 1998.

The price of cocaine in the UK has fallen to an all time low and can be bought for as little as £30 a gram, making it easily available to young people and students.

The campaign will use a range of media including online advertising, as well as leaflets aimed at young people and drugs workers.

Today's announcement will be made at a summit being attended by the Columbian vice-president Francisco Santos Calderon, in an attempt to highlight cocaine's impact on the people of his country.

The UK government has joined the Columbian government's "Shared responsibility" campaign, which focuses on the global consequences of cocaine use.

Tomorrow, Coaker, Calderon and former Blur bassist Alex James, will attend a Trafalgar Square exhibition illustrating the environmental and social destruction caused by the drug.

The Frank campaign began five year ago this Friday. The digital account is currently with Profero and the advertising account is with Mother.

Fuck you London.

2008-05-08T02:56:00.000+01:00

Fuck you Evening Standard. Fuck you free papers. Fuck you David Cameron. Fuck you tories. Fuck you electioneering. Fuck you Have I Got News For You. Fuck you short attention span. Fuck you Boris

and good luck

A vote for Boris is a vote for America

2008-04-14T02:56:00.001+01:00

So on Friday night I took a drunken straw poll of vague strangers and I was surprised to learn that Boris Johnson is much more popular than I would have thought. Now, as much as anyone else, I thought he was a comic legend on Have I Got News For You, but when I watched it, I always had the niggling thought in the back of my head – “Who voted for him? How is he an MP? What trickery did he pull to make him seem like a viable candidate?” I always assumed there was some convoluted, yet amusing tale of his rise to power out there just waiting to be discovered, but alas, I guess not.

If people in London are willing to vote for him because he’s funny to look at, then I guess that must have been what happened before. So it seems that for all our mighty snooty British superiority over the intellect of the Americans – “They voted in Arnold Schwarzenegger, those guys are so easily led by TV”, “They voted in Bush, those guys are so easily fooled by rich people politicking” – we are in fact much worse. Because at least Arnie had a successful career as an actor, and at least Bush has an MBA from Harvard. Boris? He’s got messy blonde hair and is easily made fun of by comedians when appearing on TV. It’s like they’re being tricked by Vogue magazine and we’re being tricked by OK!

So if you vote for Boris Johnson, please keep in mind that you are actually in fact also voting for the idea that Americans are smarter than the British. And I know you hate that.