Michael Cargill

Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.

Tag Archives: opinion

Q&A with a pair of Adidas Samba trainers

Hey there my hip and hapadidas sambapening friends, it’s good to see you again! I have been trapped inside a shoe box for a while which is why you haven’t heard from me recently. I couldn’t even get a signal for my mobile phone either, it was dreadful, although I got pretty good at that Snakes game. Somehow a bee got inside the box with me and it drove me potty with all its buzzing around everywhere – I was bloody glad when it tried to sting the lid and ended up ripping its own arse out.

Dear Adidas Samba trainers

I’m having trouble with my gas supplier. They keep overcharging me and I don’t understand their website instructions on how to do a gas meter reading myself. Can you help?

Why yes, of course I can! I’m no expert on utility suppliers myself but I remember the large-breasted woman in the factory where I was stitched together knew all about these things and she would get Jimmy, the local IT bod, to do the gas readings for her. She had a bad back so couldn’t do it herself but Jimmy was a real whizz with that sort of thing. I’ve sent the woman a text message asking if she knows Jimmy’s number but she hasn’t replied yet. Miserable bitch, I hope her tits fall off.

Dear Adidas Samba trainers

I need to know what sort of t-shirt to wear down the gym. Should I go with a cheap cotton one or the more expensive ones that draw the sweat away from the body?

Hmm, good question. My only real experience with t-shirts is from the factory when the rejected ones were torn up and turned into shoe laces for me and my chums. Most of the time they were just cheap imports, but occasionally a box of unwanted Calvin Kleins or Ralph Lauren tops would come in – anyone who got a quality set of laces like that has really hit the jackpot! If you’re really strapped for cash you could perhaps wear a black plastic bin liner. Although it’ll leave you sweating horrendously, it helps enormously with the weight loss… you fat tosser.

Come to my teddy bear’s picnic

Hi there. People often ask me if I’m crazy for coteddy bearllecting teddy bears but I really don’t think I am. I have 156 teddy bears at the moment yet at any one time there can be 50 trillion cells in the human body… and no-one considers a collection like that to be strange. I once arranged all my beary friends into a scene resembling the painting of The Last Supper. I had Berty, my favourite, as Jesus and all the other bears were listening to him talk. I did all the voices myself and made Judas Iscariot sound like a Dalek from Doctor Who. I got very upset at the betrayal bit and threw the Judas bear out of the window. I later regretted this as it was raining outside and he got wet.

In the summer I love having picnics and I once hosted one in the park that was fraught with danger. If the butter gets on their fur it can be a nightmare to wash the smell out and all the infernal children never leave me alone. Someone’s dog got over excited and chewed one of my favourites to pieces – it was hot so I had put a piece of ham on the bear’s head to keep him cool and, well, you can probably guess the rest. These days I tend to use a leaf of lettuce instead and put some slices of cucumber on top to weigh it down. So far, no dogs have tried to attack my bears since I adopted this measure.

If I go on a ride somewhere on my bicycle I will always take a rucksack and put at least two bears in it. When I stop for a break it means I can take them out and have someone to talk to as I get my energy back. Although I have a water bottle I keep it filled with honey rather than water – if there’s one thing that I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that honey can give you energy and strength. It’s true, I saw it in a Yogi Bear cartoon once and it reminded me of Popeye with his spinach, but Yogi is much better than Popeye.

If Yogi and Popeye were in a wrestling match I would be the commentator. I would do the voices myself and Popeye would have a voice like Chandler from Friends.

Sir Francis Drake reviews his Subway sandwich experience

Tally ho, chaps! Now, before I begin, if I find out that aFrancisDrakeny French or Spanish people are reading this I will have them arrested and thrown in prison, so bloody clear off. Anyway. Most of the time when I am hungry I jump on my horse and go for a jolly hunt somewhere in the woods like every fine English gentleman does. However, today it is raining, and flushing out the pheasants is a ghastly business in the wet so I decided to pop along to that new Subway sandwich place to see what the fuss is all about. And by golly, was it exciting – I even saw William Shakespeare in the queue! I know he can’t write for shit but his wife has a cracking little arse on her and I let out a chortle when I heard him pronounce ‘jalapeno’ incorrectly.

When I first walked in to the place the door made a ‘ting-a-ling’ sound which I hadn’t ever heard before. I thought we were under attack but it turns out that a bell was attached to the door via a complex rope-and-pulley system. I had no idea that the sandwich industry had progressed so much over the last few years.

The man behind the counter asked me what bread I wanted. “However the Earl of Sandwich has it!” I boomed, leading him to look at me as if I was a Frenchman taking a shit on his doorstep. Then I saw the actual bread selection and asked for an Italian herb ‘n’ cheese.

Now the questions started to come thick and fast – do I want extra cheese? Would I like it toasted? Had I heard about the sub of the day? I was feeling a bit under pressure so I decided to play for time. “Good God man are you the Spanish Inquisition?” I asked, before spotting ‘meatball marinara’ up on the menu board. Although I had no idea what it was I didn’t get to where I am today without taking any chances. “And don’t spare the marinara stuff either,” I said, fixing him with one of my steely gazes. Annoyingly my eye started to itch so it probably looked like I chickened out when I started rubbing it. Finally, with the transaction completed, I grabbed my sandwich and ran all the way home so as to feast in private.

Oh drat and blast! I forgot to get my Subway membership card stamped.

Welcome to my Italio pizzario ristorante

Buon giorno! Come in, come in, my friends there are plenty of titalian restaurantables for you and your scummy family. Let me take your coats, and oh, what this? Fake leather jacket from TK Maxxies, how very bourgeois of you. Here, scoff on these bread rolls and shut up-a your face as I fetch you the menu and stare at your slut daughter’s breasts at the same time. I make faces at your ugly wife as she reads out entire menu over and over again and I let out fart near your idiot son’s head. Now sir, pissy wine for you and your fat wife, yes? Vodka for slut daughter of course and a large lemonade for your son of idiots. No sir, we no sell Guinness or Budweiser as we are no gypsy restaurant. We no sell Twiglets or Wotsits either before you ask.

Ah, I see you get confuse with words on menu. Your daughter has iPhone so why not get her to use translate app? You know she only use phone to get text message with photo of boyfriend’s penis. Okay, well ‘anti pasti’ is like a starter course, but we add £3 to price and say it cooked with olive oil. Everything is olive oil including the shampoo I use on head, is nice and shine and sometimes we use to clean toilet if carbonara goes bad and give people stomach bug. Okay so you sir have lasagne, how very imaginative. Slut daughter has fish, wife has lasagne too, and idiot son wants the fried sausages; why he no go McDonalds instead?

We now have your order so me and petite waitress with nice ass go stand outside and have cigarette. We laugh at you and your family and then I tell waitress again that I like her nice ass and that I want to rub olive oil all over her. She give me horn and makes my Tower of Pisa start to lean but the chef is her boyfriend and he is buffoon. Although he look like paedophile and has smell of dog she say she love him. I want to shove that ponytail of his up his own ass until he scream and cry like baby.

What’s this? You only leave £1.50 for tip? You English dogs.

There aint nothing that can’t be fixed with a nice sausage

Although I was born in 1956, looking back I can see that msausagesy life before 1978 was empty for it was in that fateful year that I purchased a second-hand sausage-making machine. It’s a real beast of a device of proper vintage construction and it will take your hand clean off if you don’t treat it with respect… and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Late at night, when I’m finishing off the day’s batch of sausages, I swear that I can sometimes hear the ghost of Queen Victoria singing to me as I turn that ivory handle. I can just picture her queuing up at the Royal Palace canteen, plate delicately balanced in her hand, asking for a nice pair of spicy Cumberland bangers so that she can slip them between two slices of freshly baked bread.

At first I kept the machine in the garage at the behest of my good wife – she’s never liked the thing even from the get-go. “Too dangerous,” she tells me, “the sort of thing that Jack the Ripper would have used,” she reckons.

What utter rot. Of course she soon changed her tune when I served up a sausage trifle for dessert when we had all the family round for dinner; she was shedding tears of pure joy and happiness for a good half hour after everyone had gone home. She even went and stayed at her mum’s for two weeks such was her emotional state. When she came back I showed her that I had moved the machine onto my bedside cabinet – she was utterly speechless at the thought of me squelching and banging away until the early hours of the morning!

Begonias, aloe veras, medinilla, and tulips; all beautiful plants and all have worked their way through the cogs and pipes of this machine of mine. I likes to experiment with things and sometimes my experiments throw up a nice surprise every now and then – I put a cactus through it once and it turns out that them spikes don’t ‘sausage up’ very well at all: you end up with spikey bits poking through the skin and they ruin the wife’s non-stick frying pan as well.

Justin Bieber’s Diary

Dear diaryjustin bieber

Today I woke up and saw my light was still on so I turned it off. Usually my mummy does it when I have gone to sleeps but she must have forgotten. I went downstairs to get some juice but my favourite Donald Duck cup was still in the dishwasher so I used the Goofy one instead. The Goofy one is brown and I usually save it for when I have chocolate Nesquik but mummy said it was too early for milkshake so I had juice instead. I like to pretend I am just like daddy so I put a spoon in the cup as if I am having coffee and when I finish I rub my tummy and say “Yum yum that was nice coffee,” even though it was really juice.

I wanted to listen to some music so I put on my favourite Lion King music CD and danced around pretending to be the circle of life. Timon and Pumbaa always make me laugh and I would really like to meet them one day so we could be friends and have lots of fun together. Sometimes I pretend my cat is Pumba and I am Timon, and this one time he did a really smelly farty smell that made me feel sick but later I found it funny because it was just the sort of thing that the real Pumba would do.

In the afternoon I had another go on my Rubik’s Cube toy and almost managed to match up some of the squares but I got bored of it after a while and put it back in my toy box. I have a Donald Duck puzzle that is just like my Donald Duck cup, but the cup was still in the dishwasher so I wasn’t able to finish the puzzle because I couldn’t look at the picture to see what it looks like when it is finished. I once made my own puzzle by drawing a picture on a bit of paper and asking mummy to cut it up into lots of small pieces but she shouted at me for drawing on her bank statement.

Avon calling

Hello! Susan here, your local Avon lady. Don’t worry if youjack nicholson don’t recognise me as I am used to that now. No-one ever sees me; it’s part of the Avon way. Late at night I will skulk my way up to your porch and drop the latest catalogue onto your doorstep – face down for dog owners, face up otherwise – before melting my way back into normal society… to wait. Next week I’ll be back at the same time, primed and ready to pounce on any filled-out forms. Oho, what’s this? Mr Sampson at number 56 wants a tea cosy? Watson, something is afoot!

Oh, Mr Sampson what happened? I’m more than familiar with your usual tastes – did you think this would fool me? Why, only last week I was hiding under the table as you ate dinner with your family. No, you didn’t see me because that’s the Avon way. I confess to having a spot of bother with your dog but I was forewarned by the catalogue being face up. As I peered and sniffed my way around under your house I couldn’t help but notice that you had used the purple Homer Simpson cheese grater for the cheese salad… and I shed a tear of joy.

Yes, for I well remember the day you ordered it way back in 2008 and I took a photocopy of the order form for prosperity’s sake. Order number AV1389-0A – look, it’s even tattooed onto my hand because that’s the Avon way. Last month I was watching as you sat on your dear lonesome in the pub. You ordered a Guinness and once again you failed to chastise the barman for not pouring it correctly… I wept for you. When you went to the toilet I approached your table and turned over your beer mat. I put it face up as you did not have your dog with you before remembering that you’re still a dog owner and turned it back over again. I battled with my inner self for days afterwards… such is the emotional price of having a philosophy.

Oh, Mr Sampson, how I adore thee.

Queen Elizabeth II reviews Bambi

This feature-length film was first brought to one’s The Queenattention by way of a written message sometime in 1963 and one is sad to report that one has not had the time to view it until now. For those that are unaware, Bambi is the work of the man who built those Disney theme parks and who also placed numerous Bambi-branded Thermos flasks on the shelves of corner shops and discount wholesalers all across the globe. It is my understanding that Disney also invented Mickey Mouse and one cannot help but notice that Bambi and Mickey Mouse have something in common: they are both animals. Not being one to believe in coincidences, one has to wonder what to make of this fact and is something for one to ponder at length.

In the film there is a ghastly little rabbit called Thumper. One quickly realises that he is not a character to be taken literally as he is clearly an allegory for a particularly naughty corgi dog that one once owned. On many an occasion, my servant would feed some gin to this dog which would case it to run around like a crazy ferret. Although one found this jolly amusing the first few times it quickly became tiresome and I instructed the servant to remove him from the premises immediately. One can only imagine that Thumper would make horrendous company if one were to ever share a horse-drawn carriage or chariot with him. When the film had finished it was pointed out to me that Thumper is an animal, just like Bambi and Mickey Mouse are; one has to consider what was going on in the head of Disney at this time.

There was a bit in the film where Bambi’s father turns around and leaves him on his lonesome. One was immediately struck by the similarity of the time I was in France and some French berk of a waiter ignored me when I asked for another plate of olives. Clearly, Disney is familiar with the peculiar French arrogance and one has to admire his attempt at immortalising and satirising it on the big screen. Whilst on the subject of France, one feels it is pertinent to point out that Nicholas Sarkozy has a wonky face. When one is in his company, it is most unsettling as one is constantly under the impression that he is about to sneeze. He once tried to make a joke about whether one had ever considered wearing one’s crown backwards.

I made it quite clear that one was not amused.

You sold me queer giraffes

Antonius Proximo here… yes, the sly old sod from the film Gladgladiator-oliver-reediator and if anyone makes a joke about me looking just like Oliver Reed I’ll smash their face in. And before you ask, yes I’m still pissed off that someone sold me queer giraffes and it was only rheumatism and gout that stopped me from ripping fat boy’s testicles off. It’s not even the first time he has tried to con me either – last year I had an ear infection and he sold me some leeches that he claimed would cure it. It wasn’t until after he left that I realised the cheeky twat had sold me a load of bloody caterpillars. I did wonder why they were so hairy.

No doubt you are dying to hear about Maximus. By Jupiter, I’m fed up with him now. Yes, he’s great with a sword and he can fight off a dozen blokes in the arena, but there’s shit all else that he can do. You should see the state of his bedroom! It’s a tip! He also spends far too much time with those giraffes. Oh, those bloody giraffes I wish they would just die, or knee Maximus in the face or something. I can’t even remember why I bought them… probably thought they would be handy for painting the ceiling or keeping an eye out for the emperor bloke who wants to shag his sister.

Talking of the emperor, he’s a wrong ’un as well. I don’t mean for the sister thingy – although that is pretty weird in itself – but in general he gives me the creeps. If he was an animal he would probably be a giraffe. A queer giraffe, at that. See? I can’t get away from the damn things. I swear they are cursed. And, no word of a lie, I reckon they laugh at me. Every time I go near them they huddle their heads together and start whispering things to each other. I try to listen in but they are too high up for me to hear what they are saying and I even have to shut my windows at night otherwise they poke their heads in.

And with it being 110 degrees here sometimes it means I sweat like a bastard.

Starbucks? Sickbuckets more like

As a real coffee fan I avoid Starbucks compcoffeeletely. Everything about the place is wrong and I despise the rampant commercialisation of coffee. The people who work there are not ‘baristas’ at all, they are scoundrelous shits and every night I wish a pox upon them. Quite frankly if the coffee isn’t prepared how the Arabian nomadic farmers had it back in 25BC, then I don’t want to know – these damned coffee chains don’t even give you the option to have camel’s milk for goodness sake.

One time I attempted to grow my own coffee beans, just so I could be as authentic as possible. It wasn’t successful, mainly because my spare room is not an arid desert that gets 50mm of rain an hour during the monsoon season. I did try to grow some in the bath but I think I killed the plant when I dropped my pumice stone in there by accident; I had no idea that my dry skin was so toxic and I was devastated when I realised what had happened.

I’m thinking of starting up a magazine so that me and my fellow coffee aficionados can band together. It could even serve as a support group for people suffering from comedowns when making the transition from tea to coffee and I could even pitch a tent in my garden that would function as a kind of halfway house for them. To be honest I’ve never understood the appeal of tea – all that bag nonsense, it just seems so… false and dishonest.

As for that instant Nescafe stuff you can buy in the shops, well I wouldn’t even use to grit the pavements.

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