hecklescakes

Bolshevik shed repair.

2011-03-22T01:02:00.000-07:00

For me, the part of shed re-building that I have enjoyed the most has been burning the old roof. We took it off first. Basically a garden fence laid on it's side with a layer of roofing felt on top. It was rotten and came off in a combined and uneven way. During this phase of construction we spoke mostly about sex, although we occasionally stopped to consider how we were going to replace the roof. We both accepted, however, that we could only truly learn how to create the new roof through the dismantling of the old one.

After two days we had a big pile of rotten wood and an interim roof was formed in the shape of a tarpaulin tied to some bricks. It was now waterproof, so we turned our attention to the floor. A healthy wooden floor needs to be airy, free of damp and free of the risk of damp. There was a bank of compacted soil mounded up behind the shed within which we found a mangled old iron brasier. The soil had trapped moisture under the shed. It was moved. The brasier was repaired and put to use burning the roof. We're putting the floor in soon. I'll keep you posted.

The stealth nurse strikes again!

2010-04-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

So anyways,

I was waiting outside the Canadian Embassy with a van full of assorted propoganda for a demonstartion against the inevitable cuts that all parties are planning to bring in. Sort of doing my civic duty, yeah? And this policman comes up to me and he's like, "So what are you doing here then?" and I'm all like "Who wants to know?".

It was a fabulous spring day, and the glint of it shone in just about everything. Even the mad christian women who bash about trying to convert atheist socialists had a rude glint their eyes.

And this copper was like "OK, I want to see some ID, are you allowed to drive this vehicle? Are you insured on it?" and this van is better insured than the copper, so I thought I'd have some fun.

I eventually pulled rank on him when he accused me of being rude to him, and I thought to myself, "OK, who's the one asking for trouble? Me or him?" and it was one of those moments where it was blatantly him who was asking for trouble, because he'd already sworn at me.

So I pulled the Stealth Nurse!!!!!!!!!!

"Well, officer, as a nurse I am also a public servant, and if I were to speak to a member of the public in the manner in which you have just spoken to me I would expect to be disciplined."

He then said "OK, shall we start again?" to which I said "I think we should, yes."

I still got one of them bloody tickets though, second this week. It's like a paper trail of harassment.

I'm pouring sauce into a jar.

2010-02-25T17:45:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpecqjGRFec

The stealth nurse.

2009-10-13T14:06:00.001-07:00

The stealth nurse passes a bay in a busy city hospital

There are four women in the bay

He is wearing a coat and hat, and for all the world

Looks like Columbo, but older

With shades of ginger

And he dons his hat to these four women

As to wish them a good day

They say

"Annabel needs to have a crap!"

Pointing their fingers, shaking with rage

"Then she will have a crap."

The stealth nurse graciousely says.

"And she will have it soon."

They'd better have some fresh fruit

Now, they think,

To help them pass

But Annabel's still waiting

But maybe it's just a fart.

The stealth nurse is aware

the possible farts do not care

if they feel like a fart or a crap

the possible farts still can stay

for as long as they may

below radar resting and flat

For he's concerned with her skin

and the state that she's in

she's in quite good state at that

So the farts are a bonus

they're not in any way c-dif anyway

so that's a blessing, take it on your way

have a nice day

the stealth nurse says

and she's off, and she's forgotten her hat.

Playing 'The thrill is gone' by B.B. King. On the Guitar.

2008-09-10T13:09:00.000-07:00

First, you need to get both stoned and drunk in a mild fashion on a night in the middle of the week. You must have work to do in the morning, but you must not on any account be prepared for it. You must have a ready supply of tobacco and a dwindling amount of beer and skunk.

Now, listen to it on You tube.........

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vI_XMn-tRc

These are two scales to solo with over the top, figure out which you would prefer to use and where.............

B Major Pentatonic 7-10//7-8-9//7-9//7-9-1-//7-10//7-10//

and C Major(I think) 7-9-10//7-9-10//7-9-11//7-9//7-8-10//7-9-10//

They bring gooood results if you keep skipping them along, throw in a few octaves and bend them.

Finish your beer and skunk. Play it again. Save the rest of your baccy for the morning.

More on this later.....

Building Labouring.

2008-07-19T05:47:00.000-07:00

Montmarcey did some building labouring work ealier this week to earn some cash to fund his nursing habit. They only wanted me for three days. Bastards. They could have told me before I started.

Building labouring is not fun. It makes you tired, but the thought of getting a bit of cash at the end of it is nice. We were stripping out a house and replacing everything, pipework, doors, floors, plastering. My job was to carry things and sweep, both of which I can do to a proffessional standard. At one point I had to demolish some bricks from out of a fire place, for which I used a crow bar, which was nice, but then I had to carry the bricks outside and sweep up a lot of soot, which wasn't.

It was all very Ragged trousered philanthropist, apart from the fact that we didn't all sit around with tea and talk politics. Instead, we sat around with red bull while the Estonians talked Estonian and I tried to communicate with a nice bloke from Romania. All I could think of was to say Chowchescu (Not sure how this is spelled.) and give the thumbs down sign with a grin. He liked that and gave me a Romanian ciggarette. Later on I gave him a Drum rolly, which he agreed was stonger and ultimately more manly.

Safety on a building site is very important. It you're wearing safety boots, a high visibility vest and a hard hat you become immuned to everything. Birck dust, soot, cement dust and all manner of floaty carcinogens are all repelled, wobbly chairs used in the place of step ladders become more stable and electricity from the plug situated next to the water pipe loses the ability to conduct itself through your tender organs. It's all very reassuring.

The worst thing is not having something to do. The superviser streched himself between a few sites and would pop up every now and then. He was a chilled Irish bloke, but I've had it hard wired into me that whenever the boss is there, you have to look busy. He seemed to turn up every time I rolled a ciggarrette or sat down. This fucks with your mind. Instead fo doing tasks, finishing them and feeling satified, you do tasks, finish them and feel nervous. What next? I found myself most at peace when drenched in sweat, muscles blazing and not thinking. This is not natural.

Even a small house renovation is an assembly line these days. Standard parts get put in faster than you can blink. On the last afternoon I was there, some blokes came to replace the back doors and windows. It took them two hours to knock out the old ones and put in the new ones. It takes a day to put the pipes and electrical wires in, then two or so days after that to put the floors and platerboards over the top. Each one of these tasks is carried out by a separate competeing micro business (Gang.). Roofing seems to take the longest, but when they invent a spray-on mono tile, all that will change.

No-one ever needs to look at the schematic of the house, cause they've done it all a thousand times before. The architects and Engineers just cut and paste the whole lot anyway. It would be a lovely thing to do outside of capitalism. Easy, quick, painless, now I'm off to the library thankyou very much, see you when it needs doing again. Perhaps there'd be a debate about putting a mural on one of the walls. That would be cool. Yeah. House rennovation could be truly inspirational if it weren't for those pesky capitalists.

The Curious Incident of the Student Nurse and the Polish Man with Back Pain.

2008-06-25T18:40:00.000-07:00

Names, locations and facts have been changed to maintain a lack of research funds. Comissioning editors for "Scrubs" and "House" are denied intelectual property rights on this script.

‘A Wooden Die (Zbigniew Herbert.)

A WOODEN die can be described only from without. We are therefore condemned to eternal ignorance of its essence. Even if it is cut in two, immediately its inside becomes a wall and there occurs the lightning-swift transformation of a mystery into a skin.

For this reason it is impossible to lay foundations for the psychology of a stone ball, of an iron bar, of a wooden cube.’

Of course a man in need of food with excruciating back pain is not a wooden cube. However, on a ward dedicated to old people of many different cultures, there are many different communication issues that arise. They have a wide range of caring needs, whether they are physical, circumstantial, mental or a combination of the above. There are people in the last stages of cancer in beds next to people with severe Bi-polar disorder, next to people who have little to no home help who have simply fallen over. They have one thing in common. They are old and unable to work.

As we live in a society based around competition and profit, they are often marginalized. Their families may have moved to follow work and their pensions may be inadequate to support them. Not all of the patients on my ward suffer from these situations, many have caring families on hand to support them, but these factors cannot be ignored. The alienation that they suffer can manifest itself in many forms that can make a nurses life miserable. Aggresion, paranio, neediness. They need a decent life, hospitals are not equipped to provide this.

A wooden die is simply a wooden cube with spots from one to six painted onto its side. When you roll it, you transfer your hopes to win a game onto the outcome of that roll, thus giving it a personality. If you roll a one when you want a six, you may say that that the die is a complete bastard, when really, it’s just a piece of wood. The next time you roll that die, you will be more wary.

Montmarcey Brown is still studying nursing, and spent the grand total of ten hours on a hospital ward just last week. This gives him special "observational" powers, but doesn't knock the life out of him to such an extent that he wouldn't have the energy to write a blog, or do a bit of study for that matter. Study requires beer, cigarettes, a healthy determination, high hopes and an ability to piss in strong winds.

There are times on a ward when you have the chance to see further into the minds and situations of the patients. Feeding someone is one of these times, even if it is only through a glance or gesture. At mealtimes patients are given food appropriate to their culture and dietary requirements. The meals are put on a trolley at the end of the ward with the bay and bed number written on a piece of paper laid on the tray next to them. I got bay forty, bed twelve (Which I reached by means of a Matter Transporter), an elderly polish man who was sitting upright in a specialist wheelchair that looked like a seat from a sports car on wheels. He got an approximation of shepherds pie, broccoli, peas, chicken soup and custard. It didn’t look very appetising, but I described to him what he had on his plate and pointed to each piece in turn, asking him what he would like first. Although he didn’t seem to be able to speak English, we negotiated that he should have the broccoli first as it looked tastier than the peas and the shepherds pie was still too hot to eat. It took five minutes for him to eat two pieces of broccoli. After fifteen minutes he’d had about half of what was on his plate and looked satisfied. He’d thanked me after each mouthful and seemed to enjoy his food, which was extremely satisfying for me. I wiped his mouth, told him I’d be back to see if he wanted more later on and went off to twiddle my thumbs beside the nurses’ station.

I live in Acton, where there is a large Polish population. During the Second World War many Poles moved to London, fleeing the invasion of Soviet and German forces, they were allies to the British forces and had a positive image amongst the population.

More recently, with the expansion of the European Union, many more Polish workers have immigrated into London. Fear of job losses, fuelled by right-wing papers such as the Daily Express and organisations like ‘migration watch’, as well as employment laws that make it more likely for the workers to be employed in low paid casual work, with little to no rights, makes life hard for these immigrants. Because I am white and fair-haired, I often get seen as Polish. I have learned to point at myself and say ‘Polski?’ whilst waving my hands in a manner that says ‘I am not.’ They usually gesture back with a rolling motion of their fingers that says ‘I’m gasping for a cigarette’ to which I reply with pinch of Drum tobacco and a blue rizla. I can say 'Suck my cock' in Polish, but the chances to use this term
during polite discourse are limited. I learned the term in an innocent and culturally appropriate manner whilst working in a drinking establishment. Oh, and I can say 'Solidarnosk' and know a little bit about it being a socialist and all. Not a lot, but a little. Like Jimmy Saville.

Luckily, the other nurses on my ward are from many different backgrounds, and racism doesn’t seem to be a problem, but there isn’t a single member of staff I know of who is Polish, and there don’t seem to be many Poles on my course either. This should really be addressed because there were at least three Polish patients on the ward the last time I was there.

After lunch the ward settles down as the patients digest their food, have a nap and wait for their relatives. The qualified nurses and health care assistants generally retire into the staff room for the long break they’ve been waiting for since 7.30am, leaving the student nurses free to sit at the various nursing stations and harass any qualified staff who happen to pass by. I was wandering about the ward looking for someone to talk to when I noticed my Polish man reaching for his custard. He was trying to drag it towards him, past the half full plate of shepherds pie still on his tray. I walked over and offered to feed him again. It was at this point that he started to talk to me in Polish, none of which I understood, but I didn't bother him with that because he was eating, and this was tremendously satisfying for me. Old people in hospitals generally lose their appetites. At the time I thought that maybe he was confused and thought I was Polish. I have since learned that many patients will talk to you in their mother tongue, even if they know you don’t understand. It’s one of those things that people do.

After he'd had enough custardI did my wavy hands ‘Polski? I am not’ several times, but he didn’t seem to take it in the first few times. Eventually he beckoned me closer and said, in a plumy phrasebook English ‘I am suffering the most excruciating back pain.’ I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

When you start on a ward, the first thing you should do is get to know the roles of the various different nurses, care assistants, social workers and doctors who are there. I never did this, preferring to hassle the least busy, most affable looking people. The trouble with this approach was that the least busy, most affable people were having their breaks or trying to do their paper work. There was no one about, so I asked a nurse sat at the nurses’ station if she could help. She had to write reports on five patients before her shift finished. I decided to approach the head sister, who was having a hushed argument with one of her colleagues. For some reason I wasn't too worried about interupting them, they're good at responding to a pannicked face. ‘Daljit is in charge of that bay, go and find him’ I didn’t know who Daljit was, but she had resumed her argument, so I decided I’d have to guess. Luckily there was only one other male nurse on the ward at that time, and he turned out to be Daljit.

‘He’s had painkillers an hour ago, so we can’t give him more. We’ll move him to his bed so he can lie down.’ I was a little surprised that Daljit knew what to do without seeing the man, but when we arrived at his bed with the hoist, he seemed relieved. ‘Do you want us to move you?’ I asked. He nodded, seeing the hoist and hearing my questioning tone he had put two and two together.

First we moved his table out of the way and closed the curtain around his bed, then Daljit asked me to hold him forward as he positioned the sling behind his back, tucking it down so that we could pull the other ends of the sling up between his legs. The sling attached to the hoist by means of plastic clips, which we had to pull up from between his legs. It was quite a struggle to attach the plastic clips to the hoist and we had to lower the hoist a few times and reposition it around the chair to get the best fit. Eventually we had the hoist in position, so I plugged it into the wall socket and raised the man so that he was above the bed. We then had to swing him around so he could lie on the bed, which proved difficult as his legs were rather stiff and the main trunk of the hoist got in the way. Eventually Daljit had to apply some force and squeeze his legs past the trunk. (Knowing how much force you can apply when carrying out a clinical procedure is something that you can only learn with time. You've got to do it without causing harm, but sometimes you've got to use a bit of elbow grease.) We gently lowered him onto the bed, making sure that he was comfortable, before rolling him onto his side to ease the sling out from underneath him. This required us to stand either side of the bed, then I rolled him towards me by gripping his shoulder and thigh, while Daljit rolled the sling up underneath him, then Daljit did the same, while I eased the rest of the sling out from my side. At this point he became a little panicked as he was close to the side of the bed, so we had to make reassuring noises. ‘It’s ok, we’ve got you.’

Mission accomplished, Polish man moved from chair to bed and relatively comfortable.
I am a student nurse; therefore, legally, I am not able to do anything without supervision. This can become difficult when people need assistance and I am close to them.

Understanding does not require a common language. People throw dice, thinking that they understand the dice, when really they have a one in six chance of getting what they want. When elderly people are on a hospital ward, often they may regard the various professionals that they meet as die that they can cast. Is it worth the effort trying to make them understand? Maybe the back pain is easier to endure than the humiliation of being reduced to symptoms, none of which Montmarcey has really experienced.

In this way, the role of a student is valid but unpredictable. We come on to the ward with no routine and no preconceptions. We do not know that the Primary Care Trust will deny certain patients the right to die in comfort because it will cost the hospital too much. We do not know that the patient was discharged, only to be re-admitted later, not because they are ill, but because their family cannot cope. We have no concept of how casualisation and low bursaries are eroding the ability of nurses to develope professionally. This makes us slightly amusing, and a little human. Contact, in the last days of your life, is all that you can hope for.

Chapter Two.

2008-06-11T03:30:00.000-07:00

The best thing about being a bird in a graveyard is that herrings are far from your mind. Of course, a cat generally doesn't think of herrings as a bird would. For a cat a herring is a taste, a vision and a smell. Western cats most often see herrings coming from a can, but they don't know they're herrings until the can is opened. Unless they are fed herrings often, in which case they generally think that all cans are full of herrings. Herring cans are the shape of puncture repair kits. If herring fed cats were in charge, this would not be the case, so as to avoid confusion.

Birds don't have to worry about such things, which leaves them free to pursue other matters. This is why birds are good at building nests. Birds build nests, while cats stare at cyclists. 'I know for a fact that there's a can of herrings in his backpack. Do I go for the herrings, or the bird?'

A large cat would go for the cyclist, but domesticated cats have to be wise in choosing their battles.

More on this later.

How to be a bracelet. (SLIGHTLY LATER THAN PROMISED, BUT NOBODY IS WATCHING.)

2008-06-07T15:50:00.000-07:00

There are two ways that a man can become a bracelet. There are the same number of ways for a woman to become a bracelet.

Two.

Becoming a bracelet requires dedication, hard work and Colonoscopy, amongst other things. For a list of things you will need to become a bracelet please see below, but do not read any further, for you too may become a bracelet. You too.

Things you will need to become a Bracelet.

You may be thinking 'Oo things I need to become a bracelet?', but you would be mistaken, and you should go back to the beginning to see if you really got the gist of this whole post. If you are not thinking this then read on, for you have been chosen to become a bracelet, and you will need the following items in order to become one.

1./ Dedication

2./ Hard Work

3./ Colonoscopy

4./ Other things.

Method.

First of all, don't get put off by the other things, you are here to become a bracelet. Your dedication should be addressed to a current lover, and played on BBC radio 2 by Terry Wogan. 'Ring of Fire' is only acceptible in specific circumstances, and only you can be the judge. Do not dedicate any songs to do with hard work, this will come later.

Much later.

Castles made of sand.

2008-05-09T05:06:00.000-07:00

Again the windows are open. Hendrix is playing. I have a jar of surface polish and my mind is fresh from casualised wards.

Montmarcey is training to be a nurse. This takes things like gloves, a healthy mind and a healthy body, apparently. Luckily I don't have to provide the gloves. It's a puzzling thing to find yourself on a bus, one minute thinking about the endocrine system, the next about high staff turnover and how not to get fired before you start. Luckily the endocrine system can often be predictable.

Noel Reading has alot to answer to. 'Golden rose, the colour of a dream I had, not too long ago.' I think the river bekons.

Chapter 1.

2007-02-28T18:20:00.000-08:00

Urban, domesticated cats are usually very bad at killing birds. This is not their fault. Birds and cat toys hold very little in common. Cat toys have a great deal of stamina and die quickly. Birds have little stamina after the first successful blow, but make the most of their deaths.

The squawking was tangled around a small graveyard in central London and funneled into an orange skyline by the large buildings surrounding it. A library, a church, the back end of an office block and across the road, a terrace of three-storey victorian houses. Startled by the sudden violence of sound, the cat puffed up it's furr and started to hiss at the bird before retiring to a safe distance. More on this later.

On History (Number One.)

2007-01-09T05:14:00.000-08:00

History is in the eye of the beer holder.
In the face of the bloke who smokes dope.
Blossoming around fields like the ones below.

belching from furnaces hot with coal
irradiating an unborn childs scull

History is turning white,
history is powdery,
history is cocaine
your main man
your whitehouse lottery.

It's no joke.

Let's give it a poke.

History is in the thigh of the goat herder.
Sharing some base with the bloke who smokes dope.
Borrowed from fields (You'd find magic mushrooms in the ones below.)
harvested to grow it.

it's shots from the sky
that make people die

The whitehouse lottery.

It's no joke.

Let's give it a poke.

It may just burst.

(To give something a really good poke you will need:

1./ A large force.

2./ A small surface with which to administer that large force upon that something.)

History is bricks and mortar, love,
it's what you need to build your future.
It's a determinist reackoning on materialist research.
History is something that fits like a glove
a red blunt instrument for beating back force.

It's baked beans on toast.

it's empty shoes on sand dunes
burned out mopeds by the side of the road

History is turning white.

Let's give it a poke.

Birds.

2007-01-03T04:17:00.000-08:00

How to be purple.

2006-12-08T18:00:00.000-08:00

Being purple is something that I can achieve extremely easily. Being purple and all. For humans the process is much harder.

There are three main approaches...

Paint.

Meditation.

Anal Warts.

Paint and meditation are boring, so I would recomend the anal warts.

How to get anal warts that will turn you a lovely shade of purple.

Anal warts were invented by the Venerable Booze (A cistern monk... see past posts.) in 1452. He was trying to come up with a solution to cure penile warts at the time. His crude method involved cutting off the penis and sitting on it for two days. Although he found many cases of unfortunate men with penile warts (And even the odd woman!), it was rare that he found a man with the time to sit on his own dismembered penis for two whole days. 15th century Northumberland was a boom county and many people were just too busy rioting, rubbing leather with shit and being hung to afford the time. (The Venerable Booze was hung in a rather expert fashion himself in 1467. This explains the myths surrounding the size of his penis. On seeing the fantastic job the executioner had done, the Bishop of Canterbury was heard to say 'That Venerable Booze if the moft well hung monk I have ever laid my eyef upon!' Historians will never know the true size of Boozes' penis as he cut it off and sat on it for two days, before discarding it in 1452.)

His solution was to sit on the dismembered penises of others himself. With this devilishly simple plan, Booze was able to completely eradicate penile warts in pre enlightenment Northumberland. Unfortunately, there was a side effect. Anal warts.

During this time Booze was a bit short of cash, so he got himself a part time job in a funny smelling factory in Prudhoe. (If you get off at the station and walk up the hill into the town you can still smell the funny smell. It's a bit like pear drops.) This factory manufactured condoms for the Jurassic age, and Booze found that he could produce a cheap and high quality condom by using the skins of the dismembered penises. He revolutionised the condom making world, but also caused the demise of the dinosaurs. Dinosaurs have a strange reaction to the penile wart virus, it causes them to dig one ginormous crater, then die. On hearing that he had whiped out the dinosaurs, thus ushering in a chance for the human race to evolve, Booze was so delighted that he turned purple. He still had the anal warts though.

Next week: How to be a bracelet.

A quick thought on alienation.

2006-11-28T05:52:00.000-08:00

The nature of our lives these days leads very easily towards alienation. This is especially true for 18-30 year olds. Often single, living away from where they grew up to get work, a social life that is geared around consumption......etc. In short, a lonely life geared around work or the search for work.

The media constantly reinforces predudices that are designed to seperate us. Plays on generation gaps (The old are boring, the young are criminals.) race (Don't trust them Muslims folks!) class (Bloody single mothers!) and sex (Phwoar! single mothers!). Which should inevitably lead to greater distrust within society. And at first glance this appears to be the case. The Bnp is growing in a few areas, people seem to shit themselves when they see youngsters in hoodies...etc.

But there is an interesting side effect to this sort of alienation. We have to figure out whether we trust our perceptions, or not, more quickly. Often this trust will be won on the basis of brand loyalty, your favourtie brand of pie in the newsagents for example. But we also have to trust strangers more, simply because our livelyhoods and our lives move around more quickly. Every time we move job or home, we have to start from scratch with the people around us.

Anyway, this needs more thought. I'm just trying to get the basics of my line of reasoning down so I can work on it. There may be more to come on this.

Stop the War doing that primary rythm thing.

2006-11-27T02:21:00.000-08:00

I got dragged out to a Stop th War fundraiser in South London by my housemate last night. The line up was a bunch of unknowns as far as I was concerned. Paul Millns, Wizz Jones and Brendan Croker.

Here is a photograph of Paul Millns.

He was great. He played the piano and sang the blues. The best thing about hearing the Blues played naturally and well on the piano is the pure technical thrill. He was smashing out emphasised ground bass with his left hand, while his right hand channelled out harmony and melody like water dripping into our minds. I'd definately recommend catching him live.

Now the guitarists.

The bastards.

Here is a photograph of Wizz Jones.

His son came on stage and played flute, sax and mouth organ with him. I think I can safely say that when Eric Clapton plays unplugged, he really wants to be Wizz Jones. His right hand is a natural rythm machine. If he's not plucking a note, he's hitting a rythm onto his guitar. Guitarists be wary. I was glued to his left hand and the chords he was playing looked pretty standard, but the notes he was plucking around them were far from it. I convinced myself that he was using drop d tuning at one point, only to be confounded in the turnaround bars by what could only be described as crunching pentatonic resolutions. The best thing about hearing a good blues guitarist is the pure delight they get from stretching the boundaries of each sound. With Wizz, the technique is there for all sorts of possibilities, sometimes he lets the natural harmonies ring out, other times he lets you fill in the gaps, then moves things along in another direction, sneaks in a change around the corner of where you were headed before.

Here is a photograph of Brendan Croker.

He's evil. He sprayed what looked like an ovation electro acoustic guitar with silver paint. It looked great on stage, but I can't help dissaproving. When I learned that Jimi Hendrix had smashed a Fender Stratocaster on stage I felt the same way. What a waste! He could have given it to me. He also had a silver Nylon string, and a silver Ukelele. Visually stunning, but evil none the less. He played the guitar like a drunken teenager, which sounds bad, but combined with his voice, and rythms that creep your ass involutarily out from underneath you, it was fantastic. He sang the blues with the respect it deserves. Moving his vocals from chest to throat to flegm, he covered all angles. At points he would simply give up playing the guitar and hit it, and at one point managed to harmonise around the tinny sound of his ukelele being hit then stummed with open strings. He also provided us with a fantastic light display using some Laser levellers he's bought at either Netto or Lidl. Pure industrial strength blues.

I wandered lonely as a cloud....

2006-11-13T01:01:00.000-08:00

...... NYAAAAARGGGH!

A THERMAL!

RUN! Oh bloody hell, I hate heights.

Yes folks, it's autumn. It makes me feel like writing a poem. Here goes...

The tree outside my window. (If you have an electric keyboard, switch it to bagpipe mode and play some chords. Read this poem aloud in a prim Scottish accent and pretend you're Ivor Cutler.)

(Actually, there was a quite interesting telly program on him

the other night.)

The tree outside my window is dropping leaves
onto a peugot 206 parked beneath

it is trying to clog up the air intakes
when the owner turns the engine on
little bits of leaf will blow at her and remind her
that she has parked beneath a tree.

The tree outside my window is glowing gold in the light of a rising sun
and dropping leaves onto a peugot 206 parked beneath

now it isn't

now it is again

now it isn't again

now it is again, and really brightly this time.

The tree over the road still has green leaves
the peugot is black
the sun is golden
the tree with the dropping leaves has mossy green bark
and greeny red crab apple type things.

Telephone wires have nested in it's upper branches, so that conversations may be had.

I've stolen 'Notes and Queries' from the Guardian.

2006-10-25T05:16:00.000-07:00

And they haven't even noticed yet.

Thick bastards.

Anyway, as i'm a nice sort of chap, here it is.

Glum Penguins?

Recently, whilst holidaying in Antarctica with my wife, I noticed that some of the penguins there looked really pissed off. Is there a reason for this?

Aaaron Fretwinkle, Portsmouth.

The condition is known as hankle and is more common than you think. It also affects geese, chickens and was the real cause of the demise of the dodo. First spotted in 1238 by the pioneer of ornithology, The Venerable Booze (A Cistern monk.), it has since caused controversy in china where a breakaway strain combines with the bird flu to create disgruntled chickens who actively go out and sneeze on people.

Adam Hart Davies, Cambridge.

Perhaps they just don't like you.

P. Bowker, Herts.

Penguins use their bodies in very different ways to communicate than do humans. For instance, if a human being is happy it will smile, if it is sad, it will cry and if it is hungry, it will pop down the shops. If a penguin is hungry, it has to dive into freezing water and catch a fish. Through the years this has made penguins very unhappy indeed, but is confusing because it conflicts with string theory, which would suggest that gravity is linked to the desire to copulate. I hope this clears things up.

Prof Stephen Hawkins, Cambridge.

Heavy Stuff.

What keeps us from floating off into the sky like birds?

Poppy Swithlthwaite, Cambridge, age 1, via email.

Penguins use their bodies in very different ways to stay on the ground than do humans. For instance, if a human being is happy it will smile, if it is sad, it will cry and if it is hungry, it will pop down the shops. If a penguin is hungry, it has to dive into freezing water and catch a fish. Through the years this has made penguins very unhappy indeed, but is confusing because it conflicts with string theory, which would suggest that gravity is linked to the desire to copulate. I hope this clears things up.

Prof Stephen Hawkins, Cambridge.

Nothing in our design is stopping us from floating off into the sky, yet the physical reality of life means that this is an impossiblilty. If the earth had no mass, then we would be able to float, but there would be no atmosphere, so birds would not be able to fly, and they wouldn't have evolved hollow bones and we probably wouldn't exist, and neither would birds. But how do we know that somewhere there isn't a planet that doesn't exist on exactly these terms? This is what is more commonly known as 'Crappes Law' and kept many university departments in business until the oiks started to get A-levels in physics.

Prof Crappe, Cambridge.

Don't you know that a Peadophile could reply to your query and then 'groom' you? You should be more careful young woman!

A. Hack, London.

I'm not sure, perhaps we should meet up and discuss it.

A. Hack, London, Age 4.

I'm bored now, so that's enough of that. Next week I'll be stealing the television section and the Perry Bible Fellowship on Friday, so watch this space.

How to ingest food through your anus.

2006-10-23T04:52:00.000-07:00

You will need:

Some food

Some false teeth.

An Anus.

And a stress squeezer.

Bloggers who provide the correct method will win an all expenses paid trip to anywhere on the internet.

Yep.

2006-10-20T00:50:00.000-07:00

So anyways, I was saying to Doreen that she really must do something about her telly when who should turn up? Only bloody Micheal Stipe, and he's carrying a bloody elephant up the stairs! Doreen was having none of it though, she told Micheal that if he didn't fuck right off and take his elephant with him there'd be hell to pay. Trouble was Michael's never been too good at hearing, and having no hair an all, he got really upset. He'd misheard her, see? He thought she'd told him to buy a Toupee. He fucked off though, and took his elephant, so Doreen was happy.

Dear Montmarcey,

2006-10-18T03:01:00.000-07:00

I am writing to offer my sincerest gratitude on your piece 'How to make freinds and influence people.' Just last week I was sitting at home alone and thinking to myself 'I'm a freindly sparrow.' over and over again.

Imagine my surprise when a package fell through my door containing some onions, ten pints of beer, a plastic bag, these charming people (Pictured.), and the instructions below. My Aunt, in a fit of generosity, had posted me a social life for my birthday.

Being a modern sort of chap, I decided not to read the intructions and set about assembling my social life with the intuition afforded one by the ownership of a penis.

I started by placing the plastic bag on Jennifers head. All present agreed, as she slumped to the floor, that this was indeed an agreeable state of affairs, so I repeated the process with all of them. I then drank the beer, threw the onions and plastic bag away and went to the pub. On hearing of my exploits, I was afforded the most cordial reception and conversation by those gathered.

Once again, Montmarcey, thank you.

Yours,

(Name and address supplied.)

How to make freinds and influence people.

2006-10-15T03:35:00.000-07:00

You will need:

Ten pints.

Some onions.

A plastic bag...

...and:

Some people.

How to use your ten pints, onions and plastic bag to influence and make freinds of your people.

Drink one of your ten pints.

Peel and chop the onions. I find it best to use a steak knife, as that is usually the only knife I can find. Do not throw away the skins, set onions to one side and skins to the other.

If you leave your people for too long, they will start to get restless and wander about your house. I have installed a giant tupperware box in my back garden, as this keeps them really fresh, but those of you on a budget may prefer to use horse tranquilisers or threats.

Drink another three pints, being careful not to spill and/or get gas.

Place your chopped onions (Without the skins) into a plastic bag and hang from kitchen cieling.

Steam up kitchen. (It's usually best to boil pots of water on the stove with the windows and doors shut. Alternatively, you could install a sauna.)

Reitire to the living room with the rest of your beer and the onion skins. Tread skins into the carpet and drink three more pints of your beer.

Have a snooze.

Drink the rest of your beer, eat the steamed onions and keep the plastic bag.

Invite the people into your living room. If you have used tranquilisers, this may take longer than you expect, so be patient.

Once they are all comfortable explain to them that they can leave at any time.

Throw up into plastic bag and stand next to door.

Your people are now freinds and influenced.

Next week: How to ingest food through your anus.

Crab apples.

2006-10-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

I think they are anyway. Outside my window, on a tree.

If they really are crab apples, then that makes it a crab apple tree. The point is that they are falling off the branches every three minutes or so. They are falling onto an expensive car.

One of these days, one will fall off that isn't a crab apple after all, but a lead weight. It may even cause damage to the expensive car.

It won't have my fingerprints on it though.

No
Sirree
Bob.

Not good ole Montmarceys' fingerprints.

One rule for them...........

2006-10-10T02:51:00.000-07:00

A senior BA official got awarded a £375,000 pay off when he was sacked for price fixing.

Does this give you the impression that BA were against the practice?

You can buy a lot of 'Whiskers' for that money. It makes me wonder though, maybe these people aren't really in control of their lives. They think they are, but maybe they're not. If you think about it, what do they do? It seems they're employed purely to make as much money as possible (Duh!). If they get caught out doing something illegal while they're doing it, they get a big fat pay off.

It's almost as if they are getting the money shoved forcively down their throats. Maybe they are the alien equivalent of 'Fois Gras'. My liver wouldn't make very good pate because I drink a lot and don't eat very healthily, but I bet Willy Walshes (CEO of BA) liver would be great. Imagine what Prince Charles liver would taste like! All of that fresh produce and healthy air. Actually, Harry and William would make for a more delicate taste, but for those who like a good robust flavour, the Queens would be the best.

I suppose it's all a matter of taste.

http://business.guardian.co.uk/story/0,,1891478,00.html

Microwave weapons

2006-10-05T03:57:00.000-07:00

They've created a weapon that can fry protesters, or at least give protesters the impression that they are being fried. (See crudely added link below for more details.)

I say we should fight fire with fire. The system they have created costs $10 million. A snip for your average despot, but beyond the means of, well, us.

On the other hand, there are lots of us and I reakon most of us own microwaves. All we need to do is re-wire them so that they work with the door open, buy lots of lenses that will spread the rays, borrow some car batteries and surround the white house. (I'm not sure whether you can take a microwave on a plane these days or not.) Then all we have to do is wait.

The first time they actually use the device, our crudely created super microwave can then be activated and we can all laugh with glee as we melt the bush administration. A bit like the bit at the end of 'Indianna Jones and the lost Ark.'

Or we could appeal to the slightly better paid amongst our ranks and use fan ovens. That way we'll get a nice crisp Bush administration that will be the envy of all of our dinner guests.

http://technology.guardian.co.uk/weekly/story/0,,1887256,00.html

Posting while drunk.

2006-10-04T02:58:00.000-07:00

Appologies, I will stop posting while drunk. It really does make me act like Terry Fuckwit. Now, let me get back to milking this cow.

That's not a cow you're milking Matt, and this isn't a shed. Now let go, and let me get on with this sermon.

Fuck me! I can be such a thick bastard sometimes. Sorry Vicar.

I can't help it. Maybe I'm obbsessed.

2006-10-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

And fuck you too. I don't care that I'm spelling obbssessed wrong.

But anyway,

not that it matters,

but anyway.

right?

Three reasons why I'm much better than Tony Blair.

On his own terms.

Cause Tony Blair says he's northern, and he says he plays the guitar, and he thinks he's good at politics, but he'd never say it cause he wants us to think he's think.

Anyway he's a wanker. Right?

You know I'm right.

Anyway.

Tony....Blair.....Is....A.....Complete.........

wait for it................

wait for it..............

I hate to use an old phrase here, that everyone hears many times a day.

he is a war criminal.
he is a terrorist.
everything you have heard about him suggests this.
he should stand trial for what he has done.
like those he has imprisoned unlawfully.

Just the thoughts of a drunk.

I've been asked to Jam.

2006-09-29T15:46:00.000-07:00

For the first time in a long time, some mates have asked me to come and play guitar with them. Hopefully we'll manage to get pissed while we do it. Hopefully we'll have a good Jam.

How to have a good Jam.

Get drunk, then pretend that you are amazing at your chosen instrument. If it doesn't sound good, lament the fact that you don't have a drummer. If you have a drummer, lament the fact that you don't have a good drummer. If you have a good drummer, lament the fact that you don't have a good drummer.

Never play stuff that anybody else knows. It's boring and someone will be able to play it better than you.

Take any substances that are offered to you. If you take enough substances, you will channel the spirits of dead mucicians. Don't tell anyone this is happening, they are thinking the same thing, only different musicians, and they're glad they're dead.

Bring your own amplifier, it may be worse than theirs, but the volume is yours and yours only to control.

If all else fails, G=get drunk.

He's started to mutter to himself!

2006-09-25T01:50:00.000-07:00

He knows he's going, we knows he's going. Best of all, he wants to go. Look at the way he soldiers on bravely, while all of those other nasty politicians fight each other and annoy the public.

In Manchester we were shouting 'Smooth transition please, and stop the infighting because it really is most tiresome!', not 'Troops out, Blair out!'

At the party conference yesterday, a few lickspittles got up and made speeches about his legacy, and the best thing is that when they finished he genuinly looked confused. If you see it on the news look carefully, it's as if he's thinking 'What? But I was only in it for the money.'

The best thing is, he's started to mutter to himself. I saw him on news 24 last night walking past a gaggle of photographers and he could just audibly be heard saying 'Ah, yesk well shivers me timbers, cuh cuh cuh.'

It must be hard trying to hold on to power by the fingernails, whilst shoving a load of blue skies thinking onto a population that would shoot, but are too polite.

I think it's going to be very messy indeed. Brown has left it too late, the best he can hope for is being caretaker for a bit. Blair isn't going to leave with any dignity whatsoever. He is going to crack up in front of our eyes. He's been in denial for too long. He still thinks he can turn it around and garner adoration as he leaves. The Blairites are humouring him, not supporting him.

Wise words about the unions from comrade 'Black Dog'

Ex-minister Peter Mandelson has warned union bosses not to think they can use the Labour leadership contest to win back their old power in the party.

Mr Mandelson, a close Blair ally, said the trade unions were the "ballast" of the Labour Party and their contribution should be welcomed.

Now, what does one do with ballast on a ship in a storm?

The unions will take the opportunity, if they have any nouse, to flex their muscles. The movement will continue to spring up and bite chunks out of his ass in variouse guises. And Blair will start to mutter more and more.

I don't want to see him crying like Thatcher. I want to see him led out of Downing Street by nice men in white coates, muttering to himself and fighting off imaginary bats.

One last thing, go and see 'Children of men' it's the best film I've seen in yonks.

My Lass.

2006-09-23T17:35:00.000-07:00

Is snoring.

I love her.

She's great.

I'm her bloke.

Northern Comrades.

2006-09-23T16:38:00.000-07:00

On demonstrations, the Northern comrades are absolutely amazing. Getting coaches together for a demo is an absolute nightmare, even if you're only doing it from the other end of a phone like me.

Once you're on the coach, if you've got someone who can really engage with people, like we did on ours, (He's a catholic lay preacher socialist who knows exactly how to put people at their ease and engage them.) the journey up there is fun. It also helps to have a friend with tablets to ease the travel along. But then when you get there you're turning up all-fresh into a whirlwind. And you want to sell papers to people as if you're stood in Ealing, Southall or Hounslow. But it works differently everywhere you go. So you go to it, and after a while you get the hang of it and you're really cooking with gas then.

This is when you start to see the beauty of comrades in action.

Different people do different things extremely well, some can do all, some seem to do nothing, when in fact they're holding many different parts of this movement together and some do nothing, while doing many things. I suppose this is where the Northern Comrades have learned to adjust so well to changing situations. It seems to me that impressive figures are reached in many London districts, and deservedly so because the comrades work very hard to achieve them, but when it comes to building, the northern comrades really know how it is done
in the build up and aftermath of a demo. They know, because they have to book coaches all the bloody time and convince people to fork out money to go on them.

A lot of people go on demostrations and think to themselves 'I have attended, therefore I have done my bit.'. They are right. For a demonstration to achieve something, then people who wouldn't usually ever turn up to such a thing, but are carried away by the moment, are the most important people on that demonstration. They are the majority when the political scene is shifting, and they represent that shift. They are sky and earth to socialists.

When you run up to them and ask if they want to sign a petition, and perhaps do this and that extra and buy a paper and join a revolutionary organisation, if they at least smile at you, then they are fantastic, they are moved, and they are the movement.

If they actually join in these circumstances, they are thinking good stuff, that you are probably thinking as well. Click the 'don't be shy, give it a try' link for more on this.

If they go home, watch it on the television, then in ten years time vote a certain way because it seems like the right thing to do, then they are thinking good stuff, that you are probably thinking as well.

If they tell you to 'piss off', then they feel threatened, and on an anti war demo be gentle, they're delusional.

The best thing that you can do after going on an anti war demonstration, is make sure that more people go on it next time. As the war gets bigger, which it will, the demos have to get bigger, which they will. We're winning the race, but it doesn't yet look like it because the pacemakers haven't yet emerged.

You get that feeling more on a coach.

Alienation.

2006-09-22T15:40:00.000-07:00

Try this. Next time you're on a demonstration, leave it and walk through a shopping centre. People look strange. Instead of engaging in a mass experience, they are shopping. Quite natural really. (Bollocks! I've just dropped my cigarette in my tea.) It's more or less the same if you leave a football match and go into a shopping centre, but not quite. (Cue Top-Gear esq music.)

They want us to stay indoors, but they don't know it themselves. That's just the way the market is going.

Shopping requires you to cut yourself off from human interraction. You don't want to get ripped off, you don't want to get mixed up and buy oranges instead of tampons, you don't want to miss the simpsons.

Demonstrations are different, you're going to miss the simpsons, you can't get ripped off because you've given all your money away, and someone will offer you an orange at some point. (Or perhaps even a tampon.)

Anyway, I'm going to order a pizza and stare at humans out of my window.

The pope.

2006-09-18T06:08:00.000-07:00

The pope is a man who sits in a room in Rome. Sometimes he gets a little excited, so they let him out for a walk.

When he goes for a walk he says things like 'Peace be with you.' and shakes peoples hands. He is very carefull not to get confused and say things like 'Peace be upon you.' because that would make him a 'Spreader of evil.'

Evil comes in jars labelled 'Prof M's (PBUH) Evil Elixer.' and can be spread on anything from slices of Ryvita to 'Radicalised Asian Youths.'

Radicalised Asian Youths are very easy to create and spot. The best way to radicalise an Asian Youth is to stop and search them, beat them up, or kill lots of other Asian Youths in places like Lebanon, Iraq, Afganistan and Palestine. Spotting them involves making a judgement about their skin colour and age.

Once you have spotted a Radicalised Asian Youth, there is no point converting them to Catholocism, because this won't change their skin colour. It's far better to jump out on them and shout something like 'Oi! Sunshine! You're knicked!' or 'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!'

Gordon Brown wanking into a cup of tea.

2006-09-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

As above.

my favourite song

2006-09-08T04:26:00.000-07:00

And helpfully, someone has put some pictures to it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-ilhOnLIs4&mode=related&search=

plops

2006-09-07T17:10:00.000-07:00

plop

plop

plop plop plop

plop

Wor Toony

2006-09-07T02:14:00.000-07:00

Wor Toany (Na man, ye smurk tha tabs an strurk tha wippet.) is gannin doon St John's Wood the dee.

Ah rekon E'll get a waam welcome from aal the pyeple E's been messin aboot aal these yeahs.

Am gannin doon the tube te give him a reet tellin. E's bin warkin is ticket fa tee lang. Ah mean, what a divvy! Tekkin us aal te waar, like.

Sweet-as though. Aal them politishins sharpnin tha kneeves. Reet bunch 'o' wobbly spineless nowts. Anly trouble is, like, ah havant got any eggs.

A'll tell yez aal aboot it when ah get back. Toot sweet.

Eee mind! Ah divvent kna what ah'll say if thez any camras aboot. Problees sumink like 'Aye man, that Toany, what a dafty. Haway man Toany, get. a . grip. An ye betta not think aboot comin roond heya sayin thez sumink wrang wi a coople 'o' bloaks wakkin aroond in Bras.'

E'll probleez end up bealin is little eyes oot. Reet! See yez aal leayta.

The Boss.

2006-09-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

This is John Lee Hooker, master of groove driven blues. If he were left without a guitar for more than 48 hours his rythms would shake him apart. His Gibson isn't an instrument, it is a sacrificial diode to the internal turmolt that drives his music.

Often, when staying with friends, I will find myself stoned and in need of blues. I'll search in a crazed stupor through their cd collections and real player files. With albums strewn across the floor, I'll be muttering things like 'You fucking bastard.... fucking Koolashaker? Is this the closest you've got?' Then, like magic there it will be. The John Lee Hooker album they were given by an impoverished relative for a birthday. Fished out of the Woolworths bargain basket, wrapped up, and forgotten about.

These albums always have 'Boom Boom' as the first track, they always have 'Crawlin Kingsnake' and they always have 'Wednesday mornin' blues'.

Always enough for me.

Trouble is I'll put it on, then reach for the nearest guitar or guitar-like instrument and screw my head right up trying to copy the rythms. I'll listen to it for a bit and think to myself 'This really is rather easy' copy a riff or two, listen again, and think 'fuck.'

Meanwhile, fings ain't gettin any easier cause I'm gettin stoned.

A little leaf.

2006-09-04T08:24:00.000-07:00

A little leaf.

Children in revolt.

2006-09-01T04:02:00.000-07:00

This site:

http://project1.caryacademy.org/1851/images/cartoons/cartoons.htm

Has some cartoons done by children. I reaally hope they were reaally done by children. They're great. I particularly like the ones on Peterloo.

1 2 3 4 heaaaaart beat do do do do dooo dodo.

"This Crystal Palace is, in a way, like a pretty girl who is mean. Looks and personality are two totally different things. The Crystal Palace is a pretty face on hard, cruel labor.("Karl Marx")"

Click on the 'comments' bit. I wish I'd gone to this school when I was younger.

BABES! LOTS OF BABES!

2006-08-31T04:11:00.000-07:00

A cynical, but necessary attempt to get more hits.

Captain America and the Neo Con Plot.

2006-08-31T03:29:00.000-07:00

....Continued from page 30.

Which was all the more relevant. As we can see from the study below,
the subliminal messages were already showing up in various comics. The logic being that if young men were encouraged away from active procreation and into acts of self abuse, the alien takeover would be all the more acceptable. Of course, this meant extreme care had to be taken that Marvel comics.........
.........continued on page 34.

Testosterone.

2006-08-28T00:22:00.000-07:00

Testosterone is supposed to be the thing that puts hairs on a mans chest, and stops him from knitting. This is because the hairs get tangled up with the wool. Since the invention of the jumper, which roughly conincided with the invention of knitting, this should not have been a problem. However, testosterone is also the stuff what makes a man a man.

How to be manly.

In this day and age, the best way to be manly is to not shave for a couple of days, take off your jumper and get photographed in black and white holding either a kitten or a baby. This is a development from the days when being manly meant posing with a tiger or crocodile, and I think it sets back manliness by years. It's very easy to look manly when compared with a baby or a kitten, not so easy when wrestling a crocodile. Infact, when wrestling a crocodile, it's easy to look very un manly indeed.

How to wrestle a crocodile.

Presentation is everything. Before embarking upon any crocodile wrestle, it is important that you go down the gym for a few years first. This will prepare your chest and bicepts for the engine oil, which you must smear in streaks. Another important thing to remember is your hair. It must either be extremely short, or messy. A neat mop-top, or quiff just simply won't do. Shorts are a no-no, you must wear jeans or, better, overalls folded at the waist. Footwear is not important as real men don't worry about their shoes. All you need now is someone to take the photograph. Victory is only necessary if you feel the photographer didn't get your best side, otherwise dying like a hero is completely acceptable.

How to die like a man.

The best way to die like a man is to save somebody who is more important than you. These include: High ranking officials, Women, Children, Royalty, People with a detailed knowledge of the geography of volcanoes and Dogs. Nothing is more manly than dying to save a dog. In circumstances where you need to die like a man it's best to keep your goodbyes short, otherwise people get bored. Something like 'My Lord, tis an honour.' will usually do. The last thing you want is for the people who are more important than you to feel in any way indebted to you. If you can combine dying like a man to save someone more important than you with crocodile wrestling, then you can safely assume that any poor displays of crocodile wrestling will be overlooked. As long as you don't wimper.

They Fuck You Up.

2006-08-27T03:39:00.000-07:00

Warning: The following is completely true and accurate, so look away now if you secretely suspect that you are one of my parents. Oh, and keep sending the crack, it's really helping me to come to terms with my childhood.

These are the parents I requested whilst waiting to be born:
These are the parents I got:
My first words were "May I please speak to the manager?" Seeing as the warrantly only covered my first six months, I couldn't get a refund. To those of you who knew me, this is why I learned to speak after only seven months. One month too late. After this, my development tailed off somewhat as I resigned myself to my fate.

Parents are funny things. They bring a life into the world, roughly in their image, then spend the next sixteen years or so trying their hardest to make you as little like them as possible. In the process, they not only fuck you up, but themselves aswell.

From my early history, I can only assume that my father was something of a troubled genius and that my mother wanted me to become a cross dresser. I will start with my father, and one of his crimes.......

One of the first school projects I was given was on the Wright brothers and the first airoplane. The mind of a six year old is simple, but logical. I decided that the best course of action to take would be to ask my father. The conversation went as follows....

Me: Dad..... how did the Wright brothers make the first errplane?
Dad: They used chewing gum and string son.
Me: (For even in those days I was extremely clever.) Wouldn't that be too weak?
Dad: No son, in the olden days they had very strong chewing gum, now pass me the um....... Oxo cubes.

I learned a very important lesson the next week when my project, which I had worked very hard on the presentation of, if not on the research, was not displayed with the other kids projects. They all got it wrong. They said that the first airoplane was made out of canvass and stuff like that.

Me: Why isn't my project there?
Teacher: Because it is so crap, all the other kids will laugh at you.
Me: They already laugh at me.
Teacher: That's because you are wearing a girls school uniform and not a boys one. (This comes under crimes of my mother.) This time they may laugh at you for being thick, which is something you have no control over, and would be more insulting.
Me: But they're all wrong! The first Airoplane was made out of chewing gum and string. My Dad told me.
Teacher: Oh really? I suppose you'd jump over a cliff if he told you it were safe as well!
Me: That reminds me, is the school nurse in? I need to get my dressings changed.

You'd think I would have found solace in the warm bossom of my mother.....

Think again!

I had two older sisters. This has its' advantages, but they only become apparent later in life, and involve borrowing money. The disadvantages of having two older sisters, combined with a mother who isn't stifled by the norms of society, hit you hard when you emerge from swaddling clothes and into short trousers. Or, in my case, a cast-off checked school dress.
For the first year of my school life I used the girls toilets, played with the girls and payed no heed to the chants of "Boys are fantastic, Girls are just spastics.". This was not insulting as I didn't know what a spastic was and we weren't terribly politically correct in those days. We would reply "Girls are nice like puppy dogs tails, boys just smell and regurgitate quaills."

The crunch came when Terry in the year above took myself and Jenny into the corner of the playground to show us his willy. "That's nothing." I said when I saw it. "Everybody has one of those." Jenny ran home crying, thinking she was abnormal. Funny really that nobody on the school board though it unusual that there was a little girl called Monty running around in the playground.

A Poem.

2006-08-24T21:51:00.000-07:00

MIRON BIALOSZEWSKI

And Even, Even If They Take Away the Stove
My Inexhaustible Ode to Joy

I have a stove

similar to a triumphal arch!

They take away my stove

similar to a triumphal arch!!

Give me back my stove

similar to a triumphal arch!!!

They took it away.

What remains is

a grey

naked

hole.

And this is enough for me;

grey naked hole

grey naked hole.

greynakedhole.

The 'I've done a poo and you're gonna find it.' look.

2006-08-21T03:15:00.000-07:00

When I was a wee snipe we had a dog that used to go to the toilet in the house. Wasn't really his fault, we'd go out and leave him in there with nobody to open the door for him. His response on our return was always tragic. He would greet us at the door with a cursory wag of the tail, to show that he appreciated our return, and then look into each one of our eyes individually.

Now, dogs are very responsive to facial expressions, but humans often find it difficult to gauge what a dog is trying to say. It's a common misconception that the littlest hobo was showing concern when leading passers-by so some poor dimwit stuck down a mineshaft. If you read his body language, often what he is actually sayins is 'Ohmygod! You've gotta see what this fuckwits done! I ask you, and you lot have opposable thumbs.' So our confusion was understandable.

Often we would end up on a wild goose chase around the tin mines dotted around the local area. Meanwhile the dog would be getting more and more nervous, waiting for us to give up, go home and find the poo in the bathroom.

In light of this, and with the gift of hindsight, I wander what would happen if, say, a Mr Reid were to come back to Downing Street after a pleasent meal in Weatherspoons just up the road, and find a certain Mr Prescott waiting for him with that look upon his face?

Turnips.

2006-08-20T03:35:00.000-07:00

I'm want to start leaving turnips outside police stations. Is there anything illegal about this?

It's probably better than leaving some corrugated iron and mud. Just two turnips left either side of the entrance.

Buttnuggets, Fartleberries and Dangleberries. (Guest Editor: Adam Hart Davies.)

2006-08-08T01:44:00.000-07:00

Q: What do they all have in common?
A: They are the same thing.

Much research has been done into what causes buttnuggets. Modern consensus seems to suggest they are caused by a combination of the use of fine polmers in undergarment manufacture and low grade toilet roll. However, any perusal of a decent historical dictionary will show that buttnuggets are far from being simply a modern phenominum. The old English word 'Dangleberry' means simply 'Them little piecef of fhite that dangle from yer arfe.'*

Of course, in olden times dangleberries constituted a real health hazard. The pinnacle of anal hygene was the use of a dead swans neck to whipe. This, however, was limited to a group of Cistern monks who lived off the coast of scotland, so had nothing better to do with their time. Nobody else could afford to use a swans neck, dead or alive, so they had to make do with moss, or a handfull of leaves. The drawback being that if you accidentally picked up a thorn, sharp twig or discarded syringe in your moss/leaves, the result would be a not too swift, but just swift enough to make you feel it, death. Dangleberries didn't help matters at all as they itched causing the victim to rub great big fingernails full of shit into the wound. Ouch!

Clearly, something had to be done.

Now, the answer for the romans in Britain was something not dissimilar to the modern Bidet called the Gardena Sprinklus, I'm here in historic Bath town centre with Professor Marks from Bath University to try one out.

AHD: So you've rigged up this modern recreation of a roman Gardena Sprinklus using materials from the local B & Q and you want me to sit on it, is that correct?

Prof M: Yes Adam, but due to roman aquaduct technology, the mains pressure of water in those days was much higher. Luckily I've been able to borrow this water cannon from the local riot police, which from my calculations is set at exaclty the pressure that your average roman would have enjoyed.

AHD: OK, here goes! .....

..... WOW!

Clearly the roman Gardena Sprinklus had its drawbacks. However, on the up side it gave me a wonderful view of Bath and look, no buttnuggets!

Hear the Mighty Engines Roar.....

2006-07-06T00:07:00.000-07:00

.... see the silver bird on high.

The trouble with pavements is that they often have things like snails and dog poo on them. I'm not saying that snails and dog poo are bad things. Snails and dog poo can be good things, but when they are combined with pavement and/or poor visibility they become a downright nuisance. They are not as much of a nuisance as great big holes though. Great big holes and/or pavements and/or poor visibility can become a menace.

How to deal with great big holes.

1. Determine the cause of the great big hole. All hitherto great big holes are the great big holes of gap struggle. Gap struggle occurs when quarks become uppity and start to antagonise one another. Nothing makes quarks more uppity than pneumatic drills, nothing on this later.

2. Do nothing for a bit. This will make you feel a little guilty, which will give you more focus later on.

3. Either:

fill up the hole
cover it over
or....... LEAVE IT!

Look, just leave it will you? Nah Frank I won't.

Hello?

Hello.

Is this bin liner for sale?

Sorry mate, you've got the wrong blog.

Now, please insert disk. This is why we should all just calm down and get back to whatever we were doing before.

The sun was shining, the weather was sweet, yeah.

2006-07-03T03:08:00.000-07:00

Made me want to move my dancin feet.

Yeah.

The coagulated rythms of London dropped tempo and eased into the summers afternoon. Stuffed up commuters flowered out of Ealing Broadway tube into the harsh freedom of the sun. There was an hour left to fit in that final purchase.

'Buy beer for England, is the official message for today!' Emanated from every corner of the city. People did their duty willingly. An empty 'Believe' bar wrapper fluttered past the feet of Mary K Bright and wendled its way through the emptying street towards the Broadway. Picking up a thermal belched from a number 207 bendy bus, it gathered pace and height before settling down again outside the North Star, where it got stuck to the shoe of 'Black Dog' Sparrow. He dragged it into the pub, through to the toilet and kicked it into the urinal.

Mary K Bright, or 'Mary K Bright' to her freinds, always had her name mentioned with fingered quotation marks. So, as she paid for her rocket salad, chardonay and sprouts, she wasn't surprised when the shop assistant asked her 'Would you like a cash-back 'Mary K Bright'?'
'Yeah, just give me twenty pounds please.'
'OK, 'Mary K Bright'.'
Somehow, this time, it struck a chord. There was nothing unusual in the name 'Mary K Bright', she wasn't famous and nor did she share the name with anyone who was famous, but people always felt the need to call her by her full name and accompany it with fingered quotation marks. In her late teens, she had even started doing it herself.

She stepped out of the shop and on to the empty street. People had dissapeared to watch the football. In all of the shops the staff were setting up televisions to watch the game.

It was lovely to almost have the town to herself, so she wandered about a bit and smiled at others who had decided not to watch the football. After a while she went into Pocco Loco and treated herself to an overpriced, bog standard, but served with a superior smile coffee and settled down to try and read last weeks Observer cover to cover without throwing up. She didn't get very far and threw up into her coffee. Luckily, all of the waiters were engrossed in the game, so she slipped out unnoticed and went for a walk in Walpole park, where she stumbled upon four young British men who were not watching the football.

She couldn't help herself 'Oh my god, you're not watching the football, why is that?' she shouted across to them. 'Because we don't fucking want to.' replied Sheperd, the oldest of the four, who was rolling a spliff. They were surrounded by empty cans of Fosters, and looked all the world as if they really should be watching the football.

'Why don't you want to watch the football?' Black Dog decided to answer her query with a history of the British empire and started to get into flow 'You see, the trouble with English football is that.....' he warmed to his subject and started to gain momentum '.....imperialism. And that's just the start of it......' finally he reached his cruising speed and bobbed along like a roadside generator. Nobody would be able to stop him now. The Skunk broke wind and commented that 'I fucking hate footbal when the world cup isn't on, so why should I like it now. Fucking bastards, and that Wayne Rooney....'
'Oh! you'll be pleased to hear that Rooney has been sent off or something, I'm not sure' said Mary K Bright.
'YES!' they all shouted, Black Dog changed gear 'And as for Rooney....' bob bob bob bob bob bob. The Sheperd lit his spliff and passed it to the Skunk, who was digging a hole with a twig, happy as a pig in shit.

Mary k Bright started to get bored, so left. England lost the world cup and everyone lived happily ever after anyway.

This is amazing!

2006-06-28T17:04:00.000-07:00

http://www.onetonnemusic.com/mt-static/archives/2006/06/hannes_coetzee.html

An Amusing Pun By Bat. (Thanks Bat.)

2006-06-25T13:31:00.000-07:00

It's the communist man, with pesto.

My Violin

2006-06-24T02:29:00.000-07:00

This is my violin. I use it to play things like 'The Peacock Followed the Hen' and the first bit of 'Passagalia' by Biber. I play them over and over again so as to get them louder. I'd never hang it out of the window to entice young women because it doesn't really belong to me.

I once had a woman in my room who was mightily impressed by my violin, but not so impressed with my violin playing.

When I play my violin cats come visiting from around the neighbourhood. I live on the first floor, which means they can't climb in through my window and try to mate with it. They look so sad sat on the pavement. Sometimes they sing back to me and we make a duet.

Violins are great.

When I've finished with the strings I hang them on my wall to make it look arty. If I loosen the hairs on my bow I can detach the 'frog' and pretend I'm fishing with it. Sometimes I sit watching the television and polish it. This is what I love doing. I polish it until it shines, then I look at it for a bit. Then I go fishing with my bow.

It has a fake label inside it that says it was made by Pagani in 1721. It wasn't, unless Pagani lived in England. I think it's really a Stradavarious, and someone stuck a fake label on it so as to put thieves off the scent. Recently I had the sound post moved, the bridge shaved and the top nut fixed so as to make it easier to play. It worked, but I don't yet sound like Stephane Grappelli.

This is Stephane Grappelli. He also plays the violin. He plays things like 'Avalon' and 'Blues for Musidisc'.

He's great.

One day, if I practice hard and eat the crusts on my bread, I will be able to play like Stephane Grappelli. Sugarcane Harris is also good, I would also like to play like him. At the moment I'm about as good as the bloke who sometimes stands outside Marks and Spencers in Ealing. He's OK, but he's no Stephane Grappelli.

The best thing about my violin is that it's old and beaten up. It looks really cool. The worst thing about my violin is that if I ever broke it, I would be sad.

I wander if readers can give me any tips on how I can sound like Stephane Grappelli. Please comment.

Police outreach program for kids. (Guest Editor, Mr I Blair.)

2006-06-22T03:46:00.000-07:00

This may appear to be a rather cute picture of a cat scratching a specifically designed scratching pole.

Do not be decieved.

Infact, the cat pictured has had its claws nailed to the pole and is being put into a 'stress position' because I suspect the cat to be planning an act of terror on 'Pinky' my Rottweiler.

The cat, or 'Brute', has not yet been formally charged. You may think her treatment is barbaric, but this is just the tip of the iceberg........

This photograph was taken in Mrs Simmons' back garden. It clearly shows 'Fangs O'Hammy' being trained in the use of a rocket propelled grenade launcher. Intelligence suggests that Fangs and Brute have been meeting regularly since 2005.

So, is it acceptable now that Brute is being 'Encouraged' to confess?

This is a still taken from a speach by 'Fluffy Al Kilkilkil' where he encourages rodents from across Europe to rise up against dogs. In it he specifically mentions that cats are easy to coerce into acts of terror against dogs as they have been extensively chased by them. He calls on cats and rodents to make peace and unite in the fight against dogs, then goes on to outline plans that include the initial destruction of police dogs as they are 'Well hard.'

This photograph shows Fluffy Al Kilkilkil enciting 'Tiddles' to carry out an act of terror on a German Shepherd. Luckily tiddles buckled under interogation and blew the whole thing to our officers.

Not so easy to judge now is it? So, kids, remember, policemen are your FRIENDS.

EXCLUSIVE: The band that's rocking has released their Bio.

2006-06-14T05:16:00.000-07:00

We like to make music. We get together, and we make music. If we get famous, Adam can go out with Patsy Kensitt, but he doesn't want to take too many drugs, and he doesn't like being in the tabliods, so Matty will take all of the drugs and get in the tabloids. Marie would like it to be noted that she has been abducted and if anyone could pop round and save her, it would be much appreciated. Graham and Clarence are notable as the only OAPs in the band, but with their youthful looks and winning smiles...... Graham and Clarence are notable as the only OAPs in the band. Clarence would like it to be noted that he has more hair than Graham. He doesn't though. That's why he wears hats all the time. Infact he cuts quite a dash. Graham just dashes about on his bike. Have you ever read 'Fast Frog'? He's a bit like that.

Adam Sheehan.... A life. Adam was born in Ohio, Stoke Newington. That's about as glamorous as it gets. His first words were 'The emancipation of the working class.... um, actually I'd better learn how to read.' The first book he read was 'Fast Frog' which confused him slightly.

Marie Kamara.... A life. Marie wasn't born, she just appeared, fully formed and indomitable. Her favourite colour is DP412, a shade just off DP413. Her first words were 'Fuck me! ...... I exist!' She then went on to write the first book she ever read called 'How to Just Appear.' She found it very informative, if not a little late.

Graham Hodgin.... A life. Graham was born amidst the rough and tumble of the French Revolution to a peasant couple who were a bit thick. They didn't quite realise what the point of the revolution was and swapped him for a noblemans baby to ensure him a safe future. Luckily Grahams first words, with his head betwee the steel and wood of a Guilotene, were 'Tete a tete Rodney, Un petit pois.' and he was saved and swiftly transported to Nelson Mandela Towers in London, where he spent the next few centuries or so waiting for it to be built so he could move in.

Clarence Jackman..... A life. Clarence was invented by the ruling class to keep revolutionaries from doing work. He sniffs out activists, then visits them while they are most busy, sits in the kitchen demanding cups of coffee, smoking rolled cigarettes and trying to fart. This takes some effort as he didn't accidentally cause a rift in the space time continuum within his bowels whilst searching out cheapy thrills aged twelve. The rift isn't a direct link from our reality to an alternate one that is completely composed of methane. BP haven't paid him £2.36 to keep quiet on the subject. He didn't buy a packet of Amber Leaf and was happy.

Matty Grabham..... A life. Matty was born, aged 12, to a very relieved woman, just in time to catch the 207 to Sheperds Bush. His mother missed the bus as her legs had grown so strong during the 13 year pregnancy, that when she jumped for joy she landed on the top of Acton Library. He has never seen her since, nor would he want to. Aged five he once heard her remark 'If that little bastard doesn't get his act together and be born, I'll give him such a kicking.....'

Democratic Centralism Recordz Presents......

2006-06-11T01:28:00.000-07:00

3 Mould breaking and genre defining songs from a little known group of young hipsters in West London.

http://www.myspace.com/weaintsmillin

Uses for cheap flags.

2006-06-07T03:53:00.000-07:00

When England get kicked out of the world cup, there will be lots of cheap St Georges Flags floating about the place. In order that they are not wasted in an 'EU flag mountain' I would like to suggest the following uses.

Affordable toilet roll for public toilets. (No need to cut them into squares, just hang them from the door and people will be able to continue their phone conversations as they wipe.)
Coffin decoration for patriotic rats and pigeons.
Get a red marker and colour in the white bits. Hey presto! A red flag to tie to a tree and forget about on a demonstration.
Cut into strips and adorn crime areas. Your friendly local copper can show their patriotism as they go round shooting your darker-skinned neighbours.
Melt them down and make patriotic picnic tables.
Burn them in waste incinerators, this way some of the patriotism may find its way into the lungs of local kids, who will grow up with a sense of pride every time they cough their guts up.
Cut out the red cross bit and use them as 'Failed' markers to stick on the luggage of asylum seekers. Give them the white bits to use as bandages.
Simply continue to hang them from your window until the next world cup. This way people will be able to identify you as a complete fuckwit before starting a conversation, avoiding needless embarassment.

I wander if readers can think of any other uses for old St Georges flags. Please comment.

The best thing about being a mormon............

2006-06-04T23:58:00.000-07:00

..........is the prerogative to have a little fun. But not too much.

Pictured is the mormon cricket, so called because they actively convert other creatures into becoming crickets. The best thing about being a mormon cricket is that you can convert the far more attractive catholic beetles, then marry as many of them as you please. The worst thing about being a mormon cricket is that sometimes you get confused and convert insects that eat their spouses upon copulating.

The more ambitious mormon cricket will occasionally try to convert way outside of their niche. They are regularly sent on missions to places like Sub Saharan Africa, Indonesia and Acomb.

Elephant: What's the trick to becoming a good mormon cricket then?
Mormon Cricket: It's all in de knees yeah?
Elephant: Boooiiinnng boooiiinnng ........ boooiiinng.
Tannoy: Welcome to Acomb international airport. We are sorry to report that the 7.23 to Indonesia has been cancelled due to Elephantine stupidity.
Rabbit: Bloody elephants!
Elephant: Boooiiinnng............ Fuck me! A talking rabbit. Boooiiinnng.

I wander if readers have heard the good news. Please comment.

Be off with you! Scram! (That's what I said.)

2006-06-01T05:57:00.000-07:00

I'm Back! Montmarcey Brown has returned.

I'll not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I am well hard, and those stupid bastards sent me off to a dessert Island. Bit of a typo I think on their part.

Anyways, I gorged myself on the cream bit (Pictured.) then kicked some ass. The anarchists pissed off when I asked them to clean the oven. Ahhhhh, life on the outside is sweat. I really must do something about it, but for now I'm happy with the stains.

So, we'll have no more politics here. This is now strictly a site for contemplation about serious issues...........

I wander if readers have ever contemplated a serious issue. Please comment.

Hecklescakes Collective.

2006-05-30T03:02:00.000-07:00

This site is currently being squatted as the New Hecklescakes Domination Committee has gone to develope another site for resale. Any attempt at evicting us from this site will be met with the full force of the law. Do not attempt to evict us, or we will call the pigs. We are the Hecklescakes collective.

Anarchists together can fight for a better world, as long as we don't have any form of hierachy whatsoever. Rupert would like to state that this is very important. He's great, he's got smelly hair, lots of money and is definately the most popular. If there were a hierarchy, rupert would be in charge, but as he isn't in charge, we feel we have the moral high ground.

In the interests of protecting the squatters movement from evil hierarchical structures, we are starting a weekly newspaper called 'Remember Kronstadt!'. Ruperts dad is going to fund it so that we don't have to sell it like those authoritarian SWP bastards.

They say they're working class but they're not. Rupert has a job. He works for his dad in a radical software marketing collective. He represents the real working class, not like those SWP bastards who do things like work on the fascist London Underground, who charge people for their tickets and only help to undermine the arguments for localised collectives.

Now fuck off, or we'll antagonise all of your vapid idiotic ideas right out of you in one fell swoop.

Unacceptable socks.

2006-05-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

At first glance, these socks would appear sensible. Do not be decieved. These socks have a particular fault in their DNA that makes them extremely dangerous.

'Socks don't have DNA!' we hear you shout.

That is where you, dear readers, are wrong. Like everything, socks have a basic genetic makeup that predetermines their fate as soon as they leave the production line. These particular socks contain the gene MS132, which makes them prone to causing blisters, callouses and illegal asylum seekers. On no account buy these socks. We first became aware of their fault when we were in the Chelsea area of London walking our dog.

Fisrt we developed a limp, then we noticed the inner arch of our right foot rubbing up against the inner soles of our shoes. Before we knew it we had encountered a person that can only be described as 'foreign' driving past in a car that can only be described as 'better than ours'. The silent majority will not remain silent over this issue!

We decided to investigate.

Our investigations led us to one 'Everything £1' shop in Hounslow. It became clear, on questioning the shop assistant, that the socks had been bought by a close, but impoverished, relative of ours for our birthday.

They are 92% polyester, 1% cotton and 7% haloumi. These are foreign socks and should not be trusted.

If you have seen these socks please phone our helpline 08705 900 200 and ask for Tony.

Scarey Things

2006-05-19T09:20:00.000-07:00

We would like to inform readers that they should be more scared. Scarey things are happening all the time. People don't talk to each other on the tube for a reason. They are scared. You should be more scared otherwise somebody may do something nasty to you. In order for people to adjust to being more scared, we would like readers to share stories of nasty things that have been done to them by strangers.

If you haven't yet sewn your buttocks together, you'd better get on with it before things get any more scarey.

NHDC 'Putting buttocks first.'

Campaign against violence.

2006-05-19T08:06:00.000-07:00

The New Hecklescakes Domination Committee (NHDC) has voted unanimousely to start a campaign against people who could have violent tendancies. Signs of potential violent tendencies are as follows:

Adherance to a religion that isn't christian.
Looking at people in a manner that suggests there may be violence to follow.
Growing a beard.
Being between the ages of 11 and 25.

Anybody who exhibits one or more of the above symptoms will be extensively soothed before they have a chance to start any violence. Extensive soothing will take place at our new Community Support Centre in Belmarsh.

In order to aid us in this campaign we are asking readers to sew their buttocks together. Buttock sewing kits can be purchased at our local stores.

NHDC 'Bringing your buttocks together for our community.'

Note to user.

2006-05-17T14:04:00.000-07:00

We haven't yet worked out how to change the username of this blog, but from now in it will be reffered to as 'The New' Hecklescakes 'domination committe'

Stop! This blog is getting too silly.

2006-05-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

There has been a coup, the editor has been changed, and now this blog will only contain sensible things like currant affairs, buns and warm socks. Any frivolous posting will not be tolerated and perpetrators of stupid acts will be locked up for good.

The editor of this blog has been taken to a small island for safe keeping and future blogs will be decided by a committee of people chosen for their financial abilities.

Thank you for your time.

Some thoughts on pillows, 17.05.06, 09:12am.

2006-05-17T01:19:00.000-07:00

I had the good fortune to pass out onto a bed with extremely compfortable pillows early one morning. As my mind closed down its functioning capacities and wandered around the periferal extremities of my experience, a memory came to me in a very strange manner. It was not a memory that I remember, but felt as if it was from pillows. Not just the pillow I was resting my head on, but from all pillows everywhere. It was the experience of mind meeting pillow meeting minds meeting pillows everywhere and it went something like this:

Compfortable log with moss
Earache
Death
But flint was fashioned young man
And hides were born
And big feathered things was plucked
And hay did grow
The fashioned forms around heads

Evolved
Into.......... us.

And there we were, me and that pillow. Like a dog in a quarry.
But it was not a question of that one pillow, or all of the pillows we search for at our lathes and drawing boards. Reaching out around the corner of the landscape was an answer, and the answer was connected by pillows.

I wander if any readers have had similar experiences with pillows. Please comment.

George Galloway

2006-05-05T02:43:00.001-07:00

This is George Galloway. He says things like 'And here you've made what can only be described as school boy errors.' to the American Senate. He lives in Bethnal Green where he works as an MP for a political party called 'Respect.'

When he's working as an MP for Respect he says things like 'May the 4th be with you.' and tries to get people to vote for Respect MPs in local council elections.

I like George Galloway because he annoys people like Tony Blair. Tony Blair says things like 'Well, of course we know now that there were no weapons of mass destruction.' and lives in a council house on Downing Street. Tony Blair is the Prime Minister. His best friend is John Prescott who touches women until they have sex with him. John Prescott likes cheapy thrills because he is old and his willy may drop off soon.

They are both members of the 'Labour' party, but they don't like the Labour party because it doesn't sell enough, so they call it 'New' Labour. New Labour has a secret ingredient that helps to kill foreign people. They want to call it 'New improved Labour, now with electro glide function for those hard to reach foreigners.' but they can't fit it all on the new packet.

Tony Blair and John Prescott have lots of freinds around the country who don't really like them. They are called 'Labour Councillors.' Labour Councillors say things like 'Vote for us or we'll cut your benefits off.' and 'We don't like Blair either.' to people who don't like Blair and 'Yes, that bloody Saddam had it coming and as for all of those terrorists....' to people who do like Blair.

I don't like Labour Councillors because they annoy people and then blame it on foreigners. I like foreigners because they give me things like strong Polish beer, haloumi, curry and kebabs. They do things like fix the pavements and make us better when we get ill.

I wander if any readers have had something nice done to them by a foreigner recently. Please comment.

Farting Down the Phone Through the Ages, Chapter 1

2006-05-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

Farting down the telephone is a subject that has enjendered little or no debate in the heady corridors of academia. I find this surprising to say the least as the art of farting, or 'flatuphonics', requires aptitude in many areas.

By giving you this short history of teleflatuphonics it is my aim to encourage a debate on the social context and, indeed, relevence of a little documented phenominum. Your statutory rights will not be affected.

The first incidence of teleflatuphonescence is as old as the telephone itself, which is extremely old. At the time Alexander Graham Bell tried to write it off as a mere accident, but a study of his original transcripts of the first telephone call reveals the sinister truth.

Alexander Graham Bell (AGB): Hello old bean, can you here me? (They couldn't spell in those days. M.B.)
Other Bloke (OB): Yes squire, and may I be so bold as to say it really is an improvement on the old tin cans and string. This really puts my connection from New York to Toronto using 3 inch steel cable and giant Baxters Soup cans to shame, it appears the whole project is doomed. Thanks a lot you wanker.
AGB: Yes, the line is really rather clear. So anyways, I says to him.....
OB: Hang on, hang on, there's something vital that I have forgotten.
AGB: What's that old bean?
OB: Wait, wait, I'll tell you in a second.
AGB: Oh please do hurry up, these inter room calls don't come cheap.
OB: Frrrrp.
AGB: Oh dear, there appears to be a problem with static, did you hear that?
OB: Bollocks, I think I've followed through. Crikey O'Reilly, there was a sprout on the end of that one! ...... etc.

In the next chapter we will be looking at the use of teleflatuphonics in international diplomacy and studying case notes of people who have suffered the results of unprotected teleflatuphonica.

Meanwhile, I wander if readers have experienced teleflatuphonics whilst using mobile phones, or even flatuphonictronics (The act of farting through an email.). Please comment.

Rules of Hecklescakes.

2006-05-01T05:44:00.000-07:00

Readers of Hecklescakes must abide by the following rules:

1./ No spitting, running, petting (Light or heavy.), bombing or animals whilst viewing Hecklescakes.

2./ Minors must be accompanied by an adult.

3./ Anybody using scissors must ask permission first off their mother.

4./ If you read this blog after 11pm, you must immediately go and find the most expensive car in your area and snap off one wing mirror. If the wing mirrors prove difficult, two tyres deflated completely is a sufficient substitute.

5./ Please feel free to hum whilst reading, but not too loudly. We don't want people to get wind of what we're up to.

6./ Gola form imbibe enchilada asparagus.

7./ Hand grenades can be purchased at the back of the lobby from one of our lovely assistants.

Perhaps readers have other rules that they feel appropriate. Please comment.

A lovely guitar.

2006-04-30T13:44:00.000-07:00

This is my guitar. I use it to play songs like 'My Lovely Horse.' by father Ted Crilley and Dougal Maguire and also as a means to impress woman who come to my flat. No women ever come to my flat, but if they ever did, they would be mightily impressed by my guitar. One day I will hang it out of the window to try and entice some women into my flat.

It's a great guitar.

Everyone should have a guitar. They serve many purposes. When I hang my clothes up to dry, if the clothes horse and radiator are full, I hang my boxers on my guitar. If my neighbour is having a quiet day and looking all together too smug about it, I play 'Here Comes the Sun' by the beatles very loudly and very slowly. (Violins are also good for this sort of thing, I find a nicely out of tune burst of Fiocco every 40 minutes or so works wanders.) Another use for a guitar is as a tray for drinks on unsteady surfaces like a bed.

I wander if readers have any other uses for guitars, or musical intruments of any kind. Please feel free to add your comments.

Amusing things to say to bouncers.

2006-04-30T08:06:00.000-07:00

I was in The Red Back Tavern in Acton last night and occasioned upon a bouncer guarding some steps from potential drug dealers. Every time someone stood on the steps he'd chase them off, like an ogre guarding his bridge. After my second Newcastle Brown I found myself on the steps. Instead of politely requesting me to move he shouted 'Get the fuck off the steps!'

Well! How rude?

I decided he didn't look much like a bouncer, so I said 'Who the fuck are you?' to which he replied 'I'm a bouncer, get off the fucking steps!'. Now, I'm a quick witted fellow with a tongue sharp enough to open cans, but I surprised myself with a quite uncustomary eloquence when I informed him 'You look more like a fat bastard to me.'

Upon being forcibly removed from the establishment it occured to me that readers may well have other stories of amusing things they have said to bouncers. Please comment.