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Peeps who interviewed me
Trailer for Underneath
Trailer for Shades of Grey
Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Hi there! My name is Ed Miliband and I have something that I want to tell each and every one of you. Yes, that’s right… everyone.
But before we get onto that let me tell you a bit about myself so we can get all cosy: my name is Ed Miliband and I’m a YouTuber. Some of my fans will know me from my videos David Cameron: a man who probably doesn’t even have a willy and David Cameron: a man who probably wears velcro trainers because he doesn’t know how to tie his shoelaces properly. I bet he asks his mum to do it for him.
That second one is well cuss and has had at least 58 views since I uploaded it last year.
The other day I was on the bus when someone looked at me. I didn’t have my glasses on but I could tell from the bumps on her chest that this person was a woman, so I held her gaze for as long as I could. I wanted to smile at her, at this woman who was still looking at me, but she turned her head before I got the chance. This was a shame because it was going to be one of my nice smiles, and the experience left me crestfallen. Yes, crestfallen.
I got out of my seat and decided to approach this woman, to ask her why she felt that way, to roll my sleeves up and ask her why why why. It turned out that she was Italian and didn’t speak much English, something that struck a cord with me. If this simple woman is able to thrust a lance through my heart with such ease, what is stopping me from doing the same thing to my nemesis?
When I got home I put the kettle on and psyched myself up to create a brand new Facebook page… and I’m so very glad that I did. Within minutes, my David Cameron: does this man even have a bottom? post was generating comments and interest from all over the globe. The atmosphere was electric.
Later that evening I asked my brother to make me a cup of tea, and he did. I then told him that it was a rubbish cup of tea, an accusation that left him looking utterly crestfallen. Yes, crestfallen.
I then asked him if he knew about the Italian woman on the bus and he told me he didn’t… and that right there was the problem. I put my arm around him and reassured him that I was willing to be ‘his’ Italian woman on the bus, that he should look up to me as if I really was an Italian woman on the bus who didn’t speak any English.
And that is my message to you all… do not see me as a wonky man in a suit who forgets to put on his glasses… instead, see me as ‘your’ Italian woman on the bus who doesn’t speak any English.
For that is who I am.
Greetings! My name is Norman McNorman and, although I don’t consider myself to be a religious man, I find it hard to deny that there’s something very very special about the Sabbath. Whether I’m sitting indoors in a comfy chair with my favourite slippers or settling into an outside hammock with my favourite slippers, I’ll be completely at peace for the entire day. And if either of my young nephews start up with their shouty Facebook games, or ask if they can watch something on the Xbox, I’ll peer disapprovingly over the top of my spectacles as I tell them “Not on a Sunday, boys.”
During the January sales I purchased several DVD boxsets of my favourite TV shows and since then I’ve indulged in several marathon sessions of Police, Camera, Action! and Stop, Thief! Could you give me some advice on how to make my weekends more relaxing?
Good heavens, man, what vulgar and inappropriate language you’ve chosen to address me with! Firstly, you need to get out of this ‘marathon’ mindset: it’s simply not possible for one to relax whilst partaking in such an exhausting activity. I suggest you step into a pair of slippers and watch some kind of highlights package instead, preferably played back at half-speed so as to maintain an emotional uniformity that will be sustained throughout the entire day; anything else is likely to leave you drained and exhausted for the busy week ahead.
I’m thinking of buying a new pair of walking shoes as my current ones are worn out. However, I’m not sure whether to go for the traditional fur-lined type or the more modern air bubble support ones. What would you recommend to make my walks across the South Downs more relaxing?
Walking shoes? The South Downs…? You’re giving me a hernia! My good man, I do believe that you’re talking about going on a hike, which is a word and an activity that really isn’t welcome here in my boudoir of relaxation. However, if you really must insist on attempting such a thing on the Sabbath then my advice is simple: pop along to your nearest airport with a pair of slippers and ‘hike’ your way along the travelator at a steady pace. Make good use of any advertisements depicting sunbathers relaxing on a beach as they will assist you into getting into the right mindset. Just be sure that you don’t fall asleep or stumble into anyone else, as jet lagged returning holiday goers are the anathema of the Sabbath.
It’s been a fair old while since I last posted on this blog, but here lies solid proof that I’ve been beavering away like a busy bee in the middle of the desert… for my latest book has finally barged its way into the world!
Set in WWII, We Go Again is a story that not only touches on the relationship between soldiers, but also offers an insight into the effects that war can have on a person’s state of mind. Of course, no war story would be complete without any action and this one is packed to the rafters with guns, tanks, planes, some French civilians… and a little birdy tells me that there’s even a smidgen of romance to be found somewhere within its pages as well.
As ever I owe thanks to the modmins over on Goodreads and also to everyone who was kind enough to help me with the editing side of things.
Anyone who is willing to leave a rating and/or a review on their own website, on Goodreads, or on Amazon is more than welcome to download a free copy using the links below. I’m also giving away five paperback copies, so anyone who wants to enter the draw can leave an email address in the comments section below.
Not long after surviving the horrors of D-Day, Corporal James Bowden finds himself as part of a small group of soldiers marching through Nazi-occupied France.
Supplied with orders that are vague and unspecific and surrounded by men he doesn’t know, will James survive society’s desire for justice and revenge?
Master sends me out from his kennel at night so I can sniff at flowers and leaves and do squeezy until Master calls me back in to tell me I am good boy. I remember when I was puppy I did squeezy on furry blue grass in Master’s kennel; Master rubbed my nose in squeezy and told me I am bad boy.
Master give me biscuit from dog box and tell me I am good boy. When Master eats dinner in front of talking box I stand guard and make sure he knows I will help him finish leftovers that aren’t good enough for him. I go and get dog box so we can share biscuits but Master call me bad boy.
Sometimes Master take me into small room where he do squeezy on shiny white thing. If I try to drink out of shiny white thing or rub my nose in Master’s squeezy, Master tells me I am bad boy.
When Master invite friends round I get nervous so I clean myself for comfort. Ever since Master take me to man who put me to sleep my testicles are not as big they used to be; this mean I lick them for longer but have to stop when Master tells me I am bad boy.
Master put me on chain and we go for walkies on grey grass. If Master sees bitch with two legs he stop to say she smell nice. After more walkies I see bitch with four legs but Master call me bad boy when I try to smell if she on heat. If I do squeezy on grey grass Master put in bag and keep in pocket so he can rub on nose later.
If I good boy Master take me to park full of green grass where I fetch him stick that he drop by accident. After a while I decide it safer if I carry stick for him instead but he call me bad boy if I hold on too tight.
When Master come home from work I will dance and sing him beautiful song in celebration. I then show him buffet I made from tasty biscuits I found hiding in dog boxes and hopefully he call me good boy.
Hi, fans! Long time no fist bump.
Now, I don’t know about any of you good folks out there but the first time I heard someone mention April Fools, I actually thought they were talking about a type of yoghurt. I loves myself a nice little pot of yoghurt, ‘specially if it’s apricot flavour, and if anyone fancies posting one out to me I’d be very grateful. If it’s got bits of appycot mixed in with it then I’ll be your friend for life, no word of a lie.
I decided to do a spot of research on this April Fools business but after wandering around in my bedroom cupboard for a couple of hours I realised it would be best if I asked my nephew about it instead; he might only be seven years old but he goes to school and seems to know just about everything these days.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that April Fools is just another name for playing pranks on your friends and co-workers, something that I’m quite fond of myself. It reminded me of that time when I put on me slippers one morning and could feel something sharp moving around under my foot. At first I thought someone had hidden a speck of grit inside them for a joke but it turned out that I had simply stepped on the cat without noticing. Poor little mite, his blood and guts were smeared all over the kitchen floor before I noticed him dangling there in between me toes.
My plan for April Fools today is to get meself an appycot yoghurt and fool everyone into thinking that it’s something else entirely! If I sit over on the other side room, or maybe even hide under the table, they won’t be able to see the label once I’ve turned out the lights. Then, after putting some in my mouth, I’ll say something like “Gosh darn, this cup of coffee is real nice and doesn’t taste anything like appycot. No, not even a little bit.”
I’ll have to put the spoon and the empty pot into my pocket afterwards just to keep the joke going, mind. That’s the one thing I forgot to do when I tried to pull the same prank last Christmas.
Hi there! My name is David Wrongford and I’m here to tell you all about my innovative new dental routine.
Dental hygiene is important not only for dentists but also for the general wellbeing of society as a whole. I’ll explain my point via the use of an analogy about food: if you bought an apple, you wouldn’t set it down next to another apple that had turned rotten; instead, you’d finish it off before your greedy neighbour noticed it.
See? Makes perfect sense. Food analogies are good because food is tasty and most people will have consumed at least one bit of food at some point in their lives.
My dental routine starts off with three minutes of vigorous brushing, a process that practically guarantees drawing some blood from the stubborn bastards that are my gums. As the saying goes: old enough to bleed, yes indeed. Following on from that, whilst my gums are still screaming furiously at me, I give them a good kicking with the flossing cord – and by Jove do they kick up a stink! I did ask my dentist if there’s such a thing as barbed flossing wire but he said he didn’t know of any.
Finally, and this is my favourite part, we come to the pisté tea resistancé: the barfing. I select two fingers from my right hand, press the tips of them against the back of my throat, and let the magic of nature do the rest. Out come all those nasty bits of offal from the night before and all of a sudden my head will be spinning with delight and happiness. Don’t be shy or nervous about it, just let it all out. You ever seen a cow do a doo-doo? It just expels it’s nonsense as quick as a flash and carries right on with its business as if nothing happened. In fact cats are a bit like that as well and everyone loves cats.
If you find that a chunk of sweetcorn or a sliver of a noodle gets stuck in between your teeth, don’t worry: I like to leave it there as a final ‘up yours’ to my gums.
Lastly, be sure to ‘go naked’ with your fingers during the barfing stage; I did experiment with some protective sheaths a while ago but found that the rubber kills the sensation somewhat.
Last week mummy bought me a pet rabbit as a surprise for being such a good boy and because she said rabbits are really cute. The rabbit is really funny and likes to run around in circles and I have named him Playboy after seeing a picture of a lady in a bunny costume on a magazine that daddy sometimes takes with him into the toilet. For some reason he always spends a long time in there and comes out all red faced and has to go for a sleep-sleep afterwards.
I put the rabbit on my bed and he started doing lots of poos that look like raisins and then he started eating them probably because raisins are really nice. I decided to copy him and did a poo on the bed and tried to eat it but it tasted like peanuts and got stuck in the roof of my mouth. When mummy came in and saw me she started shouting and said a word that began with ‘c’ but definitely wasn’t ‘cute’ which is what she says to the rabbit and I did a cry.
Yesterday I let the rabbit out and he was running around and did a big wee on the carpet that smelled like Sugar Puffs but he didn’t try to eat it which was weird because Sugar Puffs are the best ever cereal. I wanted to give him some of my favourite juice but mummy told me not to and then I tried to see if he wanted to play on my Xbox but he started biting the controller and now the joysticks don’t work properly which means all the angry people do swears at me when I play online which makes me do a cry.
Seeing as its winter I thought he might be cold so I gave him some of my clothes but I accidentally dropped my belt on his head and he stopped moving and now mummy says we have to take him to the vets for a special injection. I remember when I had a special injection at school and they gave me a sticker to wear afterwards so I hope Playboy doesn’t mind if his fur gets all sticky.
Last night, during a conversation with my buddies, I was astounded when I discovered that something I had always taken for granted as being the holy, heavenly truth had been taken away from me:
In 2006, scientists decided that Pluto was no longer a planet.
I felt as if someone had reached deep inside me and ripped my heart out. Pluto has been a part of our democratic culture ever since my science teacher first pointed at a poster of the solar system and told the class, repeatedly, that Pluto is a planet. It was something that everyone accepted as the truth and no-one had any reason to think otherwise.
Of course these days the teachers seem more interested in having sex with their pupils than giving them an education, which is directly responsible for the current situation where everyone’s favourite celestial body is Jupiter – as clear a indication as any that the liberals are poisoning society. Liberals are naturally attracted to anything that is big, centralised, and has the kind of gravitational pull that impinges on everyone’s freedoms, so it stands to reason that they’re behind this particular outrage.
Me? I always favoured Pluto, that little guy at the back minding his own business as he slowly worked his way up in the world. He was a pioneer, a maverick who had to make do with what little scraps of radioactive warmth were left after all the fat lazy planets who sit there doing nothing had taken their bites first. I know for a fact that Saturn doesn’t do shit except flaunt and wave his rings around like a big pussy, biding his time until he can jump on the gay marriage bandwagon.
Just what sort of message does all this send out to our kids? It tells them that no matter how many lawns they’re willing to mow each summer and no matter how many unpaid intern positions they decide to try their hand at, some fat pervert who calls himself a scientist can just come along and take it all away from them.
It’s pure horse shit.
Something that always shocks me is the reaction I get after telling someone that I like to tip my local doctor. As far as I’m concerned, a civilised country should strive to support the more vulnerable members of society and my experiences suggest that most doctors don’t have so much as two pennies to rub together.
For instance, when was the last time you saw a doctor listening to music? Pretty much never, right? And you want to know why? It’s because those headphone things they’re always wearing round their necks are the exact same ones that the medical world was using back in the 1950s. Take a look at any old hospital photos if you don’t believe me, but I’m telling you there’s no way that that big old-fashioned connector on the end will ever fit in any modern MP3 player.
Tipping your doc is also nice from a morale-boosting perspective. Just the other week, as I was pulling my trousers back up, I spotted a weary look on the doctor’s face as he peeled off his disposable gloves and threw them in the bin. Right there and then, I could see that he was in dire need of an extra little incentive to turn up for work the next day and that it was time for me to put my hand in my pocket. Knowing that I had to be quick, I waggled my finger around the inside of my wallet as expertly as he had rummaged around in my lower colon, before producing the princely sum of £2.45 and placing it on the table in front of him.
The look on his face was priceless!
Mind you, if there’s one thing that does annoy me about doctors, it’s the fact that the tight-arsed bastards never seem to have a bowl of complimentary mints in reception any more.
…it stands to reason that there’s simply no need for you to ever speak if I’m in the building.
Wsssht! Why are you talking? I already know what you’re going to say, so why bore everyone with your tedious prose? And even if it turns out that I was wrong about what you were going to chat about – which isn’t likely – I’ll simply TALK OVER THE TOP OF YOU UNTIL YOU REALISE HOW FUTILE YOUR VOCAL CHORDS ARE.
By the way, did you see the re-run of Santa Barbara on channel 125 last night? Oh, it was marvellous. Bridget was worried that Jerome was cheating on her again and there was another misunderstanding when… WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU USED TO WATCH IT BACK IN THE DAY? I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY BECAUSE I WATCHED IT LAST NIGHT.
I remember a few years ago when management were thinking about getting Neil Armstrong, the former astronaut, to come in and give a motivational talk to us. Can you believe it? Neil Armstrong! He’s a legend! A pioneer! And a complete waste of the annual entertainment budget.
I marched into their meeting and told them what a bunch of fools there were, explaining that I recently read two newspaper articles and recorded at least one documentary on the Apollo Moon Landings… so what the hell could Neil tell us that I didn’t already know? I even offered to do the talk myself but they declined the offer and ended up spending the cash on a staff BBQ instead.
It was horrendous, the caterers were cooking the sausages all wrong and wouldn’t listen to a word I said to them.