What is the world coming to when a man can’t watch TV at home, naked and drinking vodka without his ex-wife setting fire to his cock. No wonder he divorced her.
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Category: Inane Banter
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My Name Isn’t Earl
I was out buying some lemonade at the shop at lunchtime. There was a bit of a queue but it didn’t take long for me to get to the front. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a doddery old man form a breakaway queue. This wasn’t the work of some queue jumping genius, this was the work of a man whose brain shuffled around the bottom of his skull like a handful of desicated coconut in a goldfish bowl. As luck would have it somebody opened a new checkout and the woman asked who was next clearly looking at me ignoring the breakaway republic of Spar. This didn’t matter to the old guy who hadn’t even noticed the existence of a queue next to him with six people in it. He shuffled forwards towards the till while the woman serving was giving me a look that suggested I should make a break for it and get there before him.
I decided to top up my karma and let him go anyway. He seemed to be struggling with a couple of largish boxes. He got to the counter and the conversation went something like this:
Shop Staff: Where did you get this box?
Little Old Man: Yes?
SS: This box has 36 kit-kats in.
LOM: Yes
SS: Do you want one…
LOM: Yes
SS: …or do you want 36?
LOM: Yes
SS: Shall I price the box for you?
LOM: Yes
SS: It’ll be quite expensive
LOM: That’s OK
SS: It’ll be £19
LOM: That’s way too much!
SS: How many kit-kats can you afford?
LOM: Six
Sadly I got served at the other till by this point so I never did find out what was in his second box. What would he have done with 36 kit-kats? One of those 8 packs of two-stick kit-kats would last a pensioner two years.
I wish he had made it home with his box of kit-kats but I fear he would have been striken with grief when he discovered the box didn’t in fact contain one massive kit-kat. It can’t have helped the poor worker who was trying to stack the kit-kats in the first place either.
If Nestlé want to send me a load of kit-kats for mentioning their product it’s kit-kat chunky that I like thanks.
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You’ll Go Blind
Did I miss the bit in the bible where Jesus said, “it is easier for a man with more brains than a retarded slug to enter heaven than it is for a whale to pass through gnat’s chuff?”
Around 50 people in India have gone blind looking for the Virgin Mary in the sun. That’s one impressive level of stupid. That’s right up there with refusing medicine and relying on prayer alone to cure your childs illness. Your faith may be unshakable but so is the science behind staring at very bright things. Sounds like it was the only bright thing you could stare at around there.
It also appears the church is right about what will happen to you if you spend your time looking at virgins.
I was chatting to Mrs Fatuous over the dirty dishes the other days about the news that Gordon Brown wants us to stop wasting food. It’s very rare that we discuss the news as we both listen to different radio stations on the way home. You will not be shocked to hear that the news overlap between Radio 1 and Radio 4 is very small. Radio 4’s news doesn’t need quotes round the “news” part for a start.
I casually mentioned that Gordon wasn’t really talking to us but was in fact having a sly dig at John Prescott and his. “That sounds like the sort of crap you’d put on your blog,” she said, probably quite correctly.
And now we take a journey into my procrastinating little world and how it can come unstuck. If I have an idea suddenly I usually just write down a title to remind me then put off doing anything about it until weeks later when I finally get round to it. You’ll notice a general lack of biting, up to the minute, satire on this site. There’s a reason for that. Actually there are several reasons for that including a general apathy towards politics, lack of bite but mainly it’s due to me being too slow at writing this to keep up. I’d probably just be getting round to moaning about Maggie Thatcher by next week.
Anyway, I just wrote down the title which was “Greedy Gord Slams Spewy John” and then left it until I could build up a bit more meat around what was in essence a one paragraph post.
I downloaded a few podcasts on Wednesday to take to the gym to drown out the idiotic dance music they play there. It’s that remixed 80s song type of dance music that they play at the gyms all the time. As far as I can tell their only criteria for the music is that it must be crap and that the video must feature scantily clad fit young ladies. I’m assuming the ladies are there to motivate the wobbly women at the gym to up their game. I tend to listen to podcasts while staring at the videos in a desperate attempt to disguise the fact from my bored body that I’m running on the spot. I can’t even stare at the women on the video properly like a red-blooded male should. I keep getting distracted by Eggheads on the telly next to it. My love of lythe young ladies is overpowered by my desire to punch the smug one from eggheads in the face. I know they are all smug but there is one that’s smugger than the rest and you know who I mean.
I was listening to the latest Herring and Collins podcast when I heard Richard Herring make exactly the same point I had made days before over the kitchen sink. I was gutted. The podcast isn’t usually out until Friday by which time I would have finished the post so I could have crowed, quite incorrectly, how my joke had been stolen by less successful member of a cult 90s double act. Instead he had read my mind and then beat me to it by recording the podcast days earlier thus trumping me. I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t 80s loving Andrew Collins who said it, not that I have anything against his abilities to remember every toy or TV show from decades ago. I’d rather it was the comedian of the pair that used his lizard powers to read my mind rather than the one who uses his lizard powers to recall that the Evel Knievel wind up bike toy only used to go about 5 inches from the red ramp before it fell over.
Now, thanks to my procrastination, my only hope is that John Holmes makes exactly the same joke on this Friday’s Now Show.
Breaking update – Andy Parsons made the same joke on Mock the Week. Get in!
Update 2 – I missed the Now Show so I’ll have to use listen again but Clarkson made the same joke in his column in Saturday’s Mirror. If you’ve seen the same joke anywhere else then let me know in the comments below.
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Swear O’Clock
Here in the UK we have a TV, and I presume radio, watershed. Before this set time swearing and nudity can’t be shown. This being the UK and not the rest of Europe this basically means there’s a bit more swearing and the minute possibility of a flash of breast about twice a year (not in fact a flask of hot steamy breast as the post originally said, thank you Dr Spam). This watershed is to protect the kiddiewinks and presumably other people who like to go to bed early. I like to imagine vicars get tucked up in bed with the bible around 9pm and everybody knows that old women go to bed around 8pm just so they can start pottering around at four in the morning.
There are a couple of things that bother me about the watershed though. The first is the time, not the 9pm time as that sounds relatively reasonable to me. My problem is what time does the watershed end? I’d imagine you could get a fairly racy film on at four in the morning but I’d be shocked if there was a torrent of swearing at six in the morning. Is six the cut-off point?
Secondly why is it time based? Surely it should be based on the audience? Big Brother is on after nine but, let’s face it, only appeals to children and the mentally challenged but it’s full of swearing. The money programme is on at an earlier hour but I doubt anybody under the age of 40 actually watches it. Songs of praise is on early Sunday evening but it’s average viewer age must be 70+. I think it should be perfectly reasonable for Aled Jones to exclaim, “Welcome to motherfucking Twunterberry cathedral, isn’t she a cocking beauty?”
Radio 4 could, in fact, sound like a Quentin Tarrantino film with no fear of upsetting a single child’s ears. Come on the Today Show, call Brown a wanker when he next dodges a question. I know Cameron is a twat, you know Cameron is a twat, let’s not hold back Charlotte Green, call him a twat to his little twatty face.
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Childhood Etiquette
I was watching some programme or other on the telly the other day and it had children on it. At the end the kids waved goodbye. They were doing the kiddie two hand wave thing where both hands wave maniacally.
Its a wave that only kids do. Adults wave with one hand. If an adult waves with both hands it usually involves the whole arm and it’s a way of getting urgent attention. If it’s not urgent then it tends to be a brief one handed wave of recognition. Young kids wave both both hands from the wrist.
What I can’t remember is what the cut-off age for two hand waving is. Other childish things have clear cut off points and anybody who crosses them gets punished. Woe betide the last boy in class to pee standing up. I still remember when clapping went from both hands together to one hand across the other. Anybody still doing the symmetrical clap got humiliated for, and I’ll warn you now the phrase used wasn’t very PC, spacker-clapping.
As far as I recall the twin waving didn’t have a humiliation stage so I’m not sure when the move to one hand waving came. All I know is that if you think you know someone and start waving then realise you don’t know them it’s far easier to turn the one handed wave into a nonchalant scratch of the head than the turbo twin hander. Maybe that’s the tipping point? Or maybe it’s when you reach pub age and the other hand is occupied with a drink?
Anybody out there have a school tease name for the two handed wave? Any adults still enjoying the two handed wave? How do you recover from it if you realise you’re waving at a complete stranger? Is there such a thing as an incomplete stranger? So many questions.
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Food Poisoning Nanny State
We’ve had a very unusual run of hot weather lately and as every British man knows hot weather = BBQ. The perfect combination of alcohol and primitive cooking methods.
Off I toddled to the supermarket. First stop to get some charcoal. It’s very important to note I said charcoal not gas. Using gas isn’t having a BBQ that’s just having a crap cooker outdoors. The time it takes charcoal to light is very important for getting a few beers down your neck whilst looking busy.
Then it was time to get the meat. I fancied a change from the usual sausages and burgers so I perused the other meats and was quite taken by marinaded lamb chops. “I’ll just make sure you can barbecue them,” I though and turned the packet over. Sure enough after oven instructions I found the barbecue instructions. They read as follows:
Cook as per oven instructions then place on the barbecue to achieve the barbecue cooked taste
I’m sorry but the way to achieve the barbecue-cooked taste is to barbecue something. You don’t claim to be Hugh Hefner just because somebody with breasts and a vagina bumped into you once.
Disgusted I moved onto a rack of pork ribs. Surely these must be okay on a barbecue. Cavemen cooked with fire and they liked ribs. It must be true I saw it on the beginning to the flintstones and those things were massive and must have been harder to cook. I flipped the packet over
Cook as per oven instructions then place on the barbecue to achieve the barbecue cooked taste
The red mist started to descend. What is the world coming to when a man can’t create a small fire in his own garden to feed family and friends whilst also getting drunk. I headed to the burgers, surely they wouldn’t let me down. Standard barbecue fare since fire began. Beef the safest of all the meats, if you forget all about BSE, you can even eat the stuff raw if you like.
Cook as per oven instructions then place on the barbecue to achieve the barbecue cooked taste
When did it become supermarket law that you could never have a barbecue ever again? I noticed the supermarket even sold barbecues. What are we supposed do with a barbecues if we can’t cook food on them? Dance round them like Arthur Brown?
I bought the ribs and I cooked them on the barbecue. They were lovely, I didn’t get worms and I’m still alive.
IN YOUR FACE JOHN SAINSBURY AND YOUR GIRLY OFFSPRING!
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Hoooorrrppp!
If somebody came up to me in the street and said “John Prescott has a disorder, guess what it is?” I wouldn’t have been able to get it.
If somebody came up to me in the street and said “John Prescott has an eating disorder, guess what it is?” I still wouldn’t have guessed it.
If somebody came up to me in the street and said “John Prescott has an eating disorder beginning with B, guess what it is?” I still would have gone for binge drinking first.
So it’s fair to say I was somewhat shocked to discover that Prescott suffered from bulimia. How do you get to be that size and chuck up a lot of what you eat? I can picture him dressed in a skimpy toga reliving the excesses of a Roman emperor stuffing his face with pies. Actual just imaging that has made me sick up a little in my mouth so I can see how it could happen.
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Very Fishy
I see the other week that an Irish swimmer had tested positive for a banned substance.
What sort of substances are banned for swimmers? I mean things like propellers and flippers are going to be easily spotted. Even subtle things like gills will be easy enough to spot when he starts to flap around on the winners rostrum.
My bet? The guy’s on plankton.
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Gym Slip-Up
I was at the gym the other day that upset me somewhat.
It wasn’t the notice pointing out that the gym was stopping filling the shampoo dispensers right next to the shiny, new machine selling shampoo that just happened to spring up about the same time they stopped filling the dispensers.
It wasn’t the ripped pair of pants that seem to be discarded in the changing room on a weekly basis. I’m not sure if lots of men are wearing pants that are dangerously close to collapse and that a vigorous workout is a sufficient tipping point. Or it might be one man whose ball sweat has the chemical structure as concentrated acid. Whoever the owners of these pants were they had decided, as always, the best place to put broken pants isn’t in the gym changing room bin, or to hide them in a sports bag to be disposed of at home but to leave them in a crumpled heap on the floor so others may gaze on their sweaty, broken majesty.
It wasn’t the men who don’t have that little voice inside their heads. The little voice that says, “we all like chatting with friends, who doesn’t, however most of us don’t do it less then one foot away from said friend, talking loudly, naked, hands on hips with cock thrust proudly forwards.”
That man was there, mid-way between the abandoned pants and the shampoo vending machine but he wasn’t the problem either. The problem was on the bench right next to where I had placed my bad. Here in the middle of a busy men’s changing room was an empty box. The box itself wasn’t worrying, the words on the box however were.
“Sports Bra”
My mind raced with the possibilities. Somewhere in this building could well be a very short-sighted women. A women so short-sighted that she hadn’t seen the large, rather torn, pants or seen the man’s cock despite his best thrusting efforts. She had managed to get changed without noticing any of this and had then gone training. Worse, still she could now be showering and about to return to right next to where I was standing.
Even worse, it could be a man. A man so large his body required the support of a sports bra while exercising. A man of that size coming back from a run, dripping in sweat, pulling back his shirt to reveal his moobs straining at a bra was not a sight I wanted to see.
Worse still was now the possibility that someone would come and get changed next to me, see the box and assume I like wearing bras. I don’t and if I did I think I’d go for a lacy little number with a pretty bow on it, but I don’t and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
I was tempted to use the camera in my phone to capture proof of this box. I then realised the one thing worse than all of that would be a man taking a picture of a box with a bra on it whilst a man stands in the background thrusting his cock about.