Wednesday, 19 November 2008

A hasty judgement

Today I went to the doctor to have some nodules on my vocal chords photographed. The waiting room was so depressing it changed my mind about Prozac; It made me really need it. I really needed it. Show me a man with a razor at his throat and a noose round his neck, suicide note written, tears of self loathing running down his cheeks and I'll show him my fist as I snatch his Prozac then chuck him down a well, the miserable trainspotter. I needed Prozac; I was in the ENT ward at the hospital watching a subtitled cookery programme being shown to a load of people who'd had their throats ripped out by dogs or lost their larynxes to cancer and their partners were illiterate or short sighted. I was trying not to read the aphorisms of the x list celebrities, but I just kept on catching them: "Joan was distraught about the state of her chutney." or "Lee loves beef," I then realised that every inane comment about an aubergine or whatever was being relayed by the men with no larynx to their illiterate other halves, but they couldn't speak, so hideous, incomprehensible squeeks and bubbling noises would issue from their mouths like Nosferatu reading a cookery book underwater.
I then realized I needed a medieval shield to protect me from the jolly enormous doctor who raped my nose with some sort of military dildo. He thrust it back and forth, taking deep throat pictures until I swear I felt something hot dribbling down the back of my throat. I think his aggressive medi-sex lobotomised my brain, spoiling any chance of prozac working because it would all leak out of the hole he had made, in a blue ooze.
I walked home a traumatised zombie, being followed by suicidal trainspotters licking every morsel of prozac dribbling down my neck. My nostrils were so badly stretched they looked like flared trousers. I had been brutalised. When I arrived home my wife had a stroke with the shock of seeing me, rendering her unable to read or move properly, so we spent the whole evening trying to cook tea for the kids, with me squeeking and bubbling instructions through my flapping nostrils and drooling mouth, and her just groaning and slicing her nipples off.
Tomorrow I will find us both sat in the ENT queue,Bubble and bloody Squeek convincing anyone who looks at us that a high pressure prozac enema is the only solution. And thus the wheel turns full circle.

Sunday, 16 November 2008

A special little girl

I went into a corner shop today to buy a newspaper and was suprised to note that young men were still able to purchase single cigarettes, much the same as when I was a lad. Despite the above inflation price hike, the facility was clearly welcomed by the roving young scallywags who frequented the shop - several single cigarettes were vended during the time it took me to decide between the Observer or the Independent on Sunday. As I went to pay, I was overcome with nostalgia and decided to make a similar purchase - for auld lang syne - pour recherche les temps perdue perhaps. I asked the shopkeeper for a 50p single and he smiled. "Yes," he said, "So am I," pointing to my ringless marraige finger, "But don't worry, there's plenty of time." He smiled at me benignly. "No," I said, enjoying the joke, "I want a single cigarette,"
"Oh," he said, "I understand, you want to be single." Then he winked at me, "Are you gay man?" he asked. "If you are, one of my brothers very interested."
I had no choice but to augment my intended purchase with a little sign language. I mimed having a cigarette between my forefinger and index finger, pulling it back and forth across my face. The shopkeeper seemed offended, "Don't bloody swear at me," he said, "You come into my shop and want to do bum stuff with my brother, if you don't want to buy anything get out you sodding homo."
I thought it best to abandon my intended purchase of a 'single' and just leave with my newspaper; I put it on the counter. "Just an observer please." I said, holding out my two pounds. The shopkeeper went crazy, "You want me to watch?" he was incredulous, "You come into my shop and offer me two pound to watch you have sodomy with my own brother, two pounds only to watch my own flesh and blood arse be defiled?" and before I knew it he was coming at me with a tazer.

So Jemima, this blog is for you; you are my special girl. If you hadn't walked into the shop at that moment, I really think, with my weak heart, I could have died. As it was, there you were, just back from the hospital with your shiny new head brace, firmly holding in place your little fractured skull - the perfect lightening conductor.
In heaven there will be no head braces and no tazers - in fact, no electricity of any kind. It is lit by the heavenly glow of Jesus' halo shining down on all the little girls and boys who you can play with for all eternity. The fridges are cooled by the breath of eskimo angels and the playstations run on batteries that god will sell you for a small fee - or a few 'favours' - but don't worry, God won't hurt you, and if he does - who are you going to tell?

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

A sad time of year

I got a letter today from the parents of my ex-fiance. I think they are still really confused about what happened between us and they make no secret of the fact that they are very disappointed about the circumstances of our separation, and in my heart, I think I share those feelings. The thing is, I still love her, really very much. I can see her now, in a green dress, her stunningly beautiful pre-raphaelite looks. She really was my English Rose. I remember asking her to marry me; we were in Barcelona, walking through the piazza del toro, I got down on one knee and just asked her if she would be my bride-of course she said yes. That night we made beautiful love as the moonlight poured into our five star penthouse hotel room; it was just perfect.
The next day we went to see a bull fight. We had front row seats and I remember so clearly as the matador gave the signal for the bull to enter the ring, she turned to kiss me, shaking her scarlet mane of beautiful, bright red hair that glowed radiant with sunlight.

The bull must have leapt about ten feet into the air. Someone said it just went mad. All I know was that it's left horn took her head clean off and the some of the rodeo clowns were sick. If it had been any other photo in the Barcelona Daily Herald then her parents would understand. Do they really think I would have deliberately done that with her mouth?

Neighbourhood watch

I was making a cheese sandwich this lunchtime when I heard someone's house alarm going off. I looked out of my front room window, saw a blue light flashing and decided to go over the road to investigate. There was another man from next door who popped his head over the fence just as I arrived. I rattled the door to show him that all was hunky dory, but he thought I was the burglar and started shouting. I tried to explain but he wouldn't listen, he just ran after me with a spade. He chased me across the road but it was wet and slippery and, not being secure in his footing, he fell down in front of an oncoming lorry. I didn't have time to ponder the dilemma about saving a man who was threatening to hit me with a spade, he was so terrified of imminent death he had even soiled himself, so I just grabbed his trousers and dragged him clear with seconds to spare, afterwards making sure that I tied his hands up with his belt and confiscated his spade to prevent him assailing me.
On reflection I think I spent too much time trying to explain the affair to the passers by; had I been more succinct they might not have become an angry mob so hell bent on destruction. I might just about be able to pay for the windows but there's no way I'm going to accept responsibility for the pile up.

Monday, 10 November 2008

I'm glad my dad isn't corgi registered

A man arrived at the door to install my gas fire and range cooker. I got quite a surprise when he first appeared because he looked almost exactly like my dad who unkindly left me just after I was born, 41 lonely years ago. He was tall with a goaty beard - I daresay he must have been quite handsome when he was younger - and he looked kind and caring. I've always wanted a dad who played an active role in my life and this one looked like the real deal so I decided to grasp the nettle.
I smiled at him and asked him if he would take me to the park. He looked at me quizzically and asked me to repeat myself. I asked him if he would take me to the park and push me on the swings or perhaps the roundabout. He grabbed me by the throat, held up a large wrench and before I had time to defend myself, smashed all my teeth out. I think I would rather have an absent father than a violent one.

Friday, 7 November 2008

A disturbing phone call

I got a phone call today from Desmond Morris. I asked him what he wanted and he said he was writing an update of his best selling book 'Manwatching' and that he wanted a man to watch and I was a man and he was going to watch me. He said he was going to watch me and watch me until his eyes bulged and popped out, and he said if he lost his eyes he wouldn't have to cry no more. Then he went off on a tangent, talking about losing his teeth and losing his legs and then I got it.
I said 'you're not really Desmond Morris are you - you're Cat Stevens' and he admitted to being Cat Stevens and apologised for trying to deceive me in such a cruel way. I told him what he did was not only upsetting for me and my family but potentially damaging to Desmond Morris' reputation as a top flight anthropologist. He agreed with me and said he would phone Desmond Morris to put things straight. Before I had chance to commend him on his intentions he put the phone down. When I phoned 1471 it said his number was unavailable.

Adulterated coffee

In the 1970s coffee was called Mellow Birds and it was mixed with chicory. That's because the 70s were shit and everyone was poor, newly-weds were electrocuted in their beds by nylon sheets and there were no cars.
But now everything is better - newly weds can video their electro free sex and put it on you-porn and everybody has lots of cars. So what has happened to coffee? Why can't we go  back to adulterating it with better things and make it better too? Mellow Birds would be re-branded as Red Hot Birds (which would be true, providing you didn't add too much milk) and we could put better things in it like dynamite, glue or viagra. Women unable to conceive could drink coffee mixed with the powdered wombs of super fertile Russian women who could sell them on e-bay. And once we have saturated the market with a stunning range of coffee products, we could move on to tea, hot chocolate and even Bovril. Tea'n'retinas for people who are blind, hot cock-a-lot for nymphomaniacs or gay people, Barfy Bovril for people who like drinking sick.

There's a new world out there and I'm going to build it.

Do I have a wee or a new car?

I can't work out which I need more right now, a wee wee or a black soft top Saab 93 Aero. Thank Jehova (may his name be blessed) that the world is the right way round - although it was a close shave what with pubs selling piss and cars  coming out of our bloody dicks. I can't walk ten feet without seeing a car for sale, I can't cross the road without getting knocked down by - yes you guessed it, a car, I can't even drive to work without finding myself sat in the seat of a bloody car. So maybe the credit crunch has benefits - it will be good for savers and will stop me pissing my pants because I'm too busy drooling over new motors to go to the toilet.

I will give £11 cash to anyone who test drives a car in the next week and leaves a pool of piss in the driver's seat - or even better, some spunk on the steering wheel. I'll give you £20 for that.

Thursday, 6 November 2008

I fancy a Jehova's Witness

A Jehova's Witness arrived at the door today and made so much sense that I nearly left home and became one straight away. But part of that might be something to do with the fact that they are employing a new and powerful strategy of sending scantily clad French maids door to door with leaflets asking me if I would like to know the truth. They drop the leaflets, then blush, say "Ooh Msr, I ev dropped ze leeflet, silly me." then they bend over and - I swear to God - standard issue Jehova's Witness frilly panties with the answers to the questions in the leaflet embroidered in the gusset.

I asked her all about God and the possibility of redemption for a hardened sinner like myself and she invited me to her church. This is the sort of dilemma I seem to be facing more and more. Do I prostitute myself, sacrifice my principles, purely for the sake of eternal grace and a place by God's side in paradise? It just didn't seem right, so I politely declined her offer and wished her well.

I fancy Barack Obama

People are saying that the 3 inch bullet proof glass behind which Barack Obama stands is part of the many measures in place to prevent him being assassinated.
I say it is there to prevent him being raped. He is so attractive that today I realised he has driven me gay with desire. I fancy him so much that only 3 inch bullet proof glass would stop me from achieving penetration somewhere on his taught and manly body.
I just hope this doesn't ruin my marraige...or Obama's, because if he finds out, you never know. If he can make it from a small Kenyan village all the way to the Whitehouse then I can make it  to a public toilet to give him a good seeing to.

Wednesday, 5 November 2008

Day one

What is my blog?

A collection of hits. No-one may ever read it so one has to wonder what the purpose of it is. Perhaps we reflect better in cyberspace or just find it comfortable to sound pretentious in print. Anyway, it beats masturbating over pornography or playing Tetris - for some. For others I think I'd rather they wanked themselves stupid rather than attempt to hussle me their daily cobblers.

Tonight I go to watch fireworks and hopefully will return. I think the subject of my first blog might be the shape of Guy Fawkes hat. Apparently the cellars underneath the houses of parliament were barrel vaulted and would have required potential terrorists to stoop quite low. So why the hat? A miners' helmet would have been more practical and a flat cap much less conspicuous-but wearing either would have convinced the conspiracy theorists that he was trying to get one up for Yorkshire. Five hundred years later we might have been burning effigies of Harvey Smith or Geoff Boycott. Maybe that wouldn't have been a bad thing.

That was my first ever blog. God I hope they get better. If they don't I will give the almighty doctor to turn off the damn machine. Bip bip beeep.