As I’ve not posted much recently, I thought I’d prove that I actually do stuff by putting up my latest piece for the UCL satirical magazine. It’s a whole page, so I’ve put it up as a .pdf
Enjoy.
So I won’t be here until Thursday.
Entertain yourselves with this:
http://www.thehatchreport.com/multimedia/operation-kitten-calendar.html
Ta-ta.
Hello Mr. Chomsky, it’s Norma from Meals on Wheels - spotted dick today! So, did you win that scratchca-
What’s that? Posmodernism? Hah! I’m not going to bother analysing or understanding any of THOSE texts - maybe because I can’t but, ahaha, I don’t think that’s likely - I mean, just LOOK at how many books I’ve written and how terribly famous I am!
Yes, Noam…but-
Here’s a list of famous people I’ve met, chatted with pleasantly and am now calling charlatans behind their backs. You’d really be far better off just reading one of my books, you know. More tea? Really they’re just a ‘cult’, this elite of people who use irony and knowledge of form which is clearly unscholarly as you like.
Erm, that’s not tea, it’s just stagnant wate-
Biscuit? I mean, it’s ridiculous to call me an elitist, but frankly I can’t be doing with all this accesibly ironic Postmodernist literature, I mean just ANYONE who’s read a novel could read those and understand the techniques used - ghastly! No no, I’d rather just rattle on about my one famous theory in increasingly doddery and verbose ways - the rest can fuck themselves. Oh, are you leaving? Ok then, goodbye….
*SLAM*
Pretentious charlatan. Oh. I’ve shit myself.
It’s my birthday. The behinds of my ears are at least half a percent dryer.
My violent childhood:
On that day that was taken I shot with my spud gun:
In other news, I watched Film Noir last night and thought it was bloody good for an independent film. Actually, it’d be bloody good for a mainstream film. Think A Scanner Darkly but without Keanu Reeves (that’s a plus) and in the style of a 50s Noir classic - private dicks, dark alleys, clues, green desklamps. Then throw in a few explosions, a little S&M and heroin and you’re almost there. Visually striking - the animation isn’t as refined as a big-budget film, but it works well, especially with a mix of black and white real footage, coloured objects and fresh angles. It manages to feel like a romp while also unfolding at a sensible pace, never leaving you bored or lost but without Bruckheimering itself to bits. It might be hard to find a copy, but grab it if you get a chance.
My Poorly-Timed Tasteless Remarks Of The Day:
Me: It’s great fun exploiting the starving masses of the world: ‘You get me passport like promise after I do this yes?’ ‘Yeah sure whatever, now, there’s 11 grams of fat in this you know, love, do you mind swallowing? I only ask because it looks like you’re on quite an intensive diet…’
Girl: That’s horrible! I don’t find that funny at all, do you know how horrible it is being forced into the sex trade?
Me: No, but you look like you do.
Now that’s how to make a good first impression in a new job!
BANG!
With a bang, I opened the door. “Damn these exploding kneepads” I muttered. I’d come here for a reason, for a grave and yearning purpose. Clutched at my side I had a red FILA tote full of inflatables, cables and a length of power cord. But would I use them? I was sweating now, and a sheen of grime trickled from the hot pores on my forehead. Wrist-flick - 14:32, would there be time?
BANG!
Damn knee pads. No, the door, a suited man, short hair, violent expression. FUCK. It’s only fucking Lee MccockingQueen! God damn it. I press the bag closer to my side and shuffle up a place. Pinging neons, cleaner. ‘Sorry’ ‘Sawroight mate’ ‘Sorry’ ‘No problem’. We had spoken, but through a third party. Flea-like, what had we Donne? A verbal entwining, had we fucked on this cleaner’s M-traced back? Set grimace, stare at wall.
BANG!
‘Sorry, my knee pads…’ ‘Sawroight mate’. FULL FRONTAL. Shit.
Cubicle-door relief-flood with creak and flush - GET IN. Bastard. McQueen grips the plastics and battens his cludgy.
Splash!
Not McQueen self-pissing, toilet talk. Only two cubicles. ClickCreakSWISH. Dropping bags, clutching icy porcelain. Relief. A tangible sense of grey connectedness, wide as a glory hole, seeps through the faded panel wall. Should we commune? No, not in words. Never in words.
PFRRFT!
Yes! Fart! Man-language. In the land of Armitage Shanks and the hovering perfume-attendant, the language of aristocracy is spoken with the rectum. ‘Futttt…’.'Prrpp…’ ‘Friends forever, yes?’ ‘I just met you mate. See the game?’ ‘Pfffffffffffff’ ‘I hate football’. Sudden crashing cubicle death? NO! We speak the anus-language of the Gods, and it is too cultured and magical a language to be sullied by pathetic violence. No, we are cemented into breezeblock brethren by our chunky brown leavings.
Lee McQueen is my turd brother. We consummated our evacuatory togetherness in a dingy McDonalds basement on Oxford Street. The rest, as they say, is history…
Won’t be around the next couple of days - got to pop down to London to sign on my big house just off the South-East corner of Regent’s park.
A BLEEDIN’ HOUSE*, MIND! 4 Bedrooms and everything!
*rented.
Here, have some search terms to keep you entertained:
| Search | Views |
|---|---|
| cartoon flamingo | 14 |
| capricorn club goodge street | 5 |
| shiny thought | 4 |
| “capricorn club” goodge | 3 |
| cartoon flamingos | 3 |
| beach party menu | 3 |
| pool party menu | 2 |
| flamingo mallet | 2 |
| cartoon baby flamingo | 2 |
| old english apples | 2 |
| اخبارالفنانين | 1 |
| dogs b&w pictures | 1 |
| “cloud room” | 1 |
| pictures of cartoon baby cherubs | 1 |
| copy-pasted | 1 |
| capricorn club goodge | 1 |
| big hairy balls | 1 |
| trekking | 1 |
| thought of hitler | 1 |
| big balls cartoon | 1 |
| wagon wheel advert song | 1 |
| old cheddar cheese | 1 |
| like taking candy from a baby pics | 1 |
| john q wagonwheel | 1 |
| dangly balls | 1 |
| of some description | 1 |
| how to draw flamingo | 1 |
| no says on msn conversations | 1 |
| cartoon flamingo pictures | 1 |
| english chablis cheese | 1 |
| how to draw a picture of a flamingo | 1 |
| cartoon food menu | 1 |
| really old cheese | 1 |
I’ve just got back home after first year of university, so I’ve got shedloads of boxes to sort out, a job to get, friends to see, and on top of all of it I’ve gone and got all illed up - I’m achin’ all over (yes, all shivers in my knee bone and that), feverous, a bit delirious plus my tongue’s gone really odd - got all red swellings at the back and all and some of the skin fell off. I’m utterly kissable, me. So yes, once I’ve been to the doctor tomorrow and had that all sorted out I’ll probably try to think up some sort of novelty home-related post for your delight. Until then I shall carry on having 1000mg of ibuprofen and 1000mg of paracetamol every four hours, bucketloads of all Ribena and gallons of PAIN!
Wish me luck.
P.S. I’m aware that this plague has been cast upon me for being a HEATHEN! and a SINNER!, much like The AIDS with them gays and foreigns. But I’m saying a kajillion Hail Marys so suck on that, Jesus.
Click to enlarge.
Frisbees - the future of soup-delivery systems?
Just a thought… (click to enlarge)
John Q Wagonwheel says:
Is that a band you’re listening to? - The Cloud Room?
John Q Wagonwheel says:
Sounds ‘crazy’.
John Q Wagonwheel says:
That’d be cool. A room where clouds lived and you could go and visit them and have chats with them. ‘Hi cloud, how are you?’ ‘bit stormy actually, but nothing as bad as Cumulonimbus over there.’
A friend of mine says:
Yeah, not many people talk to him.
John Q Wagonwheel says:
There probably is one though, because when you look at the sky not all the same clouds are always there. They must get kept in a warehouse in Basingstoke or Nottinhgam or somewhere until they’re needed. Sort of like a green room where they can read their scripts and drink sweet Dutch courage until it’s their cue.
A friend of mine says:
Yeah probably.
A friend of mine says:
just talking to each other.
A friend of mine says:
You on soon?
A friend of mine says:
Ah I’m on Cirrus for a couple of days, Gary stole my Stratus gig, I swear he’s blowing someone in Casting. What about you?
A friend of mine says:
I’ll pop up soon.
A friend of mine says:
Give it a few hours.
John Q Wagonwheel says:
‘Yeah, I’ve been in 6 hours of makeup this morning just so I can be a Stratus cloud in Swindon at 2:30, I’m knackered.’
John Q Wagonwheel says:
That’s why lots of Third World countries are sunny. They can’t afford to finance decent cloud coverage.
A friend of mine says:
Yeah that’s probably it.
