Saturday, 23 April 2011

here goes...

Wrap your head around this.

The wind must be afraid of commitment...






(anyone who gets it wins an as yet undecided-upon prize)

Tuesday, 19 April 2011


So many smear tactics its like fingerpainting at a nursery. David opted for a dark old red and smudged it up with his favourite blue making a pretty purple colour, which was, coincidentally, Nigel's favourite colour too.

I really hope there is a 'back to the drawing board' checkbox because I don't really like either option. Unfortunately thats not how British democracy works.

(that joke is coming - you just need time to prepare yourself for quite how colossally funny it is. Just a few more days and you'll be ready)

Saturday, 16 April 2011

(exit pursued by a bear)

Sorry about the long time away, I've been spending time sliding down mountains on planks. Luckily though I also wrote the best joke ever written, in all history, ever. Keep your eyes peeled because it'll be cropping up as soon as I've had enough sleep.

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Thursday, 31 March 2011

Royal Wedding

Mike took a sip on his (continental) beer; he felt embarrassed.
"So it's not fancy dress then?" He asked, and Karen said
that it definitely was not.
Other guests milled around him in their suits, ties or dresses;
he was beginning to draw quite a crowd.
He crossed his arms tightly around his naked, oiled torso,
regretting choosing The Rock as his favourite wrestler. He had
even got the armband, and shaped his eyebrows.
"It's just... I swear Liz said something about a Royal Rumble?"

Sunday, 27 March 2011


I'll tag you in my status girl I don't care if there's haters when we go official you're my profile pic my number one chick and I knew it from the get go is the song on the radio when we are driving through the Pennines and the sun is shining and are the hills yellow or green I don't know but they should come up with a new name for that colour I've never seen anything quite like it before its soothing my head after last nights. I don't know how long I've been staring out the window for but is my mouth open? Gawper. She's not looking at me its alright she's looking at the road, just had to check. That song is still playing, silly trance pop the lyrics say nothing and everything.
    "We were talking about threesome politics last night," she says, and laughs.
    "What did you conclude?" I ask, bet I could guess though.
    "Well, who does what to who and for how long; who decides that stuff?" I don't think anyone decides that stuff I think people just follow their hearts or their. Hearts don't belong in threesomes. A Renault Clio is trying to undertake the old man driver creeps into my vision and now I can't see the yellowgreen hills. Has she ever had a? No don't ask. A cloud curtains the sun.
    "Had Lily ever had a threesome, then?" I ask. Safe question.
    "Yes I think so, she wasn't very forthcoming with information though," she replies. The Clio driver swerves across the road line and she swears and accelerates past him.
    "Fucking dick should pay attention," she says, and I laugh.
    "We could have died at least three times today," I say.
    "And its always the foreign drivers," and yes the numberplate is in the wrong order and there's the blue white red. French, verb tables a nightmare. Too many angry boys at school. Could never understand tu. Je tu il elle nous vous.
    "I don't know if they'd be my kinda thing," she says. What I je wanted to suis hear.
    "Yeah, not with someone I actually liked, thats for sure," I say. The cloud draws back and the hills are yellow and green and elle est I can see them again. To walk along the top of them and see the cars over this side in the distance, the wind in your hair it'd be like. Tilt shift. Can't wait to get out the car now we have so much to do and can't wait I want to be that yellow and that green. The song on the radio has finished now.
    "And it is nice being with someone you like," she says, and is that a smile? I hope that's a smile because this is a nous sommes smile.

Thursday, 24 March 2011


There is nothing worse than not being able to write; despite the fact it happens to nearly everyone, it just leaves me feeling disgusting and sordid. I was on a coach the other day and trying to put words on to paper with a pen and it just wasn't working. I started drifting off (shouldn't have drank beer before going on warm coach journey) and I had the most beautiful dream. I was James Joyce and Ezra Pound (except I thought the Jews were alright really, all considered), and I was Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault, and I was Bret Easton Ellis and I was Chuck Palahniuk, and I had something to say for myself. And then I woke up and I was lying in the middle of the aisle, wanking and screaming at the top of my lungs. And the bus driver pulled over to the side of the road and made me get out for being a "shameful human being". And he didn't give me my trousers back, and it was 8 p.m. on a Sunday night.

That's the story of how I got arrested at Watford Gap for indecent exposure.