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Peeps who interviewed me
Trailer for Underneath
Trailer for Shades of Grey
Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
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.
As some of ya’ll already know, I’ve been struggling to make ends meet since I retired from the ring as no-one’s willing to sponsor me no more. Turns out that demand for a large fella who can suffocate small children in between his thighs is dwindling; I’ve had rejection letters from just about everyone, including Nike, Adidas, and even them people who make that Vaseline stuff. That last one hurt real bad seeing as how much of it I’ve used over the years.
Things are so bad that I’ve had to resort to buying tinned foods just to keep my energy levels up, which brings me onto today’s breakfast – baked beans.
Now I’ve never been much of a reader but the instructions on how to open this gosh-darn tin are mighty hard to read, so mayhaps one of y’all can gimme a hand? Oh, silly me, I had it all upside down! And now looky, there’s one of them ringy pull things staring right up at me. Why’d they have to hide it away like that, folks get all confused with such trickery.
Okay, now that the lid’s off I can see some little cocoon things swimming around in some kind of red goo. Now, I guess that thems are the beans but they’re far too small for me to get hold of so I’ll have to use a cocktail stick to jab ’em before they start hatching. Hmmm, they taste kinda squishy; kinda nice; but also kinda cold and, if I’m honest, I prefer a hot breakfast to a cold one. Let me just pour them into my pants for a minute, there’s plenty of warm down there.
Gosh darn it, the goo is starting to seep through the spandex! Gimme a sec while I scoop it all back out and finish it off in one go. Okay, well, this time it was much warmer but there were several crunchy little hairs mixed up with the sauce. I’m not sure where they came from but it was like eating raw spaghetti… and boy, do I like my spaghetti!
Well, it has to be said, these baked beans ain’t half bad. I think I might give the barbecue frankfurters a try next week.
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.
Hi, gang! My name is Jeremy Jez and I’m a member of the 23rd Alrdridge Scout Group.
Now, if there’s one thing that Akela is always telling me it’s that I should be going out and doing things for myself, and it’s for that reason that I’ve decided to become more independent. And what better way to do that than to take a close look at a tape measure? All the important people use them, like plumbers and electricians, and I once saw a car park attendant using one to see if someone had double-parked or not. Cool, eh?
After asking my mum to turn the light on for me, I went into the garage and found dad’s measuring tape on the shelf. It’s one of those special ones where the tape rolls back into the holster thing when you let go, so I’ve got to make sure I don’t cut myself on the sharp edges. Someone should invent a sellotape that can do that as well, ‘cos it always seems to get stuck to my fingers.
First of all I decided to try and measure the hallway, but it turns out that the tape wasn’t long enough which is a bit rubbish. Does that mean you have to buy two of them if you want to measure a room in your house? That must cost LOADS.
I then measured my Xbox, which was quite big, but not as big as my TV. I got out my sleeping bag that I took to summer camp and measured the wee stain from when I wet the bed because I thought I heard a bear outside the tent – turned out it was just the patrol leader coming back from the toilet.
Actually, that reminds me: my patrol leader is always boasting about how big his willy is, so this is a great chance to see if it’s true. Hmmm, the tape says mine is three inches long – that’s really good, right?
No way will anyone else be able to beat that!
People often say that Posh Spice, AKA Victoria Beckham, is nothing more than a clothes horse, which I think is unfair. If anything, she’s more like a giraffe.
Frank R, France.
Fool your neighbour into thinking he left the oven on by setting fire to his house when he’s out. The look on his face when he learns the truth will be priceless.
Geoff B, Worcs.
Is anyone else jealous of homeless people? It’s socially acceptable for them to get drunk during the day, and most of them seem to have a personal guide dog to help them across the busy roads.
Susan S, Surrey.
“The cat sat on the mat,” sang my five year old niece as she skipped around the garden. Yet I don’t even own a cat. It says a lot about modern society if children are being encouraged to tell such outrageous lies from a young age.
R Flops, Belgium.
Is anyone else worried about the ever-increasing encroachment of CCTV cameras on our lives? Last month I went to Disney Land Florida for the first time, yet when I arrived there was a map with a big arrow saying “You are here.” It’s the way they’re so blatant about it that scares me most.
S Patel, London.
Fool others into thinking you’re blind by randomly bumping into people and saying “Sorry, I’m blind” whilst wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses.
Terry W, Hull.
Banging two halves of an empty pistachio shell together is the perfect way to make people think that a herd of miniature horses are galloping up behind them.
Frank T, Bolton.
Of all the books I’ve written over the years, this one remains a strong favourite amongst both readers and myself.
For this particular book, I delved back into the realms of historical fiction. Set in the Warsaw Ghetto during World War II, it’s a story about the struggle for survival that the Jews had to endure every single day. At the hands of their Nazi tormentors they battled against starvation, disease, and deportations to concentration camps… until some of them decided to fight back.
As it is Holocaust Memorial Day, I’ve decided to make it available for free.
The book is available through these direct links:
You can get a taster for the book by scrolling down past the cover image and reading the post called Cattle.
Like any girl who is loved by her family, Abigail Nussbaum loves to chase butterflies, enjoys lying on her back looking for shapes in the clouds, and happily teaches young children to make daisy chains.
In the eyes of certain people, however, Abigail has committed a heinous crime. The year is 1940; the place is Poland; Abigail happens to be Jewish.
Along with half a million other Jews, Abigail and her family are evicted from their home and forced to live in the bombed out ruins of Warsaw, the Polish capital.
Although a handful decide to fight back, is the uprising strong enough to save Abigail’s spirit?
Although Abigail enjoyed train journeys, she hated it when there were busy crowds. The adults always towered high above her and their heavy overcoats wafted in front of her face, blocking out the light. She let out a sigh and wondered why no-one was talking.
After spotting a small gap, she squeezed into it to give herself some more room. The yellow badge that was pinned to her jacket ripped off and fell to the floor, causing someone above her to tut loudly; Abigail decided not to pick it up again.
She spotted a man in a smart uniform – surely, he must know where they were going.
“Excuse me,” she politely enquired. “Where are we going?”
The man’s expression was one of death. “Auschwitz,” he replied.
My new novel, Saying Goodbye to Warsaw, is due for release soon. Set in the Warsaw Ghetto during WWII, it is a story of tragedy and this is a little taster for what is to come.
Hai, is Beethoven of German classical musics here.
Other day I listen to radio when wonderful song come on that is full of energies and movements. It go like bip-bip, da-da, bip-bip, and had man sing “Pump up the volume, pump up the volume” all the way through. When song finish I wait see if radio DJ say who song was by, but he more interest in asking ladies to ring him to talk about what their favourite colour for underwear is. I throw shoe at radio in frustration, which fall over and scare family cat.
I was very excite to find out from daughter that nearby nightclub play bip-bip songs every Friday night. I ask if she take me clubbing and teach me how to dance but she laugh and say no. I tell her I plan to wear smart velvet jacket but she still say no. I explain that I can wear nice buckled shoes and freshly powdered wig, but she scream at me. I call her ungrateful Nazi bitch and she slam bedroom door in my face, so I decide go nightclub by myself.
I queue up outside nightclub and wait patient as big burly bouncer pat my bottom and check under collar for something. I think he looking for my Unfinished Symphony, so is good job I leave at home. Once inside I see lots of people jumping and moving like they have caught The Black Death but all seem to be having fun and enjoyment. I get talk with pretty girl and after buying her overpriced warm drink, she show me secret to dancing in nightclub. It go big fish, little fish, cardboard box, and after twisting my ankle a few time I get hang of it.
At 6am nightclub closes but I unable to find where I leave my smart velvet jacket. Bouncer tell me is home time so I call him ungrateful Nazi bastard. He grab me, throw me out, and slam door in my face.
Still, not all bad as I now have special green glowstick as secret souvenir. Maybe it make conducting orchestra more interesting, no?
Hey guys, it’s the Hulkster here!
Anyone else a fan of camping? I tells you, I love the entire experience – from the moment I lace up my thick leather walking boots, I look forward to that moment at the end of the day when I get to suffocate a small animal with my bare hands so it can be cooked on an open fire.
I remember I once forgot to pack my mallet, meaning I had nothing to bang the tent pegs in with. Luckily, I discovered that I could headbutt the cheeky little varmints into the ground and I’ve never bothered packing a mallet since then!
Now, after a hard day’s hiking around under the hot summer sun, there’s no better fruit to refresh yourself with than a satsuma. Not a lot of people agree, but as far as I’m concerned the satsuma is the best of all the citrus fruits that humanity has so far discovered, yet it’s the orange that tends to get all the praise and popularity these days. If you ask me, the orange is nothing more than a bully and can be a real mean son of a bitch to get into. I can make mincemeat out of a can of Dr Pepper, but for the life of me I can’t get into an orange without all the pips getting stuck in my ‘tache.
Limes ain’t too bad but they’re green and remind me of Brussels sprouts, which give me real bad indigestion and I don’t like having bad guts when I’m out in the middle of nowhere.
And lemons? Lemons are right sneaky assholes, constantly waiting for the right moment to squirt a bit of juice in your eye when you’re least expecting it. Hell, I remember the last time it happened to me I nearly passed out – getting a dollop of the bitter stuff down your Japseye ain’t no fun and I’ve been wary of handling lemons at bedtime ever since.
A sattsy, though? Thems are lovely things and they’re great for sharing around with your buddies. Whilst everyone else is guzzling down a Budweiser or two, me and the family are in the corner enjoying a delightful array of satsuma segments. Even the pets like a quick nibble on them, though you gotta be careful; I once petted next door’s dog a bit too hard and accidentally caved the poor little mite’s skull in.
Sometimes, I just don’t know my own strength.