Peeps who interviewed me
Trailer for Underneath
Trailer for Shades of Grey
Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
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.
Welcome, oglers! Unless you’ve been living in a country with tightly-controlled state media restricting your exposure to celebrity nipple-slips, you’ll have heard all about the Kate Middleton holiday snaps that have been making the rounds. Surprise, surprise, everyone is blaming the photographers again. Let me ask you this: if Miss Middleton didn’t want some overweight, grubby, sex starved, thrice-divorced, middle-aged bloke in khaki shorts taking photos of her tits from half a mile away, why did she grow them in the first place? If there’s one thing that I can’t stand, it’s hypocrisy, and women with breasts are amongst the worst offenders.
Dear Paparazzi John
I was putting the rubbish out the other week, when I thought I saw a leaf blow across my neighbour’s garden. Is this a tell-tale sign of paparazzi activity, or was it just the wind?
Good question! Distraction is a key weapon in the paparazzi armoury, and I’m something of an expert in it. I once hid at the back of my neighbour’s wardrobe, just waiting to get a quick peek of her in that lace nightgown she bought the week before. She somehow heard me, and I had to think quickly. Cats are famous for faffing about in wardrobes, trying on other people’s clothes, so I made a purring noise. Unfortunately, she didn’t actually have a cat, so the ruse didn’t work. I then did an impression of a cow, hoping she would think it was her mobile ring tone, but she still wasn’t fooled. In a last ditch effort, I rolled a marble across the floor to trick her into thinking she had a poltergeist.
Stupid bitch called the police on me. I tell you, if she didn’t want to be seen in her undergarments, why did she buy them from a high street shop? If she wanted to keep it a secret, she should have bought it online and had it delivered when everyone was asleep. In fact, she should forgo the use of clothes entirely if she’s going to be such a prude about being seen wearing them.
Dear Paparazzi John
I’m trying to get into photography, and have some very tasteful photos of my wife, reading in the garden. Would you mind taking a look, and let me know you think?
Woah! Easy, tiger! Artful pictures of a fully-clothed woman? That she consented to? Are you some kind of pervert?
Hmmm, mind you… are her nipples visible through the blouse?