Tuesday, 14 July 2020

Jus' Fishnin'

Song from the soundtrack to the sequel to the novel which isn't out yet...


Click pic for full score. I like this one.

Friday, 3 July 2020

Snippets from the bedside pad: Panoply of Plop

Twinks on the lawn
of The White House
It's a
Panoply of plop.

He who legislates
is lost
In the
Panoply of plop.

Getting flippered
off a penguin
Mons Hubris
Wanking Novery
Parade of Divs:
Panoply of plop

The Sad News Chair:
The trees turned
away from me.
Blunt force trauma
the BFT
The World to be
out the
Panoply of plop.

Live at the Co-op
Coin-op Bus Stop:
Markdown Morrisons
AL-D, supermarket rapper
Reverend Al D, supermarket
love crooner
Iron Madeley
Judy Priest
Gordon the Golfer
Chas and Dave and Elon Musk
sing Hyperloopy nuts are we
it's a festival;
it's a Panoply of plop.

Imagine if we treated artists
The way we treat TV chefs.
There's a boxer called the Tank
and he is wise,
a long-lost father found by daughter
doesn't know he is dad, 
and it's a mess of lust and hatred
it's the Panoply of plop.

A man buys no shoes.
Ghost Poet
Chocolate Potato Club
Archie Hopper
Biotech Quest
Marc Bolan shower cap
A Chocolate Dynamo
Cold Arse
Mundane revelations,
council skip poetry:
Panoply of plop.

I try but in my dreams
I can do it.
Ce ci n'est pas d'arte.
I invented Footbines
Hands-Free fags
HOMO is an acronym
for Hatred Of Missing Out.
Pete Best left before
they were famous.
A panoply of plop.

Please don't feel sorry for the inventors of plate tectonics
They were only trying to find an answer to robotics
Gin and tonics

Sings Tight Lee.
Bib cap March
Patch lovingly.

(made of snippets from my bedside writing pad)

Thursday, 25 June 2020

Philosophy in turmoil following newly discovered Cartesian principle

By Tangleberry Waldorf-Salad

The discovery of a new manuscript by Rene Descartes has stunned philosophers worldwide and threatens to undermine four hundred years of progress.

The previously unknown document, Meditationes de secondo philosophia, was found by builders restoring the fire-ravaged Notre Dame cathedral and contains an update to the Descartes’ famous maxim ‘I think, therefore I am’, written in his own hand.

“The Cartesian first principle of cogito ergo sum has been accepted as a key element of philosophical investigation,” said Engelbert P. Wittgenfunk of the Ffossip Society of Philosophy.

“We were therefore stunned to find, scribbled in the margins of Meditationes, an entirely new but indubitably genuine new maxim Sed quid ego novi te, or, in English ‘I know you are but what am I?’ ”

“It shows that even in his later years Decartes was busy refining his ideas of foundational knowledge and rationalist methodology and provides us with another phenomenological question with which to wrestle.”

Professor Wittgenfunk added that philosophers across the world were busy trying to find a definition for the words “I”, “Know”, “You”, “Are”, “But, “What” and “Am”, after which analysis could proceed to the next stage.


Previous finds

In 2005 builders working on a public toilet in Frankfurt dug up the partially rotted manuscript of Phanomelogie de Geistes which under further inspection was confirmed to be a new version of Georg Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel’s 1807 work Phenomenology of Spirit. In the margins, in an unknown hand, was scrawled Man muss genauso sein um es zu verstehen.

For the last fifteen years, scholars have been arguing as to how to interpret the words. They were eventually provisionally decoded as ‘it takes one to know one’ by the 2020 Council of Philosophers.

Perhaps the most famous of all example is an inscription on a seemingly innocuous set of scraps of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Originally seen as separate and unintelligible possible test pen strokes, the breakthrough came in 1961 when researchers repositioned the scraps to reveal a new teaching on self-worth.

“תפסיק להכות את עצמך. למה אתה מכה בעצמך?” was translated after decades of debate as “Stop hitting yourself. Why are you hitting yourself?” and attributed tentatively as an addendum to the Sermon on the Mount.

The Motherfuckers

I let the Motherfuckers come through.

I might as well admit that.

I didn’t mean to.


I would apologise if I thought there was any point.


To explain:

This apartment. Ha. Apartment! Hardly big enough to justify that name. A single, tiny room in which to sleep, eat, whatever. Somehow someone sometime had managed to squeeze a bed in. And you could half-open the door to get in and out, if you were a scrawny undernush like me. There was a table so you could look out the window and cry. It wasn’t legal to open it, and it was painted shut anyway. But it was a window. A possibility. A portal.

Two spiderwebs out the door was the kitchen/bathroom. A shower/sink/toilet unit, and a cooker, with the two separated by a rancid plastic curtain. No window. Size of a cupboard it was. A small one. It was horrible. But I didn’t chowit much – tried not to anyway. Pabulum was a sort of wan green or it was lens-lasering blue. People said the blue tasted better but fuck me it looked the same on the way out as it did on the way in. Cold, warm, fried, whatever. Likesay, I didn’t scrap much foodwise.

The apartment had an advantage: there was a blind on the window, which you could draw down. It still let in most of the grey, dying gloom of the day, but it also muffled the screams, the broken bottles, the sirens, the fighting, the rampaging, the burning, and the foulness. That was my soundtrack to sleep. A symphony of sickness. At least it covered up the scratching of the rats, I suppose.

When I was younger, and they still tell this to the kids, I always believed that one day the smog would clear and that the choking death would disappear, and we’d throw away the Hazmasks and there would be… well. It was impossible to imagine anything other than the insipid filth of the daybyday. At least, now I can’t do it. Maybe I did once. Maybe I believed in colourbrush, in breathgood. Nap. Nap. Nap.


Enough. It was enough. It was at least somewhere and I fucking kicked enough homeless out the way each day to get to work and back home. Locks, locks, locks. Spiced out their grapplers anyway, they were fuckall but jellybrains. Maybe that was better. But somehow I never fell. Not even now the Motherfuckers are here.

I kept this bit til now because you don’t know who’s watching so you have to assume everyone is, always. But the apartment also had a ladder on the wall. A red, rusting one, leading to some kind of crawlspace attic. Locked, locked, locked. Course it was. I tried it most days for a bit. But it wouldn’t budge. Not for a scratchy little angler like me. I was so tired most of the time I could barely make it home anyway so after a while I stopped trying and forgot about it. I had better things to occupy me, like a highly-illegal Oxydet. Fuck knows why they were illegal. Everything seemed to be. So you assumed everything was too. You get the picture.

It was said that if you hit an Oxybubble, if you just managed to capture one, you could not only be maskless but it tasted good. Imagine that. Tasting the air. On purpose! I always thought it was an urban myth, even when I was angling. I will keep trying. Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me going in this unrelenting nothingness, this ugly souplife. Wading through the effluent hours trying not to fall in because you don’t die when you drown, you just drown forever. Some people liked it, according to another story. That moment of scrabbling to the very bottom of your lungs for anything at all. Anything to keep you alive one moment longer. Perpetually in that state. Ecstatically on the verge of expiring in prime pain. The drowners. They were no use either: fucking cop-outs.

So I angled and I forgot about everything else and I got scrawnier and scrawnier and pallid and transparent until eventually I sort of flopped down and decided that this was the day I’d probably die and so be it. I was looking forward to it, and the hunger in my belly was a welcome stab toward the ultimate, and the burning in my lungs was my hand-holding doula, and my eyes crossed and the room span and split in two and as I was about to let go I knew how to open the trapdoor, because that was split into two as well and I could slide in between the worlds and so I did and.

Pardon my swear but GOSH


I was sitting in a restaurant, a restaurant like the rumours, ornate wooden furnishings and pictures on the walls. Holy smokes. A man, who looked a lot like an ant dressed in a dinner suit, approached. I urined a bit. Warm it was. The mant brought me a cup which steamed and I clawed at my face because I had no mask on at all and I held my breath until I couldn’t anymore and the air was so sweet so sweet so sweet and my mind expanded to fill the world and the cup, the cup, the cup was full of what I later found out was called coffee with milk and whatever those things are it was the best thing, the only thing, the ever-thing, I’d ever tasted. Its warmth filled me and engulfed me and hugged me and loved me.

I was restored. And around me others seemed to be restored too. There were a million voices and laughing noises and slurping and belonging, and though I couldn’t understand any of them, that was my overture of awesomeness. My melody of magnificence. Course, aside from the mants and the women that looked like beetles dressed up in leg-frocks everyone else was sort of blurred. Underwater, maybe. But not chokers, and not drowners, and not soupers. Just fuzzy around the edges. What a place!

I finished the coffee. The mant came and took the cup away. I stayed for ages but it wasn’t replaced and the pressure built up and up and up and suddenly there was an enormous POP.

Screams. Stabbings. All manner of fuckery. And that damned mask stuck to my face again. But an added creepy feeling of something just out of the eyeline. Someone, lurking. Someone with the sort of face that popped out in front of you on a ghost train in a cheap funfair. Rictus grin. Eye sockets so deep you sank into them because you saw yourself.

So yeah I admit it.

It was me that let the Motherfuckers in.

They dine, they thrive, they appear

Where there’s



Saturday, 13 June 2020

The Universe (click for full size) (lol)

I saw the graphic on the net by a story about something or other but all I could think of was hamburgers so I had to then get up and do this:

Wednesday, 10 June 2020

Twenty Things you didn't know about Keir

I submitted this one a bit too late.

He’s the dashing, suave leader of the opposition. Famous for his intro song, “He’s here, he’s Keir, get used to it”, Sir Kier Starmer has melted hearts even as he takes the government of the day to task. But there’s more to this dapper gentleman than a sharp suit and a quiff – as we present 20 Things You Didn’t Know About Keir Starmer.

Canny Keir bought the rights to the word ‘forensic’ in 1987 – and gets a 5p royalty every time it is mentioned in articles about him. This year alone he’s made a cool £1.2 Million!

They may be fierce rivals across the ballot box, but Sir Kier and straw-haired comedy scarecrow shagbot Boris Johnson actually have an ancestor in common – Australopithecus, a genus of hominins that existed in Africa about 4 million years ago!

The right honouable Keir has had many high-profile jobs before becoming Labour Leader, including Queen’s Counsel, Director of Public Prosecutions, Head of the Crown Prosecution Service and original model for Mr. Whippy.

Sir Keir couldn’t have wished for a more apt constituency. As a big fan of weirdly blood-tasting tobacco, a lover of canonised holy people and an enthusiast of the digestive system he won his dream job in 2015 with a majority of 27,763… as member of parliament for (Old) Holborn and St. Pancr(e)as!

Had things gone slightly differently, you’d have seen Keir Starmer starring up front for his heroes, Arsenal Football Club. Unluckily, Keir was too shit at footy to get anywhere near being signed.

We know him as Sir Keir, prince of our hearts, but his full name is Keir Rodney Granddad Del-Boy Uncle Albert Starmer – his parents Mabel and Alf were huge fans of Only Fools and Horses.
Ironically, an anagram of the centre-left chief Labourite’s name is ‘Meek red irony tsar’.

With one R left over.

Which you could use to make ‘Mr. Satire Keir’

And if you had an extra ‘I’ he could be ‘Reiki Master’

One of his many business ventures is a building specialist, Keir’s tarmac. The company got the job for the resurfacing of the HS2 high-speed additional motorway runway across to Ireland and is now worth $36 billion.

Sir Keir was born on 2 September 1962 and has a starsign of Virgo. According to the Zodiac, this means he is determined, self-disciplined, analytical, allergicked to fudge, a perfectionist, opinionated and able to jump as high as a two-storey house.

Other famous Virgos include the late Kobe Bryant, the late Michael Jackson, the late Amy Winehouse the mediocre Keanu Reeves, John, the generously proportioned Salma Hayek and the late River Phoenix.

River was considered one of the most promising actors of his generation but died at just 23 outside The Viper Room in Hollywood, from a drug overdose.

His given name was River Jude Bottom.

Famous movies of his include the seminal My Own Private Idaho, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, The Mosquito Coast and Dark Blood, which was filmed in 1993 but not released until 2012.

He is the brother of Joaquin Phoenix, whose portrayal of Johnny Cash in Walk the Line was considered a masterclass in acting, and for which he received a nomination for Best Actor from the Academy Awards committee.

The Academy Awards is better known as The Oscars, although the iconic statuette’s nickname is hotly disputed. Margaret Herrick was the secretary of the Academy in 1931 and is reputed to have said it reminded her of her Uncle, Oscar Pierce.

Alternatively, it may have been named after Bette Davis’ husband, band leader Harmon Oscar Nelson, in 1941.

Although they share a last name and a love of music, Harmon is no relation to Prince Rogers Nelson, who tragically died in 2016, supposedly leaving a vault of thousands of unreleased songs at his studio compound, Paisley Park.

Megan's Trainers

Another one I pitched to a certain comic :)

Meghan’s Trainers
Howdy pals, perky American popstrel Meghan Trainer here!  You might know me from chart topping hits like All About That Bass and, um, well, some other stuff. But did you know that I was mad about trainers? Judging by my bulging postbag so are you readers! Your ‘Lips Are Movin’ so let’s get to it... No trouble! Or possibly No Treble! Whatever it is I sing!
Meghan xxx

Dear Meghan,
Can you settle a bet please? My friend maintains that it is pronounced ‘adidas’ whilst I am convinced it is actually pronounced ‘adidas.’ But which of us is right? The winner gets to slit the throat of the other’s first-born son.
Quentin Cashpot, Biggles-On-Sea
MEG SEZ: I’m afraid that the general pronunciation is ‘adidas’ so your friend is right. I hope he has a sharp knife!

Dear Meghan,
 I hope you can sort this one out! I say that the trainer company Nike is pronounced ‘nike’ whilst my sister is adamant that it’s ‘nike.’ Whoever is correct will win the right to inject the other with a deadly cocktail of nerve-destroying toxins.
Sarah McWhistle, Bognor
MEG SEZ: You’d both get the syringes ready... because you are both correct! It can be pronounced either way!

Trainer facts
The tiniest pair of trainers of all time were made for world’s smallest man, Calvin Phillips. They were constructed from some Action Man boots that had been melted down with a magnifying glass in order to fit, but were destroyed the same day when Calvin trod in all mouse shit and his mum made him leave them outside the door of his dolls’ house... where the world’s smallest slugs got in to the soles and left the world’s smallest minging pus trails!

Ask a shop assistant for ‘trainers’ in the United States and they’ll tell you to, “Go fuck yaself you goddamn stoopid limey asshole motherfucker.” That’s because over there they’re called ‘sneakers!’
And ‘pavements’ are called ‘sidewalks.’

The world’s most expensive pair of trainers were created by rapper Puffy Diddly Doo, or whatever the fuck he calls himself these days, and they were made out of two enormous Ko-Ih-Noor Diamonds, with pure gold laces and solid silver chewing gum stuck on the bottom. They were bought by Kanye West for his son, Southport Pontins West, for a cool $1,000,000,000,000! The box was made out of papier mache Dead Sea Scrolls and was estimated to be worth the equivalent of sixteen thousand Cristiano Ronaldos stretching to the moon and back!

Air Jordans are possibly the most famous trainers in the world, but they were originally designed not by basketball legend Michael Jordan, but enormo-jugged model Katie Price. They were first intended as special replacements for her plastic tits in case they exploded on a flight to New York, but were re-moulded into trainers after sort-of singer Peter Andre mistook them for car airbags and put them in the blue recycling bin. Each jug-bag created 200 pairs of trainers!

Statistically, you are more likely to win the lottery whilst getting struck by lightning as you are run over by a bus on your way to a hole in one on a golf course where you find a four leaf clover before being hit by an asteroid as you are to get mugged for your trainers.

Contrary to popular belief, Athlete’s foot is not something you can get through exercising your feet muscles, but rather a fungus growing between your toes due to the warm and humid environment of your favourite trainers. Other similar conditions include Tennis Elbow and Cricket Ball.

Kids say the funniest things... about trainers!
Our son Jacob, 4, called me from his bedroom because he ‘couldn’t get his feet in his trainers.’ Oh how we laughed when we found him trying to jam his tootsies into the anuses of Derrick ‘Mr. Motivator’ Evans and Diana ‘The Green Goddess’ Moran. They weren’t best pleased, I can tell you!
Ada Scrotum, Fulchester

I had to laugh the other day when Cassie, my 5 year-old granddaughter, announced that she wanted to be a trainer. It turned out she meant she wanted to construct rail transport vehicles that run along a track to carry passengers and/or cargo. I literally puked my lungs out of my mouth with hilarity when I was left waiting at Hamilton Square for the delayed 14.22 from Hooton, rail replacement bus in operation due to debris on the line at Bebington.
Ethel Warpig, Ffossip

My 11 year old nephew, Charlie, stood up proudly at Sunday dinner and declared, “I love black laces!” Well, the entire family was left on the floor wheezing for breath in giggles when we realised that rather than enjoying the dark coloured cords used to fasten up his trainers, he was a negligee-wearing transvestite who also was a fan of the 1980s pop duo. My husband shat his penis off at the crazy mix-up.
Gretel Handface, West Caernarfon

Trainer chatlines
T*e me up t*ght 0111 280870
I’ve got a h*le in my b*ttom 0111 2689
Polish my le*ther upp*rs 0111 78959
 My eyeh*les are dirty 0111 68962
Sniff my od*r e*ters 0111 785698
 J*sus they st*nk - p*t them in the f*cking w*shing m*chine NOW 0111 86985