Background feeling of dread now that the six month British winter is nigh.
I flick the TV on because I don’t mind being insulted in my own home. This is a Duro-Sagan 72A model fridge. It can store 180 apples, 16 record players, or 3 human bodies. An ant scuttles lengthways through the strips of moss dividing the patio tiles, each tiny green tuft parting as it goes so as to give the illusion of a rippling centipede. Tried a new barber. At the end of the cut, he produced what looked like a long metal tent-peg from a drawer and set the tip of it aflame with his lighter. He then repeatedly jerked it against my left ear. I hadn’t thought I’d betrayed any alarm but, smiling, he asked me if I’d seen this technique used before. No, I hadn’t. It’s for burning the ear hairs, he said. This raises the question: what object, if drawn from the pocket of this dexterous and meticulous fellow, would it take for me to abandon the chair? Fake Taxi is a political thriller starring Danny Dyer, Vince Cable and the Grandma from the stairlift adverts. We are a post dubstep band, formed in 2012. Oh really? I can’t imagine a post dub world right now, I’m so caught up in the dub moment. What’s post dub like? Well, it’s like dub but without the wub wub wub. It’s like music, essentially.
That would be a great Alan Partridge commentary line, wouldn’t it? You’d show footage of a football mishap, two centre-backs colliding, which leads to a striker scoring a goal and Alan would say, ‘we’re supposedly living in the age of information and yet we’re still seeing sloppy errors like these.’ Could you sign for the parcel here please? Yeah sure. Gah, bodged the signature. The stylus is no good. It’s either that or the touch screen, but it doesn’t really matter what it looks like does it, heh? Postman chuckles, no it doesn’t really matter. So I draw a throbbing dick on the electronic pad. To my surprise there are colouring options and other tools on the software, so Pat waits sheepishly as I spend ten minutes on my veiny masterpiece. I can’t believe I won, I’m speechless. It’s an ineffable experience; euphoric, nauseating, confusing, humbling, terrifying, mind-bending, life-transforming, surreal. Absurd, shell-shocking, life-affirming, gratifying, stupefying, ego-boosting and tear-inducing. Honestly, I couldn’t even attempt to describe it. It’s been such a journey. Involuntarily, George let out an extraordinarily loud, high-pitched and Dad-like fart as he sat on the John. He was only 23.
282 Nicknames We Get Called As Fat Girls And You Will Die When You See How Accurate They Are. #179 Stupid fat fucking bitch. HAHAHAHAHA OMG that’s so true! (girl sobs herself to sleep). But the way I see it, the mass murder of innocent children is NOT a victimless crime. Maybe I’m putting myself out there by saying that. 3 cunts walk into a restaurant. The first cunt orders a vegetarian mixed grill, the second orders a slice of the almond cake without any nuts and the third… Needless to say, the waiter surreptitiously shat in their non-existent meals. My favourite TV programme you ask? Hmmm, it’s a toss-up between Mad Men and BBC Points of View. That reminds me actually, I need to lodge a complaint about Points of View. A really scruffily presented episode the last one, took me right out of the experience.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men / Couldn’t put Humpty together again [emphasis mine]. Hartley notes that scholarly analysis of this poem is overly literary, empty, and ultimately a waste of time, but his deconstruction of the critical framework surrounding the poem leaves its milieu decidedly disentangled. That Felix Baumgartner quote was shit wasn’t it? Oooeh, u hav to be up reely hi to C how smarrl we reli R. He could’ve put anything on the political agenda from the platform he had, and he chose THAT. As it happened he may as well have shouted ‘SOMETHING PROFOUND’ before leaping. Damn! You know when you spill drink from a cup because you thought it was empty? Well, I’ve not done that. In fact, I’ve actually just shot my Mum (camera pans over to corpse). Welcome to Cash in the Attic, today we’re in Swindon, unfortunately. Cut! Welcome to Cash in the Attic, today we’re in Swindon, the town known for its big fuck-off roundabout. Locals here love to go round and round in circles… CUT! Do the show properly… Our expert Paul has been snooping for antiques in the kitchen. Hi Paul, found any valuables lying around that might contribute to our target of thirty pounds? Nope, there’s nothing fucking here, we’re in fucking Swindon for fuck sake. Sod this, if anyone fancies a cultured shag I’ll be in the living room. She was a slave to the words when she believed to be their master. But this statement probably isn’t original, nor this one telling you it isn’t, nor this last supplement (ad infinitum).
Me: Hellooo! How was your day?
Mum: Hectic as ever. I expect Becca will try and call soon, or possibly a man trying to sell me a new boiler.
[Phone rings, Mum picks up receiver]
Mum: Hello? […] Ah heya, I was literally just saying to Matt, ‘oh Becca will be calling soon, or it will be the boiler people’, AND LOOK, IT’S YOU, THE FUCKING BOILER PEOPLE AGAIN! STOP FUCKING HARASSING ME YOU BOUNDERS!
[Mum slams down the receiver and I bite my tongue off]
Lairy Men at Wimbledon
An account of the time we pissed off some lairy, middle-aged men in the crowd at Wimbledon. Contains some elements of fantasy.
[Joke commentary between points on Centre Court]
Me: Djokovic is in the ascendency here, and Golubev will need to find some answers to that venomous return of serve. When you’re playing against someone with the all-round strength of Novak, you can’t afford to let him dictate, you simply have to spank it into the corners at every opportunity.
Nick: And it is as simple as that. Djokovic has been in imperious form this year as we all know, but it’ll be interesting to see how he reacts to having a few juicy balls spanked back at him with purchase, especially if they’re directed into those corners as you mention.
Me [holding fake microphone]: What’s your assessment of the tie so far Kels?
Kels: Well it looks like it could be very difficult for Golubev to get a foothold in the match and he might need to call a taxi pronto.
Me: Thoughts Adam?
Adam: The tell-tale sign that Djokovic could well run away with this match, for me, is that we usually regard him as a great defensive player, albeit one who possesses explosive firepower. Today, Golubev hasn’t made Djokovic work for his points, Djokovic has instead dominated the rallies from the baseline and has probably had time to make a cup of tea or two during rallies because the ball isn’t coming back at him with any pace whatsoever.
Me: Thanks to Kels and Adam, we will return with the views of the professionals, like myself, after Sue brings us up to date with all of the action from the courts you don’t care about, as if she were God […] And we rejoin Djokovic now as he looks to serve out this second set.
[Djokovic wins point]
Me: Utter skank from Djokovic there! That ball must have been coming back at his feet at around ninety miles an hour and yet he somehow manages to dig out a filthy drop volley that JUST creeps over the net, leaving Gorbuchev standing flat-footed like a blind man stuck in room full of mouse-traps. PRIMED mouse traps at that.
Owen: Would you really say that was skank? From where I’m sat it looked more like grime to me, it was certainly filth for sure but I wouldn’t have said it was full-on skank.
Me: Fair cop, it…
Bald Man [row in front]: Can you stop chatting so much fucking shit mate, we’re trying to watch the match.
Me: Sorry I didn’t realise we were being so loud.
Skinhead: Just shut the fuck up OK?
[Silence as Djokovic wins next point]
Me: It appears we are receiving some complaints about our commentary on today’s match, please do tweet in your suggestions for improvement to hashtag BBC Tennis and we will do our best to tighten up our service.
Skinhead: Did you hear me? I told you to shut the fuck up.
Me: I did hear and I apologised, but I’m more inclined to stop talking if you ask politely.
Skinhead: Just shut your fucking cunt mouth.
Me: That still isn’t polite though, is it?
Skinhead: Do you wanna come outside?
Me: I’m sorry but we actually have commentary duties today but feel free to loiter outside like an idiot if you prefer.
Skinhead [to Bald Man]: Who does this cunt think he is?
Me: Excuse me but I thought Wimbledon was a celebration of warmth, charity, and middle-England values, not a convention for lairy, potty-mouthed gentlemen like yourselves to hurl abuse at strangers. And forgive me for ignoring the advice of a bald man who has two creases in the back of his head.
Bald Man: That’s fucking it, you’re coming outside with me you little shit.
Me: Okay, okay!
[We leave centre court]
Me: Woah, woah, let me speak, good sir. We hold our hands up to this minor transgression, and thanks to your inquiry, we will try to cut out any impropriety in the future. Now, being the lairy gentleman that you are, I understand your primitive command over the English language is such that you find it hard to articulate your discomfort in a courteous and rational manner, however, I am willing to take charge of this situation by recompensing you, having blighted your Wimbledon experience today. If you could just leave me with your name and address, I will send a cheque through the post worth the value of your ticket, if that sounds grand?
Bald Man: You better fucking had do ‘cause I’ve had it up to the fucking neck with your shit. I spent fifty fucking pounds on this ticket and I didn’t pay it to hear your McEnroe bullshit all day.
[He discloses his address, which I save on my phone]
Me: Thanks very much, slap-head.
Bald Man: You fuckin’ –
[Bald Man throws a punch at my midriff. Naturally I parry the blow and thrust his skull into the wall behind me. Wimbledon security then carries him off in a stretcher and Skinhead follows him out of the stadium, yelling profanities as he goes. Security then ushers me back into centre court.]
When I get home I send the following letter to Bald Man’s address.
Dear Bald Man,
Please find enclosed my vacuum-packed turd.
Eat my turd.
A Born Winner.
Footage of my self-defence against Bald Man is aired on national television and I am hailed as a hero throughout the country.
You can watch the footage here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ
Rewriting Harry Potter (screenplay)
Harry: Oi, Lucius! I have something of yours. [hands over diary]
Lucius: Mine? I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Harry: Oh I think you do sir. I think you slipped the diary into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron, that day at Diagon Alley.
Lucius: Ha! For a moment there Haz I thought you were on about the fat wad of ganja I slipped to her round the back of Hagrid’s shed! [laughter] As for the diary man, nah, wasn’t me [gives diary to Dobby]. Oh, are you actually for real Harold? Why don’t you prove it?!
…S’what I thought mate. Come, Dobby. [walks away]
Harry: [whispering to Dobby] Open it.
Dobby: [opens diary] Master has given Dobby a sock. Dobby is free!
[Harry reveals his bare foot]
Lucius: Woooaaahhhh! Hold it there son, I smell a design! You can wipe that smug grin off your face straight away Haz, we both know that’s not how property law works. Cast your mind back a couple of centuries. Remember all the blacks and the slave trade and that?
Harry: No, what is that?
Lucius: Christ, you are a thick cunt aren’t you Hazza? You haven’t heard about the Middle Passage and the Diaspora and that?
Lucius: Fucking hell. Anyway, back then when there were all the slaves, if a slave hid a sock in a cotton collection bag just before their master handed it over to them for use on the plantation, and then the slave held that sock aloft and shouted ‘slave is free!’, do you think the slave master would’ve gone, “ooh no, de slave has a sock now so dey are free, wut am I gon’ doooo!?”
The answer is emphatically no. He would obviously not have said that. The unwitting ‘gifting’ of a sock means fuck all, Harry James. That slave probably would’ve received a few lashings on his botty for coming up with such an eccentric freedom bid, and then he would’ve been shoved back on the plantation to pick more cotton. [sighs] Bloody hell Harriet, you’re more of a stupid fucking cunt than I gave you credit for. And a complete pussy to boot. I mean, ‘Harry James Potter’, seriously? That’s a pussy’s name. Only a pussy would have that name.
Come back over here Dobs.
Dobby: Yes master.
Lucius: In all fairness, we do need to get you out of that cum rag you’re wearing, it fucking reeks mate. Don’t pretend you haven’t used it for that purpose either, I’ve caught you hammering away at that little pixy dick and I know for a fact that we don’t have any Kleenex back home. I guess you can use Holly’s sock instead now.
Dobby: Dobby likes to hammer away at his little pixy dick in private.
Lucius: Yes, well, don’t rabbit on about it. [eyes Harry and notices he is holding something] I say, Hilary, what have you got there?
Harry: Just an old picture of my parents, waving. I don’t know why they don’t get sick of just sitting there, waving all of the time, smiling constantly. If I was trapped in a frame I’d be gurning 24/7.
Lucius: But it must be very precious to you, Helga. One of the very few visual reminders that you have of them, am I right? Would you mind if I had a look?
Harry: Of course not [hands over picture]
Lucius: HA! That means the picture belongs to me now, according to your logic! Time for me to crack one off over Lily, that sweet, sweet milf of yours!
Harry: Oh no, please don’t, noble Lucius!
[Lucius runs away, Harry gives chase. Dobby masturbates into sock]