Archive for October 2008

8 out of 10 cats (Alternative title ‘Martin Sheen loves Fat Cats’)

31 October, 2008

 

An idea I had for a TV pilot that many stations considered, funded, but ultimately rejected;

A one off special show from the U.S.A. where Derren Brown takes 10 stray cats off the streets of Harlem, painstakingly guts & skins them, liquidises the insides and then dry cleans their coats.  Derren expertly sows back together the skins of each separate cat so that they are ready to be refilled for posterity. 

 

Martin Sheen is then hypnotised into thinking he’s a taxidermist with a deadline. 

 

Derren hands Martin 8 of the hollowed out McCavity’s and orders him to fill them all equally and sufficiently with the aforementioned catmash.  The always enthusiastic, thorough and headstrong Mr Sheen gets down to business, elbow deep in reformed, moist, malleable, pussy meat for the first time since the late ‘70’s.  He makes good progress managing to stuff 7 of the hairy fluffers in 45 minutes, setting a new state record in the process (one previously held by John Holmes).  Sheen’s definitely making a fist of this last one though…

 

After an hour or so Sheen can be heard exasperating, “There’s too much, I can’t get it all in, it’s oozing out of the ears! There’s just too much, I don’t know where to put it!  THEIR EYES ARE ALL… …. GOGGLY!” with this Martin cracks and starts to sob quietly, one forearm engulfed by an overweight tortoiseshell, round its now bulging neck a stretched collar has a glinting platinum name tag, fluttering like an asthmatic butterfly in a Dyson.  The sobs quieten, they become less frequent and Sheen attempts to compose himself, the camera zooms in on the slowly swaying name tag that we can now see has the word “Roo” engraved on it. 

 

It’s at this point we expect Derren to take mercy on one of the most adequate actors of his generation.  But no, in one final twist Derren uses the name tag to further hypnotise Sheen and make him believe he is now a ventriloquist whose main act is to pretend to be Johnny Marr with a cat named Morrissey.  It’s here where Sheen’s acting prowess comes to the fore as he slips effortlessly between the slurred, droll, Mancunian dialect of the louche Marr and the haughty ambivalence of his furry, lyrical friend;

 

“One for old time’s sake Morrissey?”

“#Take miaowww, tonight…#”

 

Derren leaves Martin alone, happy in the fact that once more he’s proved he’s better than someone else.

This show is dedicated to the cats who gave their lives so our world could be a better place, true professionals and patriots to the last and an inspiration to us all;

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Roo/Morrissey with Sheen/Marr 

Meat is Murder

Hand in glove

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lion-O

I know it's over

I know it's over

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

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Elliott
Reel around the fountain

Reel around the fountain

 

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Rocky
Frankly Mr Shankly

Frankly Mr Shankly

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Moxy

Some girls are bigger than others

Some girls are bigger than others

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Jasper
Rubber ring

Rubber ring

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Cousteau
You just haven't earned it yet baby

You just haven't earned it yet baby

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Willow
Stretch out and wait

Stretch out and wait

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Tinkerbell
Half a person

Half a person

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And a special mention for Naboo and Monty who were never refilled.
(Only 10 cats were hammed in the making of this pilot.)
Interested in a career in taxidermy!? Then go to www.meatpuppets.com and fill your boots! 

 

 

 

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Gherkin

31 October, 2008

 

I don’t like gherkins.  Don’t like the way they look in a jar, blankly floating in brine, like a neverending carousel of Berts (of Bert and Ernie fame) with burst appendices. I can think of many more displeasing ways in which to describe them that will hopefully put you off them as well…

A Komodo Dragon’s stool.

Thalidomide cactus. 

Unsavoury knob coral. 

Members of the Martian Ku Klux Klan.

Slug bullets.

 

I’m retching as I type.  That sick water is gushing against either side of my tongue, I can feel the air rasping up my oesophagus, the catapult lurch of my stomach…

 

I don’t buy them or eat them in any form.  I’m sure they have nutritional value but I have to like how my food looks before I put it into my mouth.  Does that make me foodist?  I don’t care.  Can’t stand them.  I think there may be a jar somewhere hidden in a dark corner of my kitchen, purchased by a sadistic ex-girlfriend (call me kinky but that doesn’t really narrow it down) and I’m too scared to look.

 

If I was to find similar feelings of disgust and fear anywhere in my life, my thoughts immediately turn to one thing.  (Bypassing any major British politician, merely because they’re too buffoonish and/or incompetent to incite fear.  Here’s smirking at you David/Boris/Milly.)  Let’s say, for the sake of a disjointed metaphor, that television is my kitchen.  BBC2 is my pantry.  And Sunday morning is that dark corner I’m too terrified to search.  Why?  Tim Lovejoy.  He is the last gherkin in the pantry.

 

It’s one of life’s cruel ironies that some of the things I love so much, such as football and cookery shows, are populated by this vinegared cornichon.  These days I’m lucky enough not to live in a house that subscribes to SKY, so I don’t have any danger of encountering the shitswamp of misogyny, hollow boistrousness and arsesucking promotion of average footballers as a brand, that is Soccer AM (Football Focus isn’t much better and is sexist and elitist in a much more subliminal middle-class way, but they don’t have a gherkin). 

 

He embodies everything I hate in the majority of modern British citizens.  A rock star attitude, even though he’s not even approaching the level of mediocre at anything (being a cunt doesn’t count).  Whack at all trades, a masturbator of one.  In Catcher in the Rye the protagonist is advised towards the end that, as he gets older he will start to realise what the size of his mind is, and what ideas, thoughts and facts he can fit in there.  I like to think that inside Tim Lovejoy’s mind is a small room with no windows, a chair, a copy of The Sun and a kitten chasing a moth.  It gives me peace of mind to believe this, because then the existence of people like him makes more sense to me.  He has a typical little islander perception of himself and contempt for the world that revolves around him.  With his attitude comes an unnecessary swagger, like he’s transporting a mint imperial in his belly button.  It’s not chewing gum so he can’t stick it behind his ear, so he’s placed it in his ‘inny’ to save for later.

 

Maybe that’s how the Chinese came up with football in the 6th century?  Discussing the best way to cook rice without it getting sticky (twice as much water as rice, boil, stir once thoroughly, cook until the water is at level of the rice, don’t forget to add salt at the start to kill all bacteria in said foodstuff) whilst balancing half eaten hard boiled sweets on their bellies, they found it was actually much more fun to play keepy uppy with their humbugs instead – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuju.  Meanwhile, the swaggering Brits were running around at 100mph being hacked at and humiliated by invading foreigners who were much better at everything.  An opportunist, Aussie shit-stirrer threw a fly-away in the middle of this, turned up the volume, kept Andy Gray in a cage for 6 days without food and only a laminated picture of Steven Gerrard for company, then rebranded it The Premiership.  And where would Tim Lovejoy be without it?  Rotting outside the backdoor of a grotty kitchen, embibed head to toe in some foul smelling liquid that numbs his reality, surrounded by similarly hued dill pickles.  Probably.

 

Ode to Tim Lovejoy (to the tune of ‘My Old Man’s a Dustman’ performed by Danny’s Dire)

 

Tim Lovejoy is a gherkin

He wears a screwtop cap

And when he’s on the telly

He’s such a fuckin twat

 

He doesn’t have a braincell

Connected to his mouth

And you should fucking hate him

If you’re Manc, Cockney or Scouse

(Please feel free to suggest further verses)

 

Noel Coward’s Heroic Couplet of the week

22 October, 2008

 

 

 SAVE THE APOSTROPHE!

I’ve heard that the apostrophe’s going out of fashion,

That would be a catastrophe, it’s a savoury ink ration.

 

 
 

 

 

 

My New Job – narrated by R. Corbett

22 October, 2008

I cant make my new boss laugh.  I’ve been there for over a month, he barely breaks into conversation unless it’s to tell me I’ve done something wrong.  He revels in these opportunities of course, and any reason I give for said error is dismissed like a frigid, greying, spinster, aunt would undermine her younger sister’s perfect only child (as opposed to her elder sister’s only perfect child, who she jerks off whilst he sleeps, serenading him softly with the theme from Emmerdale, fingering him in the coda).  Attempts at all kinds of humour, from self deprecating to bolshy, sarcasm to coy, punny to dunny have failed, wilting faster than a diabetic in a two tonne vat of pure glucose.  This gargantuous vat is naturally situated in the bowels (to be accurate the adrenal glands) of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory (although technically at the end of the story he handed it over to Charlie so it’s no longer his… I wonder what kind of inheritance tax was involved in that situation…35% cocoa?).

 

Either way I’ve been trying to break the permafrost with no luck. 

 

Yet. 

 

The other day he explained to me that the job I was currently doing, in the private sector, required more savvy than the one I had previously incumbernated in the civil service.  Now you may say to yourself that incumbernated is not a real word.  Well it wasn’t when I started writing this, but it is now.  I made it.  Just like Shakespeare made up loads of words like hobnob, madcap, moonbeam and arsebandit.  (Go back and read those 4 words in the voice of Edmund Blackadder… done it?  Good.  Now you may proceed.)  Granted mine is a more early 21st century, ragged cut and shut of a portmanteau, but either way, be quiet and listen to someone who may be smarter than you.  As I was saying before the ingrained Victorian values (instinctive if you’re a WASP, enforced if you’re any kind of immigrant or descendent of one) of your thought process made you question the reality of such a word; a word that came about through the legoing… … … leave it… … the legoing together of incumbent and hibernated… … … … sorry, just waiting for the coggers to get it… … … *click*… … there we go… nice little reference for you Flann O’Brien fans whilst we waited.  And if the smuggy cuntishness  (Smuntishness?  Nah.) of this article is too much for you so far please leave now as you’ll only get more upset the further we go.  Staying are you?  You cretinous waste of ballsack joy.  This is probably the most you’ve read since your last payslip.  You utter fucking cunt… … cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt … … … … Fuck off and watch Top Gear, apparently James Blunt’s on it this week … … … … … … … …  Have they gone?  Good, hope they die of negative soul equity.

 

As I was saying, incumbent and hibernate, the two main skills I picked up whilst at the civil service.  I was there for a year, I did fuck all, absolutely jack shit.  They wouldn’t LET ME do any work.  So I turned my brain off.  I still turned up, I just didn’t turn on.  So when I started my new job I was in Park, as the Americans say.  Not Ji Sung Park, the teasingly elusive South Korean attacking midfielder, who, even if I tried to enter him would probably bounce on his toes, jink one way then the other, drop a shoulder and leave me for dead, holding my dick, like a solemn chimpanzee in a documentary out-take, pondering if he should spank the cheekiest of monkeys… Do chimps call it that? And if so what do monkeys call it?  Shaking the Lemur?  Rolling the Bonobo?  Pumping the Mandrill?  Anway I digress, I would be left like a chimp wondering if he should do the shake and vac for the 15th time today or take out his half read copy of War and Peace.  I know what I’d rather do.

 

I was in Park, I’d been moving sideways, was going nowhere mentally, desperate for some form of inspiration or contest and here it was, this new job with challenges and deadlines, people relying on me directly and my decisions, non-stop phonecalls, orders, complaints, questions and there’s my boss telling me to ‘duck and dive a bit more’ whilst I was at work.  How did I take this on board?  I responded as any proactive young professional would, when given this kind of inspiration and freedom, this chance to express themselves in a fast paced, high pressure, time definite, private sector environment, the kind of situation you think only exists in a Michael J Fox movie from the mid 1980’s.  “Duck and dive a bit more”…  What did I do?…  I hid under the desk…  He didn’t laugh.