If you happen to live in Britain and have a head you will of heard of the current storm over Russell Brand’s radio show in which they left answer machine messages for Andrew Sachs of Faulty Towers fame. The message could have and indeed did offend Mr. Sachs. It also managed to offend about 2 other people enough to complain.
Then the media got hold of it and all hell broke loose. By the end of next week I fully expect Brand and Ross to have been expelled from planet Earth. It’s that convoluted that the BBC have published a timeline!
If however you find yourself one of the 6 people left who aren’t sure whether to be outraged or not try this simple test. Just click on their fizzogs and follow the simple flow chart.*
*May not actually be simple enough for Sun readers. Like they’re going to write a letter anyway.
News of this website is slowly spreading to my family members. The reason they don’t know about the site isn’t shame it’s more that it’s very hard to explain to your family that occasionally you cook stupid stuff or write cheap, sweary rubbish. It just doesn’t come up in conversation too often. Mrs Fatuous let slip to my brother and aunt that I had a website then sat back to watch me try and explain. It could have been worse, I used to have a website thats name was very similar to a porn site and not a very nice porn site at that. Mrs Fatuous tried to show her parents my site once with obvious results.
My brother then spent a few minutes suggesting ideas most of which didn’t sound quite right but one suggestion was to do something with white pudding. First I suppose I’d better explain what white pudding is and to do that it also helps to explain black pudding.
Black and white pudding aren’t in fact puddings at all. Both are like sausages made of various bits of animal by-product. Black is popular in Britain and Ireland and is probably the dodgier of the two. It’s basically bits of meat, fat and oats mixed with blood that congeals where it is cooked. You buy it in the cooked state and is delicious as part of a fried breakfast. White pudding is mainly found in Ireland and is similar to the black pudding but without the blood. In it’s place is a higher pork content. It’s like a dense sausage and is served as part of a Irish breakfast which is very similar to an English breakfast but with soda bread in place of fried bread and white pudding with the black pudding. This Irish treat must have stuck in my brother’s head from a previous visit to the emerald isle.
What could I do with white pudding? I immediately decided it should include it’s black counterpart. When you think of black and white what do you think of? The crap Michael Jackson song? The Kim Kardashian leaked sex tape? I, of course, thought of classic Wonder and McCartney song “Ebony and Ivory” which is handier than the sex tape for what I was going to do next.
I decided to recreate the fizzogs of Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney in white and black puddings. This is despite not having sculpted anything since about 20 years ago when I made a face out of clay that exploded in the kiln wiping out nearby art when I was at school.
I had my source image, I had my puddings. I was ready to go.
Firstly I stripped the puddings of their outer garments. I repeat this is not that sex tape.
Originally I intended to do a serious sculpture. It only took 5 minutes to realise that the rough texture of the puddings and my complete lack of skill were going to make this impossible. I decided to settle for a simple cartoon style instead.
This made things a bit more manageable but congealed bit of animal isn’t going to replace clay any day soon. My trusty art scalpel hacked away until I had Paul’s head.
Stevie’s afro proved a bit easier.
Much hacking later they were ready. Please note that the bit at the bottom of Stevie’s face is his little beard not some 1950’s casual racism. That would rather go against the ethos of the song.
I shoved the pair into the oven for 15 minutes. I would have fried them but they were a bit too thick and I didn’t fancy eating the raw pork bits. I made a nice red wine gravy to go with them which doesn’t really tie in with the song but it does taste nice.
Stevie’s beard fell off during cooking and the bottom half of Paul’s head stuck to the baking tray but apart from that all went well and both were very tasty.
Hopefully I’ve done my bit to bring all races that bit closer together through the medium of meat. There was a moment when they sat on the plate when I realised that this sort of crap would have done well in this years Turner Prize. It would have but I ate it. If anyone wants to pay me a million pounds I’ll gladly do it again. Two million and I’ll recreate the Kim Kardashian sex tape in breakfast products.
Great story in The Sun today. Here are some of my favourite bits.
The trainee nurse and a pal plumped for FOURTEEN chicken pieces, SIX bags of fries and large COKES after driving to their local branch.
Plumped, very clever. She’s a trainee nurse, who’s her pal Gillian McKeith?
They spent an hour and a half scoffing the 5,456-calorie feast. Days later regular customer Natalie got the fine in the post for breaking the restaurant car park’s 75-minute limit.
Breaking the seats more like. Regular customer I bet she’s very regular. Her turds come pre-greased.
Natalie — who eats at KFC three times a week — complained to restaurant bosses that she was unaware of signs warning of the time limit in Huddersfield, West Yorks.
She has failed to see the sign despite being there 3 times a week. Is her vision impaired by the rolls of fat that must be hanging off every inch of her body? Or is she effectively blind when the “chicken mist” descends.
“The 75-minute time limit is designed to accommodate our customers who generally eat for about 30 minutes.”
KFC isn’t fine dining. You don’t spend a pleasant evening with good company. You tend to throw grease down your neck quickly before going on to do something else. She had been chucking the Colonel’s greasy wares down her neck for over 75 minutes! I bet her arms where like something off a vet’s program just before they check on Daisy’s unborn calf.
The picture with the article shows a woman who looks exactly like you’d expect. I just couldn’t resist a bit of tampering.
I suppose it was inevitable but it appears that Postman Pat is too sedate for todays ADD riddled school kids. Gone is tootling around a little village delivering post. Now he’s on special delivery and this involves the use of gyrocopters and bullet-time cat rescuing set in the big smoke. There are a few flaws with this.
Couriers don’t get access to gyrocopters or speedy delivery. In reality they tend kick your parcel around a warehouse, decide it’s too heavy to bother delivering so pop round with a “you were out” card and do a runner before you reach the front door so you have to travel to back-end of shitville-on-sea to collect it.
Surely a pumped up Pat would replace Jess the cat with a tiger or at least a pitbull?
He still looks like a nerdy, speccy-eyed, pube-headed twat.
Does this mean his old rural post office has been closed down due to lack of custom or is it now a spar with a post office that opens for 5 seconds on the 3rd Tuesday of the month?
What’s next? Chorlton’s Pimp My Wheelie? Pob carrying a knife as well as spitting everywhere? The playschool house being knocked down and turned into apartments? Tony Hart doing a Banksy?
Personally I’m looking forward to Crystal Tipps, Turning Tricks.