Hello y’all,
I trust each and every one of you - man, woman, child, chimp or chump - is well.
I would like to tell you a few things. It’s just a list of things really, things that have happened since last we spoke. These I will number. One - a long one - is about Russell Brand. However each is equally riveting so stick around if you want the works.
(this blog isn’t really about having sex in my car, I just wrote that to get your attention. Cheap trick I know but if you read on you’ll discover I’m cheap. Also, have you noticed that so far everything’s been in brackets? Annoying isn’t it? Imagine if I wrote the whole thing in brackets. It would do your nut. You’d be thinking, ‘when is he going to close the brackets and get started?’. Imagine if the Bible had been written in brackets. Or the Guardian was called (the Guardian). Wouldn’t that be funny? OK, enough. I’m about to close the brackets. At which point you can relax and enjoy this blog which, whilst not about car sex, is still very very very interesting. Brackets closing….now)
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Hello, I’ve just entered the 21st century. The other week, after watching a documentary called 9/11 Hotel on video (yes, video), my old-fashioned cathode ray TV went **POP** and filled the room with fragrance de burning plastic. It was ten years old and was bought for me by my kindly grandmother (thanks gran) when I moved out of her flat and moved in with my mate Naughty Nick.
Are you like me? I don’t mean handsome, debonair and unflinchingly honest about yourself. No. I mean are you fed up with the astonishing lack of quality comedy on British television? You’re not? Really? Well I am. Fed up, that is. With British comedy. Fed up to the hilt. Force-fed up, if you like. Fed up squared. Squared on toast. Fed up squared on toast to the power ten (If you’ve just joined us we’re talking about being fed up with British comedy). So you see I’m fed up - and angry. Oh yes, I’m angry too. Perhaps I didn’t mention that before. But I’m angry. Very angry. Furious, in fact. F*cking furious. P*ssing sh*tting f*cking furious. It insults my intelligence, offends my sensibilities and if ever I have the misfortune to catch some by accident, it makes my elbows ache.
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The other day I was strolling down the street, minding my own business, when I bumped into Lindsay Lohan. “Hi Lindsay,” I said. “What you up to?” “Not much,” she replied, “just walking my dog. His name’s ‘9/11 Conspiracy Theories’ – do you want to pet him?” “Sure,” I said. So I patted Lindsay’s dog. Suddenly, and somewhat unexpectedly, the dog started talking. “We’re on our way to see Britney Spears,” the dog said. “She’s got some Free Porn.” “Oh,” I replied. “That’s nice.” “Sure is,” said the dog. “Then we’re stopping in for a drink with Amy Winehouse.” “Does she live round here?” I enquired. “Sure does,” said the dog. “Right over there. World Trade Centre 7.” And with that we walked off into the sunset.
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Christ on a bike how I love the Olympics. Can there be anything more inspiring than watching supreme athletes from all five corners of the globe doing battle in a spirit of goodwill? Sean Connery weeps whilst watching great feats of athletic endeavour. I do the same. For three weeks it gives hope to mankind. Can you imagine a war breaking out during the games? (OK, there was Russia and Georgia…) If sport is indeed a ‘glorious irrelevance’ then there is nothing more glorious than this quad annual celebration of human endeavour.
Last week on More4 there was a fascinating documentary entitled, ‘True Stories: Stanley Kubrick’s Boxes’. For reasons I will shortly explain, this excited me so much that I actually cancelled on a friend in order to stay in and watch it. Bad form I know, but, hey, you know, sometimes, in life, one has to, you know, just punctuate everything with a comma.
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The other day I got on the tube at London Bridge and sat on a seat sodden with piss. Absolutely brinking with the stuff it was. Meniscusing. I shot up, swore, glared at the people around me who may have known that the seat was wet but didn’t think to mention it, and found a different seat in a different carriage. Read more »
Hello and good day. At least I trust it’s a good day wherever you are. This end it’s rather miz – drizzly, grey and overcast. Plus I must confess to being mildly hung-over. Still, that’s what you get for drinking in moderation.
Since this is my first ever blog, a spot of housekeeping. Would all of you please make a note of the emergency exits such that if things become too boring, repetitive, repetitive or self-indulgent, you can make a bolt for it. Also, you’ll have to provide your own tea bags. I’m looking into making teabags available as attachments but for now you’ll have to bring your own.
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