Shit on a stick

This blog is pretty much defunct nowadays. I have kinda lost interest, but also don't really have too much time to write stuff for it. That's not to say I may pick it up again at some point in the future, but until I do I will occasionally publish real text message conversations I have with He-Who-Cannto-Be-Named. Like this recent one:

Him: I was wondering if you'd like to be in a home movie I'm going to make. It will be released on the internet. Do you still have your crotchless spider man costume?

Me: What is it about? Will I be the star?

Him: It's a super hero movie, a kind of 'unofficial' adaptation of Alan Moore's Watchmen. Working title is 'Crotchmen'. How do you feel about working with animals?

Me: Sounds great! I like Roger Moore, he's my favourite James Bund. They say never work with children or animals. But I've certainly 'worked' with both before, if you know what I mean?

Him: I think I do know what you mean! That's why I think you'd be perfect for this role. Do you know what your pain threshold is for electricity?

Me: I've not tested it fully. Will this be like method acting?

Him: Yes. Don't worry about it. Just 'be' your character. The more authentic it looks, the better.

Me: Is it going to be guerilla style cinema?

Him: There may be a gorilla involved, yes. Or at least a bonobo or a chimp.

Me: That doesn't sound much like a super hero film. Have you got a script I could have a look at?

Him: It doesn't really have a script. This is proper Ken Loach style movie making. Improvised realism is key. Besides there won't be much dialogue anyway, cos most of the time you'll have something stuffed in your mouth.

Me: OK, well it would be nice to meet some of my fellow actors, you know, to get a feel of how we'll work together.

Him: No need. You're all professionals. Just turn n the day and it will be fine. I'll pay you thirty pounds for eight hours work, take it or leave it. You need to bring some nipple clamps too.

Me: OK, I guess I have been an out of work actor for so long any job is worth taking. Thanks for this opportunity!

Him: Don't mention it. I mean that literally. Don't tell anyone about this.

Me: Ooh, all hush hush? I love secret projects!

Him: Good, cos if you go blabbing about this one I'll break your fucking knees.

Me: Wow, this is exciting, a really big secret!

Him: Shut the fuck up and go and get a full body wax.

Me: I like a director who takes control.

Him: I hope you like a chimp that takes control too.

Then it all went quiet for a bit until I got this:

Him: I keep getting texts from Dominoes Pizza, almost every day. I never reply but they keep texting me. Do you think they fancy me or something?

Me: Text them back, see if they want to go for a drink.

Him: I called Dominoes, they didn't want to go for a drink but they said I could come round for a pizza! I'm so excited! I just need to decide what to wear!

11.11.11

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

The grave of an unknown soldier of the Royal Lancashire Regiment, killed at Serre 1st July 1916, lost in combat and discovered by the archaeological team No Man's Land in 2003. 

Now buried in Serre Road Cemetery No.2.

Sexual Textual

You know the deal, He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named send each other idiot text messages. I publish them here:

Him: One of these days you're going to get lazy, and mess up. And when you do, I'll be waiting.

Me: That's nice, you'll clear up after me? Brilliant, I've always wanted a maid.

Him: Don't mention it. Just wanted you to know I'll always be there for you.

Me: I broke into your house yesterday while you were out and masturbated in your bathroom. Then I wiped myself off with your towel. You're welcome.

Him: You're a stupid idiot and you've got a stupid idiot face.

Me: Then I went into your kitchen and put my fingers up my bum and wiped them on all your utensils. Om Nom Nom.

Him: You smell of stink.

Me: So do your knives and forks.

Him: I don't understand you. What do you hope to gain from this behaviour? Happiness? satisfaction? Is that why you do it?

Me: I hope that you get the taste of my anal passage in your mouth. Nothing else.

Him: Why is that so important to you?

Me: Because I want you to be humiliated in front of your peers when you throw a dinner party and they all use your grimy knives and forks.

Him: I don't host 'dinner parties'. I don't even have a dining table. My guests eat pizzas off plates on their knees using their fingers, and if that's not good enough for them I tell them to fuck off. So your little 'gesture' has been wasted.

Me: Not quite, cos before I did it, I shit in your bed.

Him: That's actually quite a relief because I thought I'd done that in my sleep. I was quite worried, I was about to go to the doctor.

Me: I also placed your doctor's thermometer up my bottom. So you should go and ask him to take your temperature.

Him: It sounds like you put an awful lot of thought and effort into this. I'm almost flattered.

Me: I've also put all the pens in your office up my anus. There's no escaping my bottom.

Him: You're assuming I want to escape from your bottom.

Me: You will do when you taste it. I've been eating only toothpaste for the last month.

Him: Minty fresh, nice.

Me: No. Quite the opposite actually.

Him: You monster.

Me: Don't judge me so quickly. You haven't seen what I did in the fridge yet!

Him: Why can't you just leave me alone? Why can't you bear to see me happy?

Me: To be honest, I'm not really fussed either way. Your emotional well being has no influence on anything I do to you anyway. Happy or sad this would still happen. You're nothing to me. You really liked you dog didn't you?

Him: Go away.

Me: This is not going away for a long time, we're in for the long haul here.

Him: Isn't it past your bedtime?

Me: It's past your life time.

Him: That doesn't make sense.

Me: It will. How would your family react to you if you were deformed by, say, a fire?

Him: Isn't there something on telly you could be watching. Like Come Dine With Me or the Only Way is Essex or any of the other bullshit you like?

Me: I'm watching telly right now. You mean so little to me that I can juggle the two easily. What about if you were disabled and couldn't go to the toilet alone? Would your family still stand by you?

Him: No, my father would spurn me as a twisted monster, not that it's any of your business. 

Me: OK, I'll take that on board, thanks. Anyway, I'm off to find some nails, detergent, plastic ties and lime. I hope you sleep well tonight. 

Him: I will, as soon as you stop texting me.

Me: I'm going to make sure you're buried face down.

Him: I won't care, I'll be dead.

Me: No you won't.

Next morning:

Him: I cried myself to sleep last night.

Me: :( why? I'm sad for you. :(

Drokk it!

I went to see Dredd 3D last night, along with Ali, Sam, Nathan and Cath. Timmy Teacakes was supposed to come too, but he cried off cos he had to do a bit of work for once. Of all of us there was only Nathan and I who had any idea at all what Judge Dredd was even about. I mean, Christ, as we were waiting for the others I had to give Ali a quick run through of 35 years of dispensing justice, muties, the Cursed Earth, the Dark Judges, PJ Maybe, Chopper, the Judda, lawgivers, lawmasters, futsies and Call-Me-Kenneth just to bring him up to speed.

So there I sat, with my mega-mega-family bucket of popcorn, eight bags of Haribo and an ocean of fizzy pop waiting for the movie event of my life. There was that other Judge Dredd film a few years ago, but the less said about that the better. I hope they have collected up all the DVDs of it and buried them in the Mojave Desert. Either that or fired them into the sun.

How was it? I was so fucking disappointed, no Dark Judges, no Walter, no Maria, no Call-Me-Kenneth and Mega City One looked like Leeds. Anyway here is my review:

Dredd (Owen Wilson) is a scientist who has just invented a time travel machine in his garage in Wisconsin. He spends the afternoon with his wife, Trisha (Susan Sarandon) going back to various epochs to see what it was all about. In a dream like montage they visit 12th century Prague, 18th century Vienna, and 20th century Cleethorpes. Retiring to bed, ready to tell the world in the morning of their discovery Dredd accidentally leaves the machine on. During the night a cat jumps on the controls and summons a Tyrannosaurus Rex from a million years BC and a sixty foot robot from a million years AD. Dredd and Trisha are awoken as their house is torn to pieces by the two monsters whaling on each other. Fearing for their lives, they grab the cat and run. In the maelstrom, the machine summons Napoleon's Grande Armée on their way to Moscow. Soon there is 20,000 Frenchmen battling a giant dinosaur and a giant robot in one of cinema's finest moments akin to Citizen Kane. The army is called and soon manage to calm things down and make everyone see sense. The Robot and the Dinosaur get married and the soldiers open a theme park with Napoleonic themed roller-coasters. Dredd smashes the machine with a baseball bat, but not before transporting himself and Trisha back to 20th century Cleethorpes where they live happily ever afterwards.

Score: 15 on 10!

And here is some text messages of He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named:

Him: One more day closer to death. I suppose that's something to look forward to at least. (this was received at 09:05...)

Me: Why don't you do the world a favour and fucking hang yourself? No one would miss you.

Him: Who are you, my therapist? Because that's what he keeps telling me.

Me: No, but he pays me to say this stuff to you.

Him: So you don't really mean it? That makes me feel a bit better.

Me: No, I do mean it, that's why I took the job. It's like getting paid to do your hobby! It's totes good money too, another bonus!

Him: Dick

Me: Woah! I'm just doing my job! Don't have a fucking go at me! You're such a bellend sometimes. I don't have a go at you about that racist drivel you teach your students.

Him: That's not racist. It's true. It's all backed up by hundreds of academic publications going back to the nineteen thirties.

Me: In German?

Him: What difference does that make? Now look who's being racist!

Me: I'm going to report you to the head of your department.

Him: Don't bother, he already hates me. They all do, the shower of cunts.

Me: No wonder with that attitude.

Him: I hope your sandwich today has Ebola in it and you die shitting blood and bleeding out of your eyeballs.

Me: How did you know what I am having for lunch?!

Him: You're just so fucking predictable, like the phases of the moon, or the changing of the season, or an episode of 'My Family'.

Me: You really like kicking a guy when he's down, don't you? Why can't you have more respect for me?

Him: I hope you catch Lyme disease from watching Dredd, and die suffering from painful skin cracking facial palsy.

Me: What is your beef?

Him: What do you think about those princess kate topless photos? I can't fell but feel that this wouldn't have happened if she bore herself with proper regal dignity, instead of WALKING AROUND WITH HER TITS OUT LIKE A COMMON FUCKING TRAMP WHORE.

Me: I hate her for what she's done to the queen. I always said that about her, didn't I?

Him: Well lady di never strutted around with her boobs flapping for all the world to see, that's for sure. She had class. God I miss her so much.

The Nefarious Dr Bucket

When I was on the Isle of Man a couple of months ago, there was a group of rebel students from the University of Liverpool. They had been brainwashed and absorbed into the gang of Dr Bucket, a nefarious sort from North of the Border.

 Dr Bucket and one of his henchmen in action

The last day Dr Bucket's gang were on site was very wet and we couldn't work, so they were tasked with some menial job, like washing finds, or labelling pottery. Basically, something I didn't want to do. It was during this time, when I was engaged elsewhere, that Dr Bucket hatched a plot against me and my boots. I returned to the mess tent to find my boots missing and a hand scrawled note on my tent door. This led me to follow several other clues until I finally found my boots. Below are the clues, please excuse the childish scrawl:

An aside; the wench mentioned in the note was Heather, who had the next clue secreted about her person. She is seated on the extreme right of this picture taken a few hours before the boot scam. She is holding her clue and braying at poor unsuspecting me. 

Each of the locations mentioned were at least two football fields apart from each other as shown by this picture of our site camp and my movements therein:

So, I found the boots and thought little of Dr Bucket's gang until two weeks later when a letter arrived for me:

Fin

Mark of the Beast

It was my birthday last month, six weeks ago. He-who-cannot-be-named sent me a present, six weeks late. I opened it to find this:

With this torn piece of paper:

 and the reverse:

Who needs enemies, eh?

It's a dog's death

I was on my way to the bus stop to go into town for the pub quiz last night. I checked my phone when I got to the stop and because I'd been listening to my MP3 player playing Orcustus at full volume I'd missed a call on the walk. I checked further and saw that it was from that four eyed cunt Salter. Now, ever since that pretentious twat moved down south to Cornwall, he wants nothing to do with the ho-poloi back in the north, so I wondered what on earth he could be calling me for. I called him back and he didn't answer. Curiouser and curiouser, I mused, but let it go, even though the rage was boiling up in me. As I climbed aboard the bus that had just arrived I had the following text message conversation with him:

Him: Sorry, I was playing with the dog and it rang your number again [this outrage has happened before]. It's cos you're alphabetically the first name on the contact list. Would it be possible for you to change your name to avoid a repeat of this telephonic mishap in the future?

Me: I could, but I think we both know what the simpler alternative is. Buy it some real dog toys. Telephones are expensive electronic items and don't stand up to a dog's heavy handed use. Either that or have the dog put down.

Him: I've thought of an even simpler alternative. I've just entered a brand new contact on my list called AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. That should solve the problem. I wasn't sure what phone number to type in for this new contact though, so I just put in yours for the easiest. I hope that's OK.

Me: It may work, I'm still in favour of putting the dog to sleep. In fact I took the liberty of contacting Jaime [his wife] about this and she's in agreement. She's taking potty or whatever you call it to the vets tomorrow. 

I have been swimming over the last couple of weeks. I have been going with Kate and Ali, mostly so they can be my seeing eyes. With my bad eyesight, swimming is a fucking minefield, what with not being able to wear my glasses I am as blind as the proverbial mole. I went with Kate and Ali to stand at the either end of the pool so they can hit me on the head with a stick as I approach and indicate when to turn around. The first time we went, I groped my way into the lanes and got in the slow lane. I figured being fat and old it was probably the best place for me. The pool is divided up into slow, medium and fast lanes. It turns out, I was actually a bit faster than I initially thought and was passing drowning octogenarians like it was nobodies business. I decided to myself that I would swap lanes and announced such to Ali. I slipped under the rope into what I thought was the medium lane. This is where my failing eyesight let me down. Olympic swimmers and half-fish men were passing me at an alarming speed. I was floundering and bobbing about in their wakes, panic set in. I had inadvertently gone into the fast lane. I managed to get myself out just before Duncan Goodhuw slammed into me at breakneck speed. Lesson learned.

A little help?