Tuesday, June 24, 2008

You remember how I told you flying was useful, well it is, mostly. Unfortunately we superheroes are not really allowed to let you guys see us fly, and if we do we are supposed to do it in disguise – hence all the capes, tights, masks and external underwear.

Sunday night I was trying to get from London to Leeds by train. I arrived at Kings Cross only to find that all the trains were cancelled because a Fleem Ray from a Xorgam battle cruiser had destroyed most of Welwyn Garden City. Of course the train people were trying to pass it off as a power line problem, but I knew better.

Anyway – there I was stuck in the station with about 30 kilos of computer equipment and I thought “Hang on – I could get into my lycra catsuit and fly up”. Unfortunately there is nowhere to change in Kings Cross Station – the toilets cost 20p and I didn’t have any change, and phone booths are a thing of the past. I ended up shoehorned onto the delayed 20.00 to Doncaster. Tsh!



Friday, June 20, 2008

Those of you who have been paying attention will remember that I recently spent some time in the future. I have only been allowed to return to the present time after agreeing to certain conditions: I must not mess with the present, I will not tell anybody about future events and I must not buy up every available share in “The Lifelike Sex Doll Company” who may or may not be about to announce a breakthrough in Sex Doll technology.

My lips are sealed.

(theirs on the other hand are bloody amazing!)

Anyhow, the Time Guardians were very kind and did OK a few uncontentious observations I wanted to make here, so here are a few notes from the year 2108:

1. Still no flying cars.

2. The Muties from the Rad Lands are a lot nicer than the movies would have you believe.

3. Three stone underweight or ten stone overweight is the norm. There is nothing in between.

4. Everyone is a Muslim at least one day a week.

5. Food replicators can make anything except for noodles, replicated noodles are horrible!



Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Now I am not one to complain, especially in restaurants, because you hear about the things restaurant staff do to people who complain, and I never did develop a taste for semen.

Anyway, the other day I really did have to complain. There was this hair in my Balti, which was pretty gross, and it was really curly too.

I resolved to be terribly English about the whole thing and not mention it, but when I tried to pick it out it appeared to be attached to something. I pulled harder and out came a cock, a whole severed dong!

Well I had to object to that.

They were very good about it, they replaced my meal free of charge, and even gave me a free beer, so it all turned out well.


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Friday, May 30, 2008

I had my leg bitten off last week, by a shark. Was I surfing off the coast of South Africa? Scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef? Shipwrecked in the Indian Ocean? No, I was swimming in my local public swimming pool, doing laps if you must know, when a shark bit off my leg. The girl at reception was less than sympathetic; apparently Timmy has been living in the pool for years and has never bitten anyone before. That’s his name – “Timmy the Tiger Shark”, “Timmy the Git” if you ask me.

“You must have provoked him” she told me as I tightened my tourniquet a few turns, “He’s very good with children”.

I went to the police to see if they could help, but apparently Timmy is a protected species, so there’s nothing they can do.

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Friday, May 23, 2008

I went out for a drink today with my mate Shitty McDingo. It got to be his round and he pulled out his wallet and I caught sight of his driving licence – he actually IS called Shitty, apparently it suited him when he was a baby. Australians eh?


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Wednesday, May 21, 2008

You know what, superpowers are a right pain in the arse. Not all of them obviously. Flying is bloody brilliant, Xray vision as every bit as fun as you thought it would be in school, and being faster than a speeding bullet has come in handy a couple of times too.

Some of the other powers are not so great though, lazer-beams-from-the-eyes for instance, that one is a comlete pain, it’s hard not to stare sometimes and most girls take a dim view of having their buttocks singed every time they walk by. Some are completely useless too, apparently I can control flat fish, any kind of flat fish, they obey my every whim, which is really fucking handy when I live 60 miles inland I can tell you. And then there’s the ability to digest and metabolize rocks, whoop-de-doo, they still taste like rocks.

And what about the powers you don’t even know you have – right now I am writing this post from 100 years in the future, having accidentally torn a hole in spacetime by farting loudly while sneezing. Apparently that activates my “create a rend in the spacetime continuum” power, I will have to remember that one, never know when it could come in handy. I am scared to burp now, just in case I destroy the bloody universe. Tsh.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

This week I decided to become a celebrity. It looks pretty easy; all you have to do is let the press take a photo of you getting out of a car, in a short skirt, with no underwear. How hard can THAT be? Obviously you have to get them to take the photo in the first place and as I am not famous yet that posed a bit of a problem.

In the end I figured that I would be sure to get photographed if I was mistaken for a current celebrity. Then my upskirt nudery would propel me to daytime television star status, as it has done for so many before me.

So I cut out a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow from Movie Week, blew it up to life size (which is pretty big – not many people realize that Gwyneth’s head is actually two foot wide in real life), stuck it to cardboard and made it into a mask. Next I chose a very short skirt, shaved off my pubes, hired a limo and went out to the clubs where the beautiful people hang out.

We pulled up outside “Soul Feltch”, a new club in the West End that seems to be the place to be seen for soap stars and X-Factor finalists recently. I got the driver to honk his horn at the paparazzi, opened the door and started to get out of the car like John Wayne with nappy rash to make sure they all got a good look. The flash bulbs went crazy, “Sorted!” I thought. Then it all went wrong. I am pretty tall, and getting out of the car with a cardboard face the size of a no-entry sign is tricky. I smacked the mask on the roof of the car and went flying backwards into the car, the driver misread my intentions and sped off , thinking I wanted to escape the strobe light frenzy of snapping cameras.

So all my careful planning came to nothing. I got saddled with a bill for the car hire and dress and that’s all. To add insult to injury all the papers this morning are carrying the same bloody headline: “Gwyneth Paltrow has a cock! Pictures: pages 3-27”.



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Wednesday, June 27, 2007

I had a breakthrough at my therapy group last week. Those of you who know me will know that I have been part of a 12 step program for a very long time, and frankly I don’t think that it has helped me that much. But last Thursday I had an epiphany, a road to Damascus incident if you like.

I arrived a couple of minutes late and found a seat near the back, just as the group leader stood up to kick off the session:

“Good evening everyone, thankyou for coming to Nappy Wetters Anonymous. Remember, we are all Nappy Wetters here, no one is going to judge you. Who would like to start?”

As usual Maureen, a mousy women aged about 37, shot to her feet and took the podium.

“Hi, I’m Maureen and I’m a Nappy Wetter, it has been 35 years since I last wet my nappy”

Maureen then spent a full ten minutes explaining how she had managed to get through the week “dry”, using the NWA methods of not wearing a nappy and using plumbing facilities as appropriate,

Bob was next, a man in his mid 40’s, Bob told us that it had been 42 years since he last wet his nappy.

Suddenly I got to my feet and said “I am Jon, and I am NOT a nappy wetter”, I don’t know what got into me, I was weak at the knees, I started to sweat, what was I saying? All around the room people were shaking their heads and muttering “denial”.

“No, really, I am NOT a nappy wetter, this is bollocks!” I shouted.

“Jon, Jon, Jon” Said Peter, the group leader,”You don’t just stop being a nappy wetter, it’s a disease, you have to admit what you are and work through it.”

“But I haven’t pissed my nappy since 1971!” I yelled “I think I might be cured!” and with that I ran out of the room.

It’s been 6 days now and I’ve still resisted the urge to put on a pair of pampers and piss in them. I really think I might have this thing licked!


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Thursday, June 07, 2007

So I decided the way to make a fortune was to come up with a hit TV show.

Having a little technical know-how I wrote a content analyzer application in Python, which takes plotlines and dialog from streaming TV feeds and reduces them to simple algorithms. Two months of primetime television and number crunching later I took the analyzer output and fed it to an autoscript creator that I had cobbled together in BBC Basic.

After a couple of hours the job was done – I have created the ultimate popular prime time television show: working title “Ho ho – aren’t men completely shit!”, It’s the heartwarming story of a sexy savvy smart girl, who is really good at her job and everything else. Her obsession with marriage and shoes is quirky and amusing and not at all sad or needy. She is working in an environment full of men, who are incapable of doing anything, at all. They sit and dribble, masturbate compulsively and rock gently back and forward. Any attempt they make to do anything is laughable and pathetic. That they repeatedly fail to propose marriage is evidence of serious personality disorders. Any sex the men attempted is fumbling and inadequate, any sexual preferences expressed that are not shared by our cute, plucky heroine are disgusting and weird.

Now all I need is some highly strung overpaid actress, with a real life eating disorder, to play the part and I shall be rich!


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Monday, April 30, 2007

I tell you, the cheek of some people! I was down the gym and I had worked out, had a sauna and thought I would just knock one out before hitting the showers, so I nipped into the masturbation room.

As wankrooms go my gym has a pretty good one; low key lighting, fairly unobnoxious mood music, some erotic art on the walls, wipe clean padded benches, good ambient temperature, in all a nice place. Not like some gyms where the masturbation room is all lino floors, strip lighting and plastic beach recliners. Anyway, I go in, drop my trunks and start thinking of whatever when I find myself being distracted by this bloke over by the windows.

There were half a dozen people in there, not too bad for a Saturday when it can be hard to find a seat at peak times. Over against the far wall, spread wide, were a couple of girls from the aqua aerobics class rubbing away with gusto. The benches to the right were taken up by the usual collection of bodybuilders pumping away, some of those guys are so huge their equipment looks tiny, but they get on with the business and never bother anyone. But over by the window, which looks through to the pool area, was this man in his early forties reading the paper! He was dressed in a pair of speedos that made it obvious that he didn’t even have a semi, and was reading the FT, bold as brass.

Well I couldn’t concentrate then, I tried looking over at the girls, who were now using some of the larger pieces of equipment the gym provides, and normally that would be enough to keep my attention, but this guy and his Financial Times kept snagging me back every time I got a good pace going. Eventually I gave up, pulled my trunks up and left, which was kinda embarrassing, I got some funny looks I can tell you.

On the way out I complained at reception, I mean really, non wankers have plenty of places to do their thing, I am sure there is a rule somewhere about using the gym facilities appropriately.

Anyway, it ruined my morning.


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Wednesday, April 25, 2007

I am exhausted – I have spent the whole of the last week working in pissbottle distribution. A lot of people do not realise that those cola bottles full of urine you see by every road and railway in the country have to be painstakingly filled and distributed on a regular basis. Imagine what would happen if me and my colleagues neglected our duties – what would you find to stare at when waiting for the delayed 7.03 to London Bridge? It isn’t so easy either – oh no, you can’t just drink 10 pints and wait, bottle in hand, for the results. It’s the colour you see, if you are over hydrated you will not be able to get the lurid yellow that screams “Yes, I am a bottle of piss!”. Some cowboys might fill their cola bottles with apple juice, flat lager and the like but for me if it isn’t the real thing it isn’t worth doing. Then there’s the cost of buying all that cola, and the logistics of getting the piss into the bottle, and then the distribution itself – a holdall full of piss bottles weighs about 35 kilos, and these days carrying a sloshy bag that heavy can get you shot! I tell you we are the unsung heroes of niche litter distribution.


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Wednesday, April 11, 2007

There I was, walking to the shop to get a paper, when who should I meet but me, aged 18. I have no idea how THAT happened – I mean, we both live in the same town now, but he is living here 20 years ago and I am living here now. Must have been one of those glowing swirly space-time disturbances they keep on encountering in star trek. Anyway, suffice to say now-Me met then-Me.


At first I didn’t really know where to look because he is SUCH a twat, with all the black clothes and big hair and jewellery and those bloody earrings, but I let it slide, after all, we were all young once.

We chatted for a while, then he asked me what I am doing these days. Well I had to tell him about how I wasn’t a rock icon, or a famous cartoonist, or a respected but controversial zeitgeist pundit.

Then I told him about work and my job and my wife and my kids and how I spend my days. He became rather abusive at about that point and we ended up having a standup row outside the paper shop, I think he would have hit me but I am twice his size (scrawny git) and he never had any guts.

Anyway we calmed down after a bit, he said he was going back to 1987 and intended to do a much better job than I have of living my life, I wished him luck, and told him I hoped he did a better job than I have.

Then I warned him not to get hooked up with any purple haired women at university, not to buy a house in an asbestos contaminated area even if it was really cheap, and not to go to university until he knew what he wanted to do with life. I guess he ignored me though because everything seems to be the same today.


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And it came to pass that the Lord took the lovely Choccy Eggie from it’s bright packaging, and peeled off the golden covering, and he broke it, and handed the section thereof to those gathered there, and he spake saying “Take, eat, in remembrance of me”. And lo, they ate of the chocolate saying “we thank you Lord for this gift”. But one amongst them was sorely troubled, for his piece was smaller than an olive leaf and the others had larger pieces, and he felt an enmity against the Lord, and promised vengeance in his heart.

From the book of Thorntons, Ch2 V11


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Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Yesterday I went to buy a Valentines card. Yes, yes I know, romantic fool that I am, three dozen red roses and a samba band are booked for this evening. Sadly I ended up getting a Hallmark card, kinda by accident, and consequently ended up with about 20 lines of crass cloying doggerel inside. More of this later..

Anyway, I was in the queue at the shop and looked up and down at all the faces and had to start laughing. Everywhere I looked there were miserable and worried looking men buying vile pink nonsense. February the 14th is National get-in-trouble-with-your-missus day and we are all trying to buy a trouble-exemption pass. How did it come to this? The cult of Valentines was invented by the card manufacturers, we all know that, and because no one can be seen to be “unromantic” we are all forced to go along with it.

Anyway, if card manufacturers can manipulate the guilt and tension in peoples’ relationships to this extent I think it is quite time we had “Suck your husband’s cock day”. I await Hallmarks response with baited breath, maybe it will look something like this:

I know sometimes, my darling man

I’m cross and tired and a slob

So on this very special day

Fill my gob with your knob.


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Monday, February 12, 2007

I was at prayer yesterday down at the local Mosque, doing the usual prayer stuff (you infidel dogs won’t know what that entails but us faithful followers of Allen will know, peace be upon us).

Anyway – I had just finished up and was wiping myself clean when the Mullah turns up and complements me on how my beard is coming along. I thanked him and was just turning to leave when he grabs my arm and asks if he can have a private word. We went through a door, down a passage and into his office. There were a couple of Islamic “special interest” magazines on his desk “Head to toe” and “Downtrodden babes”. I like “Head to Toe”, some of the eyeslit shots are really HOT, but I always think “Downtrodden Babes” is a bit rubbish, those women are obviously just faking being downtrodden. Anyway – he swept the literature into his desk drawer, sat himself down and offered me a chair.

“So, how long have you been one of the faithful now?” he asked.

“Oh about three weeks” I said.

“And how is it going? You enjoying it?”

“It’s OK, I only converted for a bet, but then found out I couldn’t leave otherwise you would kill me for apostasy, so I am a bit stuck now…. erm… Peace be upon it..”

“Ha ha ha, yes yes” He laughed good naturedly, “we certainly would, that is the penalty. Fun isn’t it”

“Oh yes – it adds a real frisson of terror to my spiritual life” I agreed.

“Anyway – three weeks eh, three weeks… Have you ever considered suicide bombing?” he said, suddenly serious.

“Um, well I hadn’t really…”

“Oh come come, you must have given it SOME thought, all those virgins. Or is your faith wavering…” He gave me a long appraising stare.

“Wavering?” I said, my voice a little higher than it should have been.

“Yes, if you are truly one of the faithful you should surely be giving some serious thought to blowing yourself up outside a primary school or somesuch. It’s all in the book you know.”

“Oh, ha ha , yes obviously, yes I have been giving it some thought obviously, it’s just that I have got a lot on the next few weeks that requires me to be in one piece and breathing”

“That sounds a bit like wish-washy apostate talk to me!”

“Oooh no no no!” I said, “I am as faithful as the next man, it’s just a big step, that’s all. Couldn’t I start small, you know, just blow up my foot in a spud-u-like and work up from there?”

Anyway, long story short, I have an appointment on Tuesday to have a semtex jacket fitted. The ball bearings are on order and unless I think of something fast I will be off to paradise in two weeks time. To make matters worse I just read that Houris may actually translate as “White Raisins” and not virgins at all. I shall be majorly fucked off it I blow myself to pate, taking a couple of dozen unsuspecting infidel dogs with me, just to end up in a garden eating a handful of dried fruit. Holland and Barrett is only 10 minutes walk from here, I can have raisins any fucking time.


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Friday, January 12, 2007

Well, you won’t believe what happened lat night. There I was on my knees saying my prayers (for I am a devout Roman Baptist as you probably know) and I had just finished my third Pale Mary when who should appear with a pantomime style puff of smoke but Jesus fucking Christ! He’s standing there with his spikey headband on and these holes all over the place, looking sad off into the middle distance.

“Dude” I say “you are dripping blood all over the fucking carpet, it’s almost new! Here, stand on these mags”

So he stands on the magazines I laid out on the floor and I see the big bloody footprints he’s left on my bedroom carpet from the holes in his feet. Well I am starting to lose it at this point because that carpet cost most of a month’s wage, and while beige flooring looks really sophisticated and can make your room look bigger, it looks shit with big bloody footprints on it.

I nipped out of the room and came back with a big bottle of 1001 stain remover and a cloth. I started to rub at the stains and sort of forgot the son of man was in my bedroom. After a few minutes I looked over towards him and he was gawping at the images surrounding him. Then I notice that I stood the Messiah on a little island of hardcore filth. Just in front of his left foot there was a full page picture of a girl with half a dozen men coming in her mouth, to his right was a collection of anal penetration closeups, this was quality stuff and, I realised with a start, he was bleeding all over it.

“So what was it you wanted Jesus?” I asked.

After a long pause he looked up, slightly distracted “Hmm? Sorry? Oh, never mind, it wasn’t important” he said.

Then “POP” he was gone, leaving me with a ruined carpet and about a hundred quids worth of ruined porn. I am not completely sure but I think he had an erection when he left too, those loin cloths don’t leave much to the imagination.


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Thursday, January 11, 2007

I was sitting on the bus the this morning, passing my stop for the fourth time, and enjoying the feeling of hot wee soaking into my trousers and the bus seat, when a ticket inspector came round.

“Ticket Please” he said.

“Ticket?” I replied, opening a huge tupperware box crammed full of egg moyonaise sandwiches.

The ticket inspector recoiled a little at the stench that billowed up, but manfully stuck to the task in hand.

“Yes, Tickets” he persisted.

“For a seat that’s soaked in urine? I don’t think so!” I countered.

“You’ve pissed on the seat! That’s disgusting! I Will have you arrested!” he shouted, getting suddenly and inexplicably emotional.

“Don’t shout at me, I’m 97 and I can’t help it” I shouted back and then bit into a particularly pungent sarnie.

“97? Rubbish!” He said, bamboozled by my youthful good looks

“It’s true, I was on Extreme Makeovers, didn’t you see it?” I managed to mutter, little wet bogies of egg and bread spraying from the corners of my mouth, “I’d show you my bus pass but I am senile and can not find it”.

Well, it all turned a bit ugly then. Luckily I didn’t have far to walk home as cold pee-soaked trousers really chafe the inner thighs.

I am going to ring Extreme Makeovers and complain, I don’t need this hassle in my life.


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