The Hutchback is not normally an angry man. Yes, he performs hideous acts of barbarism on a daily basis, but these are not done out of anger, merely boredom.
(off topic: yes that was a reference to the Golden Dawn on tonight's Eastenders, what next Aleister Crowley turns up and sacrifices Minty to the god Horus).
These Bankers (or as we should refer to them Banksters) are set fair for a good few billion in bonuses. This is surely the equivalent of giving a mugger a tip after he has kneed you in the testicles and stolen your watch, wallet, and mobile phone.
So my prediction is that by the end of the year the world community will have set up prison islands in the South Atlantic, and we will ship the whole festering lot of them off to these desolate windblown frozen hellholes.
They can then sub-prime eachother to their hearts content.
Monday, 9 February 2009
Sunday, 8 February 2009
All Talk 59 - Animals in Hardware
(they’re now walking down the street to the tool shop)
HUTCHBACK
Ok, so, here. She told me I can’t go in here. No. I need to buy a.. I need to buy a.. What does she want?
DR. NOSTRUM
Who?
HUTCHBACK
She. The wife. (mocking) Who? Who’s she? She wants to get some kind of.. oh, fuck, some kind of jar.
DR. NOSTRUM
Well, you can always ask in the shop. “I’d like some kind of jar.”
HUTCHBACK
A jar to put something into, but I can’t remember what, because...
DR. NOSTRUM
Flowers?
HUTCHBACK
No, cause we’ve already flour.. no, n, no, no, no, we’ve got a flour.. I need.. I said I’d buy her a cake tin, (pause) but she also wanted a jar.
DR. NOSTRUM
Pickles?
HUTCHBACK
No, to put stuff into.
DR. NOSTRUM
Get her a Mason jar.
HUTCHBACK
Well, yeah, I know, we’ve bought loads of them, but I don’t know what size to get if I don’t know what’s going in it, do I? I mean I might buy this small one and she goes “NO!” or, I might get a huge one and...
DR. NOSTRUM
(imitating) “NO!”
HUTCHBACK
...and it’s just for nuts.
(they walk a little further to the ironmonger, it’s an old fashioned shop with a sparse selection of tools in packs hanging on pegs on the wall – HUTCHBACK points to a lonely tool high up, out of reach)
Ah, you see, look, there it is! That’s just what I want!
DR. NOSTRUM
But do you want that, or do you want that?
HUTCHBACK
Huh?
DR. NOSTRUM
Those. The water pump pliers?
HUTCHBACK
Oh.
DR. NOSTRUM
More secure. Too big maybe, but if you get a smaller version of that, they’re better than those.
HUTCHBACK
And cheaper.
DR. NOSTRUM
Are they? Then they’re probably worse.
HUTCHBACK
No, cause those (his first choice) slip.
DR. NOSTRUM
But they don’t look like they’ve got them, so..
HUTCHBACK
You know what, I don’t think that’s going to work because it’s round. I need something that clamps. I need a monkey wrench!
DR. NOSTRUM
No, you just need an adjustable, er..
HUTCHBACK
I need a monkey wrench, yeah, the one that you can clip together.
DR. NOSTRUM
Well.. where did that come from, when do monkey’s..?
HUTCHBACK
I don’t know where it came from but it’s called a monkey wrench.
DR. NOSTRUM
Are you sure?
HUTCHBACK
Yes. It’s definitely called a monkey wrench. You know, cause monkey’s are very.. they’ve got flexible tails, haven’t they? They’re very pre-hensile.
DR. NOSTRUM
I’m not sure that’s what they are.
HUTCHBACK
Well shall I ask him for a monkey wrench and see what he brings out?
DR. NOSTRUM
What kind of monkey?
HUTCHBACK
(scouring the display) He doesn’t have a monkey wrench.
DR. NOSTRUM
A Rhesus monkey? An orangutan? That’s an ape.
(They move to the counter, where there’s a customer being served)
HUTCHBACK
Well, if it’s not up there he’s not going to have one is he? How about just getting those large pair of secuters?
DR. NOSTRUM
I’ve bought a few of those.
HUTCHBACK
Or an axe?
DR. NOSTRUM
Yep, I’ve bought an axe. I’ve bought most of the things on this wall actually.
HUTCHBACK
You could basically.. I mean, this is where serial killers come isn’t it?
DR. NOSTRUM
They could get better tools than this.
DR. NOSTRUM
No, but they wouldn’t go to a big store cos then they might be on cctv, they’d come to a small shop like this.
DR. NOSTRUM
You think?
HUTCHBACK
Yep. Hacksaw, axe, secuters. That’s all you need. (beat – The Ironmoger finishes with his suspiciously serial killer like customer and is ready for HUTCHBACK, who speaks very slowly fearing the man is of poor education) Do you have a monkey wrench?
IRONMONGER
Yes
HUTCHBACK
You do?
IRONMONGER
Yes.
HUTCHBACK
Is it what I think it is though? I’m asking for something and I don’t actually know if it’s the right thing.
IRONMONGER
Right.
HUTCHBACK
I need something to clamp onto a round.. thing.. to, like, er... (mimes clamping a wrench)
IRONMONGER
Yes.
HUTCHBACK
...to turn.
IRONMONGER
Okey-doke, I’ll pull out something from the back (he scuttles off)
HUTCHBACK
(to the DR.) See?
DR. NOSTRUM
Let’s see what he brings out.
HUTCHBACK
He’ll bring out a monkey holding a wrench.
DR. NOSTRUM
Maybe. Maybe that’s what it is.
HUTCHBACK
They are called monkey wrenches, I’m sure that’s what it is. Thing is, I’m buying this for a very specific purpose, will I ever need it again?
DR. NOSTRUM
Yeah, they’re very useful.
HUTCHBACK
You don’t even know what it is!
DR. NOSTRUM
No, but I know a clamping wrench is very useful. For all sorts of things.
HUTCHBACK
Mainly clamping type activities. Anything here take your fancy?
(the IRONMONGER returns)
IRONMONGER
Is that what you want?
HUTCHBACK
That is what I want! I don’t know if it’s big enough though, um, let me have a look. Ooh. How wide does it open? (the IRONMONGER shows him)
DR. NOSTRUM
No, it’s not big enough.
IRONMONGER
No, I’ll see if I’ve got bigger ones.
HUTCHBACK
Yeah
DR. NOSTRUM
(to IRONMONGER) Why are they called monkey wrenches?
HUTCHBACK
No one knows.
IRONMONGER
Well, these are mole grips actually. I mean.. yes...
HUTCHBACK
Oh, are they called mole grips? Well, Mole Grips!
IRONMONGER
...I think monkey wrenches are the waterproof ones.
HUTCHBACK
Oh, right.
IRONMONGER
I sell these all the time, I got 2 or 3 types. (he disappears again)
DR. NOSTRUM
That’s the logic behind it.
HUTCHBACK
Well, monkeys are more waterproof, typically, than moles.
DR. NOSTRUM
I don’t know.
HUTCHBACK
No, they would be! Moles and water don’t go together at all.
DR. NOSTRUM
A monkey wrench and mole grips. A parrot..?
HUTCHBACK
Parrot claw?
(a call comes from the back)
IRONMONGER
That’s the biggest one we’ve got at the moment.
HUTCHBACK
Oh. Ok.
IRONMONGER
Are there any hanging up?
HUTCHBACK
No, you’ve just got, um, normal, er wotsits. Alright then.
IRONMONGER
Sorry
HUTCHBACK
Alright, no worries.
IRONMONGER
Er, Thomas Brothers at the Archway, where the roundabout after Suicide Bridge is, try them.
HUTCHBACK
Alright then, thank you. (they leave and walk off at pace back towards the car) See!
DR. NOSTRUM
Yeah, I’m wracking my brain now, I’m trying to think what other implements there are.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
All Talk 58 - Shopping at Warmongers via Will Self
SOME MONTHS PASS...
DR. NOSTRUM and HUTCHBACK have taken a break to write the second draft of their meisterwerk CELEBRITY AUSCHWITZ, but more of that later... As we drop in, The DR. is telling HUTCHBACK of a radio station he picked up by accident but could only find in an extremely small area of North London. It may have been Will Self on his CB.
HUTCHBACK
Is it aimed purely at Jews?
DR. NOSTRUM
I don’t know, I don’t think so.
HUTCHBACK
You could only pick it up between Swiss Cottage and Golders Green; The Hampstead, Swiss Cottage, Golders Green golden Jewish triangle.
DR. NOSTRUM
Yeah, but I mean I tried to find it later, but all I could find was dance music.
HUTCHBACK
Well, search for it, search for it.
DR. NOSTRUM
Well, maybe..
HUTCHBACK
Are you sure it was Will Self?
DR. NOSTRUM
No I'm not sure it's Will Self, but he was talking about.. and then..
HUTCHBACK
I mean there can’t be that many people that sound like Will Self.
DR. NOSTRUM
No… and that's what I thought and also.. also it was the manner of the speaking.. he was talking about (puts on Will Self voice and starts misquoting) "the Great Emblotchment of the 1920's was a scandal that reached worldwide" and then went on to tell a 10 minute story about the Great Emblotchment about how "and Emblotchment spread throughout the Universe and thus we all became Emblotched, it was started accidentally by William Pitt the Elder.”
HUTCHBACK
Ah
DR. NOSTRUM
It just seemed to be, er, (pause) him.
HUTCHBACK
Or someone pretending to be him.
DR. NOSTRUM
Someone pretending to be him. Which seems pointless
HUTCHBACK
Why pretend to be Will Self when you could pretend to be, you know, George Bush Senior?
DR. NOSTRUM
Are you recording?
HUTCHBACK
Yes, I’m recording. This is a recording.
(They leave the HUTCHBACK's lair, the hated Blue Van is parked just down the street a little)
HUTCHBACK
You see I’m so paranoid now about the Blue Van that I get nervous when I think, ‘Well, how long am I going for?’
DR. NOSTRUM
Thinking he’s going to move it back in.
HUTCHBACK
‘Will he be looking out of his window...
DR. NOSTRUM
Waiting for you.
HUTCHBACK
...waiting for his moment so he can reverse into my space and break down again. The cunt. The Great Emblotchment.
(They get onto the HUTCHBACK's Trap, the search for tools has begun)
HUTCHBACK
Should I go to a Corporate Megastore..
DR. NOSTRUM
No! It doesn’t matter, anywhere.
HUTCHBACK
No, no, I’m not asking you...
DR. NOSTRUM
Ok.
HUTCHBACK
...I’m debating it out loud...
DR. NOSTRUM
Well...
HUTCHBACK
...deciding whether to give my money to a Corporate Megastore..
DR. NOSTRUM
...don’t debate it out loud, just debate it internally and turn up somewhere.
HUTCHBACK
No, well, either I go left or.. oh, I’m going straight on. cos now this is more of a random drive, than an actual focused..
DR. NOSTRUM
What, are you just going to drive until you see a Bee and queue?
HUTCHBACK
No, no, I know where the Bee and Queue is..
DR. NOSTRUM
Well there’s one every 600 yards.
HUTCHBACK
Particularly on this stretch of road. No. You know what, I’m being an idiot there is a Tool shop just down the road.
DR. NOSTRUM
So you go in there and say “I need a tool.”
HUTCHBACK
I need a tool, can you help me? I’m missing a tool.
DR. NOSTRUM
And he brings out a row of, er, characters, from the back of the shop. (pause) So what..
HUTCHBACK
Along with one slightly, slightly used penis.
DR. NOSTRUM
What is the..
HUTCHBACK
Oh, that was quite good.. Oh, sorry, go on.
DR. NOSTRUM
What will this tool be used for?
HUTCHBACK
I just want a tool.
DR. NOSTRUM
That will both butter my toast and unscrew a light bulb.
HUTCHBACK
And make my wife love me, again. (pause) See, now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say, you see, that’s the problem.
DR. NOSTRUM
No, it’s not a problem, cos if it’s good enough it’ll come back.
HUTCHBACK
No, it isn’t good enough, it’s actually something I wanted to say.
DR. NOSTRUM
Oh (pause) something about tools? Something about a tool that you need?
HUTCHBACK
No. If I’d have interrupted your interruption I’d have been alright.
DR. NOSTRUM
Yeah, but it can’t have been.. Nothing is important. (pause) Really.
HUTCHBACK
In the great words of Freddie Mercury.
DR. NOSTRUM
Is that what he said?
HUTCHBACK
(a near miss whilst driving) Ooooh!
DR. NOSTRUM
D’you ever have that opinion that Talk radio is just a lot of people’s opinions about stuff.
HUTCHBACK
I don’t think that’s so much an opinion as a statement of fact.
DR. NOSTRUM
It just seems that when I think about how they promote themselves and then they’ve got all these programmes relentlessly on where people call in and tell you what they think about things. It’s just, all they are is just a series of people calling up and telling you what they think about things, it’s just a waste of time.
HUTCHBACK
Mm.
DR. NOSTRUM
It’s really pointless. I mean the idea of broadcasting that... as if people calling you up and telling you what they’re thinking is worth broadcasting to the nation...
HUTCHBACK
It’s a public service.
DR. NOSTRUM
...It’s a crazy idea.
HUTCHBACK
It’s a public service.
DR. NOSTRUM
It seems that the chief quality required by the DJ is the ability to say, “I just need to hurry you up there.” (pause) Um, this is where I was driving down where I saw a guy wheeling a gurney with a body on it...
HUTCHBACK
Really
DR. NOSTRUM
...under a sheet, yeah.
HUTCHBACK
See, there you go, ‘Local Ironmongers’. You don’t see Ironmongers much anymore, do you?
DR. NOSTRUM
I don’t know how you monger iron anyway.
HUTCHBACK
(irate member of the public voice) “Stop mongering that iron, yer bastard! Didn’t anyone tell you it was rude?”
DR. NOSTRUM
I wonder what the difference between mongering iron and fish is? Not much.
HUTCHBACK
Yep
DR. NOSTRUM
It’s all in the display.
HUTCHBACK
(musing) Mongering.
DR. NOSTRUM
There aren’t many mongers. It’s not.. There’s no.. there’s no Greenmonger...
HUTCHBACK
Well no, but the.. the...
DR. NOSTRUM
They’re grocers.
HUTCHBACK
But then what does a Warmonger do?
DR. NOSTRUM
He lays all the wars out...
HUTCHBACK
Yeah, puts out a nice bit of green baize, sort of a green artificial grass, erm, price’s it up, and um, and then you get, you get your...
DR. NOSTRUM
Dictators coming in buying ‘em up.
HUTCHBACK
And then you buy it by the pound.
DR. NOSTRUM
“How much is your 1914-18?”
HUTCHBACK
“How much is the, um, Crimea? Nice bit of Crimea.”
DR. NOSTRUM and HUTCHBACK have taken a break to write the second draft of their meisterwerk CELEBRITY AUSCHWITZ, but more of that later... As we drop in, The DR. is telling HUTCHBACK of a radio station he picked up by accident but could only find in an extremely small area of North London. It may have been Will Self on his CB.
HUTCHBACK
Is it aimed purely at Jews?
DR. NOSTRUM
I don’t know, I don’t think so.
HUTCHBACK
You could only pick it up between Swiss Cottage and Golders Green; The Hampstead, Swiss Cottage, Golders Green golden Jewish triangle.
DR. NOSTRUM
Yeah, but I mean I tried to find it later, but all I could find was dance music.
HUTCHBACK
Well, search for it, search for it.
DR. NOSTRUM
Well, maybe..
HUTCHBACK
Are you sure it was Will Self?
DR. NOSTRUM
No I'm not sure it's Will Self, but he was talking about.. and then..
HUTCHBACK
I mean there can’t be that many people that sound like Will Self.
DR. NOSTRUM
No… and that's what I thought and also.. also it was the manner of the speaking.. he was talking about (puts on Will Self voice and starts misquoting) "the Great Emblotchment of the 1920's was a scandal that reached worldwide" and then went on to tell a 10 minute story about the Great Emblotchment about how "and Emblotchment spread throughout the Universe and thus we all became Emblotched, it was started accidentally by William Pitt the Elder.”
HUTCHBACK
Ah
DR. NOSTRUM
It just seemed to be, er, (pause) him.
HUTCHBACK
Or someone pretending to be him.
DR. NOSTRUM
Someone pretending to be him. Which seems pointless
HUTCHBACK
Why pretend to be Will Self when you could pretend to be, you know, George Bush Senior?
DR. NOSTRUM
Are you recording?
HUTCHBACK
Yes, I’m recording. This is a recording.
(They leave the HUTCHBACK's lair, the hated Blue Van is parked just down the street a little)
HUTCHBACK
You see I’m so paranoid now about the Blue Van that I get nervous when I think, ‘Well, how long am I going for?’
DR. NOSTRUM
Thinking he’s going to move it back in.
HUTCHBACK
‘Will he be looking out of his window...
DR. NOSTRUM
Waiting for you.
HUTCHBACK
...waiting for his moment so he can reverse into my space and break down again. The cunt. The Great Emblotchment.
(They get onto the HUTCHBACK's Trap, the search for tools has begun)
HUTCHBACK
Should I go to a Corporate Megastore..
DR. NOSTRUM
No! It doesn’t matter, anywhere.
HUTCHBACK
No, no, I’m not asking you...
DR. NOSTRUM
Ok.
HUTCHBACK
...I’m debating it out loud...
DR. NOSTRUM
Well...
HUTCHBACK
...deciding whether to give my money to a Corporate Megastore..
DR. NOSTRUM
...don’t debate it out loud, just debate it internally and turn up somewhere.
HUTCHBACK
No, well, either I go left or.. oh, I’m going straight on. cos now this is more of a random drive, than an actual focused..
DR. NOSTRUM
What, are you just going to drive until you see a Bee and queue?
HUTCHBACK
No, no, I know where the Bee and Queue is..
DR. NOSTRUM
Well there’s one every 600 yards.
HUTCHBACK
Particularly on this stretch of road. No. You know what, I’m being an idiot there is a Tool shop just down the road.
DR. NOSTRUM
So you go in there and say “I need a tool.”
HUTCHBACK
I need a tool, can you help me? I’m missing a tool.
DR. NOSTRUM
And he brings out a row of, er, characters, from the back of the shop. (pause) So what..
HUTCHBACK
Along with one slightly, slightly used penis.
DR. NOSTRUM
What is the..
HUTCHBACK
Oh, that was quite good.. Oh, sorry, go on.
DR. NOSTRUM
What will this tool be used for?
HUTCHBACK
I just want a tool.
DR. NOSTRUM
That will both butter my toast and unscrew a light bulb.
HUTCHBACK
And make my wife love me, again. (pause) See, now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say, you see, that’s the problem.
DR. NOSTRUM
No, it’s not a problem, cos if it’s good enough it’ll come back.
HUTCHBACK
No, it isn’t good enough, it’s actually something I wanted to say.
DR. NOSTRUM
Oh (pause) something about tools? Something about a tool that you need?
HUTCHBACK
No. If I’d have interrupted your interruption I’d have been alright.
DR. NOSTRUM
Yeah, but it can’t have been.. Nothing is important. (pause) Really.
HUTCHBACK
In the great words of Freddie Mercury.
DR. NOSTRUM
Is that what he said?
HUTCHBACK
(a near miss whilst driving) Ooooh!
DR. NOSTRUM
D’you ever have that opinion that Talk radio is just a lot of people’s opinions about stuff.
HUTCHBACK
I don’t think that’s so much an opinion as a statement of fact.
DR. NOSTRUM
It just seems that when I think about how they promote themselves and then they’ve got all these programmes relentlessly on where people call in and tell you what they think about things. It’s just, all they are is just a series of people calling up and telling you what they think about things, it’s just a waste of time.
HUTCHBACK
Mm.
DR. NOSTRUM
It’s really pointless. I mean the idea of broadcasting that... as if people calling you up and telling you what they’re thinking is worth broadcasting to the nation...
HUTCHBACK
It’s a public service.
DR. NOSTRUM
...It’s a crazy idea.
HUTCHBACK
It’s a public service.
DR. NOSTRUM
It seems that the chief quality required by the DJ is the ability to say, “I just need to hurry you up there.” (pause) Um, this is where I was driving down where I saw a guy wheeling a gurney with a body on it...
HUTCHBACK
Really
DR. NOSTRUM
...under a sheet, yeah.
HUTCHBACK
See, there you go, ‘Local Ironmongers’. You don’t see Ironmongers much anymore, do you?
DR. NOSTRUM
I don’t know how you monger iron anyway.
HUTCHBACK
(irate member of the public voice) “Stop mongering that iron, yer bastard! Didn’t anyone tell you it was rude?”
DR. NOSTRUM
I wonder what the difference between mongering iron and fish is? Not much.
HUTCHBACK
Yep
DR. NOSTRUM
It’s all in the display.
HUTCHBACK
(musing) Mongering.
DR. NOSTRUM
There aren’t many mongers. It’s not.. There’s no.. there’s no Greenmonger...
HUTCHBACK
Well no, but the.. the...
DR. NOSTRUM
They’re grocers.
HUTCHBACK
But then what does a Warmonger do?
DR. NOSTRUM
He lays all the wars out...
HUTCHBACK
Yeah, puts out a nice bit of green baize, sort of a green artificial grass, erm, price’s it up, and um, and then you get, you get your...
DR. NOSTRUM
Dictators coming in buying ‘em up.
HUTCHBACK
And then you buy it by the pound.
DR. NOSTRUM
“How much is your 1914-18?”
HUTCHBACK
“How much is the, um, Crimea? Nice bit of Crimea.”
Friday, 6 February 2009
Love in the time of Diarrhoea
You may wonder where your loyal humpback has been these past weeks. Let’s put it this way, you know what an admirer of Joseph Fritzl’s work the Dr is, well he calls it a re-enactment, I call it unfair working conditions. But we are expecting our first child in 13 months time (the Hutchback biology is somewhat unique) so some good has come of it.
Now when we last spoke I mentioned the fact that I had met a French jolie dame and was in love. I feel now is the time to expand on this. As you know I spent a hectic few days in a rather odd French town, I believe the locals referred to it as Seule. And the dialect of French they spoke was incomprehensible to these cauliflower ears. My last night was rather incident packed and now I can recount the tale.
Having spent the day with a gurgling bowel from my strange breakfast of gristly soup (with added dog collar) – I was in need of some kind of assistance. I wandered the frantic streets and alleyways, the whole town seemed to be out and I had to dodge many a careening Frenchman. I at last found some peace in a side street that looked empty except for one small café.
I include the picture here for elucidation. It was a jolly enough place and I thought that a coffee would calm my intestinal torment. The French make a good coffee and as you can see from the photograph the two Frenchmen (or is one a ventriloquist and the other a dummy, can’t quite make out) appear to be enjoying a cup of their national drink.
So I entered and sat down. The café was empty except for a very old and frail lady who stooped at the counter with a damp cloth. Eventually she noticed me and came over. Now as you know my attempts to converse in French had so far been quite futile. I must have really forgotten so much as to be incomprehensible. Mr Wilson the erudite owner of the travelling freak show where I spent my formative years would have been so disappointed with my decline in linguistic skills he would have loudly tutted, then he would have lashed me to within an inch of my life and thrown me into a pit.
I tried to ask her for something calming for my poor gut, but she didn’t understand. So sign language would have to do. I mimed drinking a cup and grimacing and rubbing my stomach. She looked at me sadly through rheumy eyes and said nothing, I then stood up and mimed (convincingly) a man in desperate need of a shit. Something seemed to click and the ancient barrista uttered a few garbled words of English. “You wan spesho bowl coffee?”. Bowl coffee, Bowel coffee, hmm sounded just what I needed.
The kindly old lady moved away towards the back of the shop and then for some reason beckoned me over to the shabby curtain that barred entry to the back room. I assumed this was the room where the Bowel Coffee was served.
I followed her inside and saw a bed covered in a plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Most odd. Then the oddness increased by a factor. The wizened crone said something remarkable: “Drop your tlousa, prease” Incredible, what was this – a come on – how marvelous.
Now you may wonder about Mrs H, and where my heart lay. Well I refer to Mrs H as my wife but she is not really my wife, in fact she hardly knows me. You would more accurately describe her as being vaguely aware of me as an unspecified sense of dread that accompanies her when she walks home. We have never actually met, but this is purely circumstantial for she will at some point come within grabbing distance of the laurel bush where I lie in wait for her every evening.
Anyway though I love Mrs H the offer of a night of torrid (though rather dry) passion with the old coffee lady seemed a wonderful prospect. I dropped my pants and unwrapped the old newspapers that I use as underwear. The lady then made me lie face down on the plastic wrapped bed. What delights lay ahead. I close my eyes and waited for the hand of pleasure to be applied to by crumpled body.
Aargh, my poor piles. She had shoved some kind of pipe right up my arsehole. She liked it rough clearly. I opened my eyes to see what was happening back there just in time to see her pour the entire contents of the coffee urn into a funnel which was attached to the tube which had been mainlined straight into my rectum. Now I’ve heard of this type of things before, but I believe it is more normal to use cold coffee in this process. As I passed out from the pain I caught a glimpse of my new love as she went back in the front room no doubt to fetch a freshly boiled refill.
Now when we last spoke I mentioned the fact that I had met a French jolie dame and was in love. I feel now is the time to expand on this. As you know I spent a hectic few days in a rather odd French town, I believe the locals referred to it as Seule. And the dialect of French they spoke was incomprehensible to these cauliflower ears. My last night was rather incident packed and now I can recount the tale.
Having spent the day with a gurgling bowel from my strange breakfast of gristly soup (with added dog collar) – I was in need of some kind of assistance. I wandered the frantic streets and alleyways, the whole town seemed to be out and I had to dodge many a careening Frenchman. I at last found some peace in a side street that looked empty except for one small café.
I include the picture here for elucidation. It was a jolly enough place and I thought that a coffee would calm my intestinal torment. The French make a good coffee and as you can see from the photograph the two Frenchmen (or is one a ventriloquist and the other a dummy, can’t quite make out) appear to be enjoying a cup of their national drink.
So I entered and sat down. The café was empty except for a very old and frail lady who stooped at the counter with a damp cloth. Eventually she noticed me and came over. Now as you know my attempts to converse in French had so far been quite futile. I must have really forgotten so much as to be incomprehensible. Mr Wilson the erudite owner of the travelling freak show where I spent my formative years would have been so disappointed with my decline in linguistic skills he would have loudly tutted, then he would have lashed me to within an inch of my life and thrown me into a pit.
I tried to ask her for something calming for my poor gut, but she didn’t understand. So sign language would have to do. I mimed drinking a cup and grimacing and rubbing my stomach. She looked at me sadly through rheumy eyes and said nothing, I then stood up and mimed (convincingly) a man in desperate need of a shit. Something seemed to click and the ancient barrista uttered a few garbled words of English. “You wan spesho bowl coffee?”. Bowl coffee, Bowel coffee, hmm sounded just what I needed.
The kindly old lady moved away towards the back of the shop and then for some reason beckoned me over to the shabby curtain that barred entry to the back room. I assumed this was the room where the Bowel Coffee was served.
I followed her inside and saw a bed covered in a plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Most odd. Then the oddness increased by a factor. The wizened crone said something remarkable: “Drop your tlousa, prease” Incredible, what was this – a come on – how marvelous.
Now you may wonder about Mrs H, and where my heart lay. Well I refer to Mrs H as my wife but she is not really my wife, in fact she hardly knows me. You would more accurately describe her as being vaguely aware of me as an unspecified sense of dread that accompanies her when she walks home. We have never actually met, but this is purely circumstantial for she will at some point come within grabbing distance of the laurel bush where I lie in wait for her every evening.
Anyway though I love Mrs H the offer of a night of torrid (though rather dry) passion with the old coffee lady seemed a wonderful prospect. I dropped my pants and unwrapped the old newspapers that I use as underwear. The lady then made me lie face down on the plastic wrapped bed. What delights lay ahead. I close my eyes and waited for the hand of pleasure to be applied to by crumpled body.
Aargh, my poor piles. She had shoved some kind of pipe right up my arsehole. She liked it rough clearly. I opened my eyes to see what was happening back there just in time to see her pour the entire contents of the coffee urn into a funnel which was attached to the tube which had been mainlined straight into my rectum. Now I’ve heard of this type of things before, but I believe it is more normal to use cold coffee in this process. As I passed out from the pain I caught a glimpse of my new love as she went back in the front room no doubt to fetch a freshly boiled refill.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Paris Hilton - Fast Food Fame
Paris's BBF, yet more aspirants munching on the quim of celebrity.
It's pretty much beyond reviewing to any purpose as a television show; Paris makes folks do things for her and then judges them whilst they shake and cry because of course her opinion defines their universe.
Dr. Nostrum can't help remembering the callous spoiled joy with which Nicole and her ruined a day's business for a random blue collar family one episode of The Simple Life. Yes, I'm sure they compensated them financially, yes, that was the show, no, it didn't matter.
There's no joy here, no point, purpose or permanence, and nothing positive that starts with any other letter of the alphabet either.
I know why it's on and I even think I know why it's popular. She is the living Celebrity Embodiment of Fast Food. The McDonalds of Reality TV. Everything you can think of about The Big Mac is true for Paris.
Paris Hilton. More famous than Paris France. What does that say about Google searches?
Be my BFF Paris! ;-) Everything you touch turns to gold.
(do you really think so?)
It's pretty much beyond reviewing to any purpose as a television show; Paris makes folks do things for her and then judges them whilst they shake and cry because of course her opinion defines their universe.
Dr. Nostrum can't help remembering the callous spoiled joy with which Nicole and her ruined a day's business for a random blue collar family one episode of The Simple Life. Yes, I'm sure they compensated them financially, yes, that was the show, no, it didn't matter.
There's no joy here, no point, purpose or permanence, and nothing positive that starts with any other letter of the alphabet either.
I know why it's on and I even think I know why it's popular. She is the living Celebrity Embodiment of Fast Food. The McDonalds of Reality TV. Everything you can think of about The Big Mac is true for Paris.
Paris Hilton. More famous than Paris France. What does that say about Google searches?
Be my BFF Paris! ;-) Everything you touch turns to gold.
(do you really think so?)
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Jade Goody Media Martyr - Cashing In On Death
Can you believe it, a serious article from Dr. Nostrum as I take a moment to reflect on a recurring nightmare.
Though we are no closer to finding a meaning for Jade Goody's life, in one of the clearest predictions of 2009 (and yes, foul and cynical as I am, hopefully beyond) there will be a long examination for the meaning of her death and it's place as 'Entertainment' on our screens.
(cue bubbly airhead teen voice over) 'Read all about brave Jade's losing battle with Cancer and get 20 great Credit Crunch Cancer beating looks! Only in this week's edition of Uber-Voyeur, only £1.20 at all good Newsagents!'
I really don't think I will. In fact I know I can't. So I will become one of those hated commentators (surely - 'contentators') that pontificate on the morals of this most exquisite hell of an exploitation at a distance. You see, I'm not interested in the minutiae of Jade's serialised death throe, but then, I don't like Slasher films or Grand Theft Auto so I probably exist in a tiny vacuum. No, more than not interested; phobic.
There isn't a simultaneously less important yet more vicarious life and all it's for is so we can enjoy our pity and scorn at a scripted reality the Truman Show would've junked as unbelievable.
Look, there is a regular lighter and crueler side to Dr. Nostrum's Jade jibes and yes, saving her skin is a reasonable charitable enterprise so it can be pegged out and displayed as a lesson to all those who seek fame for fame's sake, but something has clearly gone wrong and not only in my brain.
There must be a point at which we recognise our Nero's fiddling as Rome burns. I humbly submit that serialising, trivialising and repackaging the slow death of a young, questionably smart, woman into a Television Reality Soap and glib Trashazine Hooks for the financial benefit of the Media well beyond the financial benefit to her family is one of those markers.
I don't have any morals up here in the cloud, because it's all make believe, but you down there...
Though we are no closer to finding a meaning for Jade Goody's life, in one of the clearest predictions of 2009 (and yes, foul and cynical as I am, hopefully beyond) there will be a long examination for the meaning of her death and it's place as 'Entertainment' on our screens.
(cue bubbly airhead teen voice over) 'Read all about brave Jade's losing battle with Cancer and get 20 great Credit Crunch Cancer beating looks! Only in this week's edition of Uber-Voyeur, only £1.20 at all good Newsagents!'
I really don't think I will. In fact I know I can't. So I will become one of those hated commentators (surely - 'contentators') that pontificate on the morals of this most exquisite hell of an exploitation at a distance. You see, I'm not interested in the minutiae of Jade's serialised death throe, but then, I don't like Slasher films or Grand Theft Auto so I probably exist in a tiny vacuum. No, more than not interested; phobic.
There isn't a simultaneously less important yet more vicarious life and all it's for is so we can enjoy our pity and scorn at a scripted reality the Truman Show would've junked as unbelievable.
Look, there is a regular lighter and crueler side to Dr. Nostrum's Jade jibes and yes, saving her skin is a reasonable charitable enterprise so it can be pegged out and displayed as a lesson to all those who seek fame for fame's sake, but something has clearly gone wrong and not only in my brain.
There must be a point at which we recognise our Nero's fiddling as Rome burns. I humbly submit that serialising, trivialising and repackaging the slow death of a young, questionably smart, woman into a Television Reality Soap and glib Trashazine Hooks for the financial benefit of the Media well beyond the financial benefit to her family is one of those markers.
I don't have any morals up here in the cloud, because it's all make believe, but you down there...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
