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Saturday, 12 December 2009

Buying in the name of...

Some of those who spread virals
Are the same who watch Cowell
Some of those who spread virals
Are the same who watch Cowell
Some of those who spread virals
Are the same who watch Cowell
Some of those who spread virals
Are the same who watch Cowell

And now you buy what they told ya
And now you buy what they told ya
And now you buy what they told ya
And now you buy what they told ya

Those who buy
Are juvenile
Downloading the song, just out of spite
You justify
the juvenile
By buying this song, just out of spite

Fuck me, you did just what they told ya
Fuck me, you did just what they told ya
Fuck me, you did just what they told ya
Fuck me, you did just what they told ya

Buying in the name of...

Monday, 16 November 2009

How to Kill a Mockingbird

To kill a mockingbird you must adopt the passerine bird's own tactics of mimicry. You must spend time learning to imitate your feathered nemesis from its song to the beleagured way it hops along the branches of tall trees. Naturally, it may prove a chore if the bird in question is already mimicking another creature at the time. You may unknowingly find yourself mimicking several species of ant or a time-worn tree frog approaching its final croak. Thus you must spend enough time, hidden well away, studying the mockingbird and, all the while, learning its true identity. The best time is when his mother calls him in for dinner. "Coming Mum!" it will shout back in bird vernacular. Memorising this call will allow you to tell when the mockingbird is speaking its native tongue.

Now, once you have mastered mimicry of a mockingbird (and believe me, mastering that sentence alone is some achievement) you will be ready to make your attempt on its life. The mockingbird is an extremely proud creature and it literally cannot withstand insults. In short, you must mock this mockingbird to death, squawking snide comments to it in its own language.

Popular insults include suggesting it couldn't peck the skin off a rice pudding, that it flies rather less well than a Ryanair pilot or that its best impression still fades into insignificance when compared to one by Bobby Davro. Once the bird has been insulted to death, you may eat it with a side salad or betwixt two slices of bread.

Friday, 13 November 2009

A Little Burp

Johnny let out a little burp
Then a medium sized burp
Then a considerably larger burp
By 4pm the burp family were entirely at liberty once more
[now intone a burp of your own]

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Acidic Emulsion

Vincent sighed and looked down at his salad.  It had been drowned in at least three shakes too many of bitter dressing.  With no further lettuce, spinach or tomatoes to redress the balance, he plunged in to his lunch, his face contorting as the vile mix of vinegar and cheap spice beat seven shades out of his taste buds.  Once finished he put the dish to one side and began crying.  He'd forgotten to buy pudding.

Sunday, 8 November 2009

Simon Cowell's Jowls

Simon Cowell's jowls
Are not yet as impressive
As Colin Powell's

Tricking a Badger

I stood at the bus stop and awaited the number thirty seven to the town centre.  The weather had taken a turn for the worse and I planned to visit the woollen mill and select a new scarf and, with luck, a matching pair of gloves.  Presently the bus arrived, I paid my fifty pence fare and sat down near the front next to a surly looking badger.

"Do you mind?" I asked.

"Free country aint it?" he sneered, glancing at me for a second before turning his attention back to The Racing Post.

Slightly amused that neither one of us had answered the other's question, I sat down and busied myself with a pile of receipts in my pocket.  As coincidence may have it, I had spent the previous afternoon at the bookmaker's, unsuccessfully might I add.  Through five races I had failed to back the winner once.

In the first race, I misplaced my trust in Gorbachev Raindance, an admittedly rather long shot at 33-1.  The silly beast tossed his rider off some time after the fourth fence and spent the remainder of the race darting obliquely around the other runners and riders.  I had similar luck with Ponsonby's Choice, Silver Streaker and the unlikely sounding Do a Toilet in the second, third and fourth races and the name of the three-legged mule I backed in the fifth had escaped me completely.  Leaving the bookmaker's that day, I vowed never to return.

I was aware of the badger casting glances to his left at me from behind his newspaper.  Twice I believed I heard the rogue snort in derision as I leafed through my aberrations.  I glared him one of my disapproving glares and he sniffed and turned back to his paper.  Presently I came to the final receipt in my pocket.  The badger, who still could not keep himself from looking at my affairs, suddenly spoke.

"You not cashed that one in, mate?  That one there?  Johnny Machine in the fifth?" he gruffly questioned.

I looked at the ticket.  It had become rather crumpled in my pocket, but the words Johnny Machine  and the number 5 were clearly visible.  So was the number one hundred and the number three.  The badger licked his lips.

"Look mate, looks to me like you've backed that outsider from yesterday that came in at an 'undred to one.  Yet you've not cashed it in.  You're sitting on a golden ticket there, mate.  Three quid at a hundred to one?  Cor, that's a small fortune that is!"

The badger's little legs were shaking with excitement as he dangled them over the bus seat.

"A small fortune you say?" I said.  "But I've already decided never to visit a bookmaker's again.  I'll tell you what, why don't I sell this ticket to you?"

"Fifty quid." snapped the badger.

"I'd rather hoped for one hundred," I replied.  "But, ok, you have it for fifty pounds."

The badger handed over five ten pound notes, took the ticket and jumped off the bus at the next stop, heading in the direction of the bookmaker's.  He did not know that, in my line of work, I supply public houses with prophylactic dispensers and that the crude "ticket" he had just bought was no more than a receipt for one hundred packs of three for the fifth dispenser of the city's largest, and seediest, night club.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Comfort Food

Should you ever feel low about yourself
Lay your meek, drained body across a steak pie
Prop your head up with a generous scoop of mash
And sleep the whole trifle off

Friday, 6 November 2009

The Cowpoke

Young Elmer enjoyed his work as a cowpoke on the seventeenth farm of Yakul. Each night, after giving them their bath in clove oil, he would prod a long, bony finger into the face of one of the cows - Mildred usually or, if he took the fancy, Bathsheba - and cry "one pulls your udders, so pull the udder one!" Thus he was named "the cowpoke" and the cows hated him for it.

One night, a bovine council met and resolved to put a stop to this practice. Earlier that morning they'd spied a troupe of Siberian weasels in the area. These weasels had, like most Mustelidae, spend the day looking for work as hired farm hands, only for an incredulous farmer to tell them a strong and emphatic "No". The cows decided they would ask these weasels to help them the next time they called round.

They did not have to wait very long as, a mere three days later, the same troupe of gaily-dressed polecats waddled up to the farmhouse door.

"Pssssssst." said Mildred from behind a hedge. Henry Weasel started and squinted through the foliage. "It's a cow!" he jeered, "and it seems to have a puncture."

Ignoring this flippant horseplay, Mildred explained to the sixteen gathered weasels they would put in a good word with the farmer for them if they would lend a hand in dealing with the bothersome Young Elmer. The weasels agreed, nodding their heads and shaking with glee.

That night they snuck into the cowshed, having assembled themselves in a cow-like formation, covered in a black and white patterned blanket and holding bicycle handlebars as makeshift horns. When Young Elmer wasn't looking, one of the rear weasels dabbed the blanket all over with clove oil and set a small, paper sign before them which read "already washed".

"Oi baint seen that scrawny heifer before" thought Young Elmer. "Oi'm going to have to poke it seeing as oi'm not going to get to wash it."

And before Young Elmer had the chance to get to the end of "one pulls your udders...", he let out an almighty scream. Henry Weasel had bitten hard on his long, bony finger and, despite Young Elmer's frantic waving, would not let go. Without prompt, the other fifteen weasels attached themselves to Young Elmer's various extremeties, chomping, noshing, gripping and tearing. The more Young Elmer struggled, the more these bloodthirsty bulldog clips bit down. Presently they relented and Young Elmer, covered in cuts and scratches, crawled sheepishly out of the cowshed.

From that day forward Young Elmer never dared poke a cow again. "I'll stick to pokes of chips" he muttered, picking small pieces of wood off the ground and crunching them indignantly with vinegar.

Encourage Your Physiognomy

You can't beat an egg.
I've tried and it's impossible.
It always cheats by looking at the answers.

The Improbable Holidayist

I walked into the Turkish bath. There was Kenny, sat on the larger of two benches reading a damp novel concerning a dubious surfing competition. He nodded as he fed himself grapes. The important thing was he believed he was on holiday.

Italian National Service

"Three and a half years I was a volun-tree!" cried Manolo. "Three and a half years and what did I get out of it?"

"Three and a half years producing volun on my many branches for the national war effort as we, as a nation, cowered behind Mussolini as he attempted to annex Abyssinia. Three and a half years! What did I, Manolo, get out of it?"

"Ye got yer liberty" said Malcolm solemnly doing up the lace on his right shoe. "Ye got yer liberty, a weekly pruning and a family of squirrels living just above yer ribcage. Now, shut up."