Status: Single
Country: UK
Signup Date: 5/16/2006
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Monday, June 02, 2008
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Ashley Reaks: A Conglomeration of Jockstraps (album) ONE of the Harrogate scene's most talented, if unorthodox, forces for nearly 20 years now, A Conglomeration of Jockstraps leaves you with the conclusion that artist/musician/poet Ashley Reaks is as bright as a mathematician and as daft as a brush. Over the course of these brilliantly barmy 25 tracks, many of them lasting less than a minute, you will be in turns amused, horrified, bored and, occasionally, moved. Though the style goes off in multiple directions, the content is consistent, the philosophical approach established by the opening two tracks. Football Results has Ash reading the football results like any tea- time Saturday TV broadcast - until the scores are suddenly infected with wicked interjections of non-sequiturs and smut. Margaret Sweat opts for spoken word poetry to a spooky electronic background. It could be quite lovely until its lines of lyrical beauty are hijacked by brutal imagery, bad language and pornographic references. Reaks may delight in undermining his own literary streak and galloping command of English language with shock tactics but he's far from a one tricky pony. Amid the blizzard of daft voices, backward tapes and musical pastiches, he throws in a couple of tracks to let you know he can write a good tune if he's in the mood. Do The Horrongoden starts like any throwaway 80s synth pop hit by Blancmange until the chorus when amazing rapid-fire call and response semi-religious Arabic chanting turns the normal into the truly remarkable. This Is No Life is a catchy pop-punk gem full of blazing guitars and a Foo Fighters-like chorus. But melody isn't really the aim on this album where the deep and the deeply silly rub shoulders, where tunefulness is undermined by ugliness and the juvenile and adult battle for control. There's an over-riding obssession with religion, sex, manners and moral that suggests the real aim is to strip away the thin veneer of civilisation to reveal the depth of abnormality that lies behind what we take to be the 'normal'. A Conglomeration of Jock Straps sits in a long lineage: the films of David Lynch, the monologues of Ivor Cutler's Tales From A Scottish Room series, the music of The Bonzo Dog Band, the records of The Residents, the cut-up novels of William S Burroughs, the Christmas broadcasts of The Beatles for their fan club (1966-67), the radio humour of The Goons, all the way back to the1920s artists Salvador Dali and Marcel Duchamp. This is serious stuff - up to a point. Despite the occasional vocoder effect that makes him sound like Professor Stephen Hawking, Ash owes as much to Frank Sidebottom as Dada, as likely to mock Geoff Capes or Steve Cram as try to explain the meaning of everything, as likely to burst into laughter as his own wit as say something profound. Surreal or subversive, a Yorkshireman never loses his sense of humour. Graham Chalmers --------------------------------------------------------------------- Ashley Reaks : A Conglomeration Of Jockstraps  The first time I encountered Mr Reaks was in the nineties when he was playing with Francis Dunnery, telling rude jokes in-between numbers. Second time was when he was fronting the short lived Younger Younger 28s-; perhaps the greatest pop band never to have made it from Yorkshire. I didn't even realise this bizarre collection of poetry, songs and sketches was Mr Reaks until I investigated his my space account. If you imagine a blue version of comedian John Shuttleworth you'll have an idea of where the melted mind of Reaks comes from. The street interviews will have you stitching up your burst stomach, on hearing life meaning questions such as "Where Do You Keep your collection of Pigeon Erotica" and "Do you think there's a satanic message in life dancing!" Meanwhile, in the sketch football results, we are informed that "The match between Derek Griffiths and Morning Sickness was called off due to a tremendous spaniel on the pitch". School boy humour inside, there's some snazzy production going on here and a lot of thought has gone into this release. The poem "The Earth Swan Sings Again" is inspired and beautiful. John Shuttleworth would no doubt be pleased that he has inspired Yamaha ditties here such as "Keith Wilson" ( a love song to a hypnotherapist) but less impressed that the catchiness of "Milk Is Not Your Uncle" will evoke punch the air moments which will rival his own greatest moment "Pigeons In Flight".
David Wright - Talk Magazine
'A Conglomeration Of Jockstraps' is available at here
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Monday, May 05, 2008
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Current mood:  stalked
Category: Music
Here's a video of my er...song (!) 'The History Of Air' off my recent dark comedy/poetry CD 'A Conglomeration Of Jockstraps'… It was done by the lovely people at Dance Music For Depressed People...Check them out!... My mum says it's best watched when you're naked, shivering, alone and hallucinating...Go on and treat yourself!...
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Thursday, March 06, 2008
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
I'll be performing darkly comic songs, poetry and noises from my execrable new CD 'A Conglomeration of Jockstraps' at some London venues next week...
Mon 10th - A Spoonful of Poison! at The Rhythm Factory, 16-18 Whitechapel Road, London E1 1EW...
Wed 12th - Blang! at the 12 Bar Club, Denmark Street, London WC2
Thurs 13th - The Perserverance - 11 Shroton Street, London, NW1 6UG...
The 12 Bar website describes me as 'one of the funniest men at loose in his own clothes, his is a Northern English nightmare of puppets, explosions, mental illness, wigs, music and sausage fat. He is unlike any other performer you have ever seen. If you enjoy masochistic laughter: weeping, aching ribs, stomach cramps and peeing yourself, hey, come on down!'...
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Sunday, January 06, 2008
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Current mood:  pugnacious
Every Wednesday I'm hosting an alternative open mic night called Click Clack. It takes place at The Iron Duke, Cold Bath Road, Harrogate, HG2 0NA Entry is FREE and sign-up for performers starts around 8.30pm. Anything goes at Click Clack though I prefer alternative, odd, funny, experimental performance, but this can be in any form : poetry, comedy, music (no drums though!). So all you poets, ranters, comedians, singers, musicians, short film makers, photographers, mime artists, glockenspiel virtuosos, didgeridoo players, artists, ex-darts champions, walrus impersonators, please come down and share your talents with us. If you'd like a guest spot please get in touch with me via this MySpace 
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Monday, August 27, 2007
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Current mood:  distressed
Brian 'The Yeoman' McGregor was born during the great storm of 1908. The storm devastated the surrounding countryside and also whipped the moustache off his Auntie Brenda.
Brian's mum, Cheryl, was a harmless old soul with 14 shoulders and a wide selection of acne scars, who was often to be heard yodelling the Lord's Prayer to her imaginary sister 'Avalanche'.
Brian's Papa, Jeremiah Snr., was a fierce and brutal old cunt, who took great delight in spanking orphan's (dis)illusions and injecting empty hornet's nests into the diseased veins of local paupers.
Not surprisingly Brian was a confused and lonely child.
He would sit in his unfurnished and windowless bedroom and make ominous cow and goat noises to keep himself company.
This continued until puberty.
But when puberty came, so did Brian.
Again and again and again and again.
He would strip down to his sari, put Cannon and Ball's Greatest Hits on his turntable, light a distress flare and begin to stroke himself gently, all the time imagining himself in a warm embrace with the remains of Richard Digance. Unfortunately, what started out as a form of self-soothing, a defence against the unbearable pain of reality soon became an all-consuming addiction.
His mum and dad were at a loss at what to do with Brian, so after a short discussion about the meaning of plinths, they took the controversial step of chaining him to the railings outside the local owl-sanctuary in an act of 'tough love'.
Alone, naked, shivering and dressed only in a chicken's silent fart, Brian began to give up hope. He would scream the word 'Graggen' at passers-by in a voice reminiscent of tiny Scotsman Billy Bremner just before he pegged it. Hallucinating and dangerously psychotic from hunger and lack of sleep, Brian's fragile mind began to disintegrate.
He imagined that his feet had somehow mutated into one of Ted Heath's earliest shit-stains. He heard the voice of God ordering him to kill all gasmen. His ears felt like the inside of a cannon. When he opened his eyes all he could see was the ghost of John Craven seriously assaulting Mick McCarthy with a traffic bollard. His breath began to smell like the rag and bone man his dad had once beaten up in a fight over some mist. He thought the vultures hovering up above were doing an accapella version of 'Life' by Des'ree. In Brian's ravaged mind, his nostrils had become the death of Mussolini and the odour from his unwashed anus was a personal gift from Jesus.
Understandably his parents became a little concerned for his welfare, so much so that they offered to help out the local community by personally disembowelling their only son on Shrove Tuesday at an undisclosed location. (Admission £4 Concs £3)...
In an act of immense spirtual gratitude they then planned to smear his remains over a gagged and bound Sue Pollard as the Salvation Army band banged out a ragged but acceptable version of 'Boxerbeat' by the cruelly mis-understood JoBoxers...
Somewhere through the mayhem surrounding his future, or lack of it, Brian got wind of his parents murderous intent. In a rare moment of clarity he realised that he'd had the key to his shackles all along. After spending nigh on 11 months as his own jailer Brian set himself free and hitched a lift with an unrecognisable George Roper who was passing by on his way to the Pearly Gates.
Brian and George got on so famously that they even found time to lovingly massage each others' auras in the forecourt of Tibshelf service station. Eventually, after singing along to Richard Marx's 1994 album 'Paid Vacation' and spending a useful hour trying to guess the three mystery voices on Magic 105.4 FM, George bid Brian 'adieu' and dropped him off on the outskirts of Walsall, in a tiny hamlet called Diaspora-by-the-Grange.
Ecstatic at his first taste of real freedom in months Brian did what anybody would do in the same situation. He purchased a stinking effigy of Limahl from the local Post Office (£12.99) and set about axing it into microscopic pieces, from which he constructed his new home, a pleasant if nondescript gaff he christened 'Bunions Farce'.
It took Brian a little while to adapt to 'normal' life but soon he was a regular face in the village and enjoyed contributing to the local community. He played Linvoy Primus in the nativity play, baked some cinammon muffins for the Harvest festival, and was closely involved in the traditional 'Burning of the Infants' festival, an ancient soul-cleansing ritual which dated back to the time of Uncle Ramus.
Brians re-integration into society seemed complete when he met his future wife, Klezma, in a derelict barnyard, where he was washing his clogs.
To say Klezma was eye-candy was a massive understatement.
3ft 2 in, 87 stones, barely 8 days old and the illegitimate daughter of Sir Bobby Robson, she was dressed provocatively in an ill-fitting nappy and a smock, and when she opened her mouth, the space within resembled a kiosk.
But they say love is blind and within 12 seconds Brian and Klezma were married. and were soon consumating their marriage vows in the engine of an abandoned tractor. Brian yelled the word 'Lamp' as he dumped his custard over Klezmas broken brace. She, in turn, began to gargle like a canyon as she climaxed furiously in that freezing field.
The newly-weds honeymooned in a war museum and whispered sweet nothings to each other whilst eating worms (albeit with too little ketchup). They talked incessantly about having children, buying a house, growing old together, torturing pixies, that sort of thing.
They were totally and utterly inseparable.
Brian steamed his own face off with a hot iron to show his commitment to Klezma, and she got a tattoo on her pancreas saying ' I gave birth to myself' in the blood of an ape.
The next few years were the closest Brian had ever come to happiness. He started his own business desecrating graves, opened a cash ISA with a stolen giro, studied 'The history of air' at the local adult education college, and even began to write poetry to express his innermost feelings.
Urged on by Klezma he went along to the local spoken word open mike night, eager to read his poetry to the assorted poets, literary types and perverts. After a pants-papping wait, Brian stepped up to the stage and gave a faultless rendition of his ode to world peace 'Harvest Festival Gangbang'
'Harvest Festival gangbang, like K-9 in a strop,
like Derek Nimmo's internal organs dangling from a clock,
like a tower of flea-ridden refugees with Norman Bates on top.
A Harvest Festival gangbang in a non-existant shop.
Harvest Festival gangbang, like a vicar's stinking duds.
like Giant Haystacks frying a cat on the bass player from Mud,
like a sausage factory closing down, like a werewolf caked in blood.
A Harvest Festival gangbang in a never-ending flood.
Harvest Festival gangbang, like a tailor dressed in rags,
like Roger De Courcy french-kissing an elk till the poor bastard gags
like a power lunch with the Brady Bunch reading 'choke the monkey' mags,
a Harvest Festival gangbang on a torn and faded flag.
Harvest Festival gangbang, like sickness and disease,
like Maureen Lipman gently lapping on a foreskin caked in cheese,
like an abbatoir in Lancashire, like mouldy cricket teas,
a Harvest Festival gangbang to the sound of 'Summer Breeze'.
The room fell completely silent, astonished at the depth of expression they'd just witnessed.
They recognised a genius when they heard one
One by one the audience made their way to Brian, to shake his hand and hopefully his flaccid member.
A re-born Norris McWhirter shot out of a cannon and licked him passionately on the ankle. Along came Chris Eubank wearing a torn 'Southern Death Cult' T-Shirt and an old parka he's borrowed off a cretin, quickly followed by Hansel and Gretel and the keyboard player from Rush. A profusely sweating Lionel Bart interrupted polishing Bonnie Langford's clitoral piercing to thank Brian for his searing honesty. The girls from t.A.T.u. drove in on a 2 inch tractor and gauged each others eyes out in homage to the great man.
The procession of adoring fans seemed endless.
A fragile Captain Caveman brought his entire family down from Swansea; Richard Marx himself was seen entering the building on a Sinclair C5; The ghost of Maria Whittaker shovelled her monstrous tits in a wheelbarrow and hitched all the way from Nuremburg, merely to plant a smacker on Brian's aching japs eye. The great Sonny Liston arrived wearing a suit made from otter droppings; Harry Carpenter flew in from Mecca in the foetal position murmering the word 'Mama'; Tori Amos had superglued herself to Florence Nightingale's iron knickers and hitched a lift on a cart whilst Tam O'Shanter and Kathy Lloyd rode tandem from Blenheim Palace where they'd been starring in the little-known pantomine 'The Darkness of Algebra'.
Understandably Brian was utterly overwhelmed by all the attention suddenly foisted upon him. Only a few months ago he'd been ostracized by all and sundry and now he was being heralded by some as the new Shakespeare, and the new Billy Bunter by others.
Back home in the loving arms of Klezma, Brian tried to take stock of the amazing changes in his life.
Some things he knew for sure.
1. He was not called Geratio.
2. He had no intention of retiring to Batley.
3. If you lick a copper's helmet, don't expect a message of support from your local MP.
4. Brambles covered in sheeps-blood do not a mormon make.
5. The Peter Gabriel period Genesis was very much like a tyrant exposing his genitals to Shirley Crabtree.
6. If you throw wind at a dalek, you must expect severe retribution from some oxen.
7. If your first name is Randolph then suicide is unfortunately the only option.
8. It wasn't Frank Cannon who said 'Bum yourself' when asked why he existed.
9. A veruca is not a lorry-load of carpets.
10. If you mix some dribble with a vat full of ether it's unlikely that you'll ever be asked to present 'Countryfile'.
But the big questions in life like 'How is fleece?' and 'Whence is thine renunciation?' left him completely stumped.
Determined to explore the real meaning of his and mankind's existence, Brian retrieved the copy of the I-Ching he'd been using as bog roll, spreadeagled himself on a bed of nails, put on Steffi Graf's latest CD, 'Music to relieve menstrual tension', injected the dank gases from a couple of wasps directly into his retina and closed his one remaining good eye, focusing only on the sound of the word 'Homsen' and the image of a lone valve.
After two and a half fruitless years in search of the meaning of life, Brian was beginning to give up hope.
But just as Brian was about to call it a day he had what dog fighters call an epiphany. To this day he struggles to find the words for what he experienced. It was as if life had begun anew: as if he was seeing life for the first time. He was reborn. He had had the calling. He was ready to devote his life to God.
Unfortunately though Brian's train of thought was broken by Klezma shouting to him that his tea was ready.
He has never to this day remembered what it was that God told him.
To say he was fucked off was an understatement. Two minutes ago he was communicating with the Supreme Being and receiving divine guidance on making the world a better place and now he was nibbling on double egg, chips, beans, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns and two slices of bread and butter.
The massive mental leap from seeing God to cleaning the bean smears off his bib was understandably too much for Brian, triggering an old childhood trauma wound and he spiralled into a complete mental breakdown.
The details of what followed are unimportant but it's suffice to say it involved a rodeo, 3 cats faces, a blunt guillotine, his wife's head, a recital of the lyrics to 'Livin' on a Prayer', a fleet of ambulances, many pairs of Farrah slacks, some dust, the next door neighbour's innards, Jeremy Beadle, an unidentified man's operation scars, a video recorder, the theft of a loom, Lemmy doing hypnotherapy on a stoat, the end of arable farming as we know it, and Eddie Yeats.
Brian was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and placed in a secure unit near Redditch.
Heavily sedated and chewing sensually on some dogdirt Brian had become a shadow of his former self. The life had drained from his face and his buttocks were clenched tightly together like siamese twins. A procession of doctors came to see the ailing patient, swiftly followed by nurses, psychiatrists, therapists, warthogs, membranes, skinheads, pirates, yaks, OAP's, children with BO, hangmen, droogs, charlatans, hoddies, vermin, poachers, rabbis, hunter-gatherers, voles, lichen, mermaids, jilted brides, foremen, systems analysts, imbeciles, hens, geeks, indie kids from Northampton, Special Constables, fairground workers, lesbians, twats, vultures, brethren, garage mechanics, Brian Harvey, thespians, onanists, zoologists, jesters, endemologists, vagrants, spies, foresters, Yannick Noah, IT workers, lapdancers, out of work electricians, pilchards, roosters, people called Horatio, the bloke that founded Lidl, remnants, nutters, knobheads, ski instructors, lice, a single mongoose, a Rasputin impersonator from Stourbridge, Cramps fans, a goldfish, some Hull City fans and finally a pack of wolves carrying a photocopy of the Anglo-Irish peace treaty.
But it was all to no avail.
Nothing and nobody could shake Brian from the deep trance he ws in.
He remained motionless in a poor attempt at the lotus position for over 9 years, surviving on occasional drip-feeds of pureed cabbage and liquified dungeon dirt. His psychiatrist, the widely-respected Mr Hank Imran tried a variety of traditional and non-traditional techniques to bring Brian back to life.
Below is a non-comprehensive list of some of the treatments Dr Imran administered.
Gaffa-taping a pair of massive headphones to Brian's ears and playing a difficult to get hold of recording of Natasha Kaplinsky's birth; injecting a mixture of offal and pure helium into Brian's varicose veins; buying a buffing machine from Argos and dropping it onto Brian's head from a great height over 80 times; having a naked and sweating Chris Eubank sing lullabies to Brian whilst Prince Charles and Camilla tortured a vagrant in the corner of the room; purchasing a yak over the internet only to shoot it dead as it was dragged through the door; forcing Lee Ryan from Blue to organize an illegal dogfight on Brian's back door; slicing his cock into tidy strips with a stolen meat cleaver; arranging for Brian to be suspended from the hospital roof as every single member of the Harlem Globetrotters did a kef in his bed; photographing Brian's ringworm stains as Audley Harrison practiced his ballet in the adjoining ward; shovelling an enormous amount of stollen down Brian's japs eye; screaming 'You are a cottager' at his patient for just under a year; forcibly keeping Brian's eyelids open with a pitchfork and assassinating an unarmed Joe Dolce for no apparant reason; burning Eamonn Holmes to death for crimes against humanity and sprinkling the embers on Brian's perineum; inviting the local branch of the BNP to use Brian's anus as a megaphone; urging Steptoe and Son to coat Brian's entire body in a mixture of weedkiller and cat sick; punching Brian needlessly in the head until every male member of the hospital staff had a semi-on; bullying the bass player from the Beat into using Brian as his own personal toilet; tattooing a picture of an ill kestrel on Brian's lazy eye; taking a sample of Brian's pungent urine as Roger Federer beheaded Helen of Troy in the broom cupboard; hiring Jim Bowen to perform the whole of Roxette's relatively unknown 2001 album 'Room Service' on trombone; randomly licking Brian's distemper; relieving his ailing patient of his innards and then using them to fill some cornish pasties which he subsequently sold to Rothersthorpe service station.
But the end result was the same.
Nothing.
Until suddenly, after 9 years, 3 months, 12 days, 3 hours, 44 minutes and 18 seconds Brian casually opened his eyes, sat up in his bed, turned to Mr Imran and asked the classic question 'Who is your grandad's mum's dad's mum's dad's mum?
It was a poignant question for two reasons. One, it was the first time Brian had uttered a word in nigh on a decade. Two, Mr Imran's grandad's mum's dad's mum's dad's mum was none other than Emily 'The Funnel' Klacker, the first, and without doubt the best female town crier that Tyne and Wear had ever known.
In fact, during his desparately lonely teenage years, Brian was often to be found gently pleasuring himself to the mental image of 'The Funnel's' headstone.
'It's a small world' he thought, pulling back the bed sheets to check he still existed.
What Brian saw shook him to the very core of his being. He had not only undergone a spiritual, emotional and psychological transformation during his 'coma' years. but had also changed so much physically that he was almost unrecognizeable to himself.
His previously diddy ears had become a lace veil, a symbolic reminder of limitation and suffering the whole world over. His fingers, once fairly dirty and nondescript had taken on an air of royalty. His werewolf-esque back had been transformed into a stately home, with endless rooms to stroll through and admire.
At any time of the week (except Bank Holidays) the general public could be seen, map in hand, exploring the ancient wonders of Brian's ample back fat. Where once Brian had been the proud owner of a pair of hips to rival any African dancing queen, he now was the equally proud owner of a thriving antique shop on the exact site where his hips had once shimmied. His buttocks had understandably mutated into a remote arable farm; his toe-nails now housed Jimmy Saville's entire porn collection; Brian's scrawny wrists had become 'The Changing of the Guard'; the calf strain he'd acquired playing football one cold, wintry Sunday morning was a disused bomb shelter; his eyes had become his legs; his throat jutted out awkwardly in its new role as a photocopy of the Magna Carta; Brian's once useless bell-end was now a shining example of the power of positive thinking as it had become a thriving abbatoir in the Staffordshire area. His thin lips were now Anton Ferdinand's liposuction operation. Brian's ex-nostrils, once so narrow and dusty wre now a prime example of the impact of global warming on the Earth; the soles of his feet were now Sting's ringworm stains; the palm of his right hand was Ferris Buellers Day Off; the bit between his ball-sac and his arsehole had become a breeding ground for parasites the world over; the lines on his forehead were the new M1 motorway;
Brian's Adam's apple had somehow turned into a slow motion replay of the Nagasaki nightmare; the boils on his fat arse had reformed themselves into Indian palaces floating serenely on sunlit lakes; his shoulder length lank hair had been replaced by an army of termites marching relentlessly towards extinction;
In an act of supreme irony Brian's terminally flaccid penis had become a life-size poster of Sinitta doing the garden; his armpits were now pure mist; his eyebrows now a family-friendly collie dog; his nicotine-stained teeth were now a painting of a rabbit doing the pools; his waist some phlegm; his knees a court order for unpaid council tax; even his innards were now a short essay on the collapse of family values in the modern age.
In short, Brian looked like a nutter.
He looked like one of those blokes you see walking uphill with their owl collection in a binbag. Or that guy you spotted out of the corner of your eye, who was preaching the word of Jesus to some distressed old woman who'd only come into town as a treat.
Life was not what it once was.
It isn't even what it might be.
Brian's life had been reduced to the distance between now and forever; between a chasm and a crater: between air and breath.
He couldn't think straight. When he ventured upwards into the cavernous expanse of his mind, he saw only holes and warts, and maybe a couple of pieces of debris from the Great War. It was permanently 1916 in Brian's head. His cerebellum was the shape of an unlit Woodbine filterless cigarette, whilst his amygdala shot out of his third eye like a cretin out of a cannon. He'd attended a 'How to lobotomize yourself' course at his local Further Education college in the halcyon days of his infancy but unfortunately failed the exam due to having being arrested near the Cenotaph for impersonating a carcass. He was found guilty and sentenced to 12 months breakdancing to some early Mike and the Mechanics demos.
If you looked inside Brian's brain, one could clearly see the imprint of Socrates' knob-rot on the inner coating of his prefontal lobe, whilst on the core section of his pretectum lay the untouched body of the worm that turned. Diana Dors' lost ointment collection was suspended anonymously from Brian's cerebral peduncle and to make matters worse, the area where his Red Nucleus once was, now housed the bilious gases of a million dead clergymen.
Brian's head was a metaphorical war zone.
And as for his anus.
In a highly agitated state, Brian stole a skateboard off a cripple and bombed it down to the Department of Social Security to ask for some emergency money, a bed for the night and, if possible, a vortex of paranoia and skidmarks, which unsurprisingly they didn't have in stock.
However they did give him a giro for £48.94 and gave him the address of a local woman who was always willing to offer any old spaniel a bed for the night.
Brian crawled the 4 miles to the address he'd been given, and one there, knocked gently but firmly on the front door.
'Who's there?', shouted a voice reminiscent of Hong Kong Phooey's death rattle.
'It's me, Brian McMcMcMcMcMcMcMcsson' replied Brian, chomping on Alan Hansen's bell-end.
'What do you want at this time of night?'.
'A bed please ma'am' whimpered Brian, lovingly wiping Alan's stains off his gusset.
'Come on in then, lad' bellowed out the landlady, a congenial old hound called Alice Stainrod, born in Rochester in 1867, and a huge fan of wrestling and anal sex, though not at the same time.
As Brian stepped foot inside the house he was immediately struck by the complete lack of oxygen in the house. It was as if the lifeblood of the building had been sucked out of it and replaced by an ominous mixture of shellac and off-breath. The housemaid, Toto, simultaneously superglued a reduced price oxygen mask directly onto Brian's gaping anus whilst picking out the melody from 'Maxwells Silver Hammer' on a harpsichord. The butler, mysteriously known as 'Hoooooooooo' was lost in a higher state of pure ecstacy as he repeatedly reguritated his hidden past onto the cat's buttocks. Downstairs in the pantry, the chef was indulging himself in his passion for making quilts out of sludge, whilst at the top of the house, in the secret attic, lay the lifeless bodies of 5 and a half thousand headless lepers, scrubbed, cleansed, and ready to go straight off to auction.
Brian knew immediately that he would fit right in here. There was something strangely familiar about the rotting dog innards on the mantelpiece, as there was about the distresssed head of a bullock laid out on the playroom carpet for the kids to play with. The walrus remains, the chewed cow heart, the decaying horse fetus by the window, the severed sheep limbs, the decomposing goat brains, all of these filled Brian with a warm glow.
He felt safe.
Comfortable.
Loved.
Connected.
To feel like this was so rare for Brian. He usually felt terrorized, lost, alone, beaten, separate from. Brian savoured these moments deeply. He went inwards and said a brief 'Thank You' prayed to God for leading him to this place.
Brian was home.
He could sense the fear of a thousand years falling from his stressed-out body. His mind softened and the endless chatter began to quieten as he made contact with the God within. Mrs Stainrod led him to his bedroom for the night and, to the calming sounds of Enya masturbating in the background, rocked Brian to sleep in his over-sized cradle.
Brian slept for nearly 20 hours. When he awoke he felt fresh, renewed, re-invigorated. He leapt out of bed like a startled gazelle, threw on his running shoes (nothing else) and set off on a 5 mile run which was to become a ritual for Brian , at least for the next day or so. Running gave Brian time to think, to ponder, to contemplate, to try to make some sort of sense of the sensory assault known as life.
He thought about a lot of things during these daily meditations. Nothing escaped his curious mind. He thought about anything and everything, from why wasps exist to the size of cattle. At some point over the next decade he thought at least once about most of the following.
Bank heists, rabbits, robots, the sex lives of parasites, the spirituality of molluscs, valves (a lot), jockstraps, duds, dads, the dead, the undead, the living dead, Ken Dodd, The Diddymen, Dudley Moore, did he count, shelves, a day out at IKEA, shooting yourself, fluff, phlegm, getting the school bus home, Steven Gerrard's hidden depression, Jamie Carragher's high-pitched voice, why did Julio Arca sign for Middlesborough, Teesside, smog, power stations, the A19, Chesty Morgan, the exact moment you decide to become a traffic warden, the ageing process, warts, Upper Wortley, Dennis Wise, milk floats, heritage, geneaology, sand, fish and chips at Redcar, Sale near Manchester, Ian Botham, 1982, childhood (always), filaments, tooth pain, waiting, going AWOL, NATO, the shape of things to come, motorways, Slough, high anxiety, manic depression, Auntie Pauline, The Damned, psychic imprints, music, old time dances, The Ray Horner Combo, bullocks, rifts, falling out with old friends, starting a fight in an empty room, revulsion, recoil, Magazine, flanged bass, Manchester in the rain, 1979, cricket, Mike Atherton, what could have been, pooing his pants on the way to school, pooing his pants on the way back from school, being a mummys boy, being a mummy, Tutenkhamen, Peter Shilton, John Nettles, Gary Neville, crisps, crepes, cripes, creeps, crap, crows, crumbs, cretins, Jayne Ashman, Harrogate, youth clubs, 'Who's been sleeping in my brain?', The Inca Babies, Hulme, Christelle, Brittany, shaving your hair as a sign of mental illness, water, silence, loneliness, brethren, volvos, vulvas, valves, veils, hiding, skidmarks, the number 872, dirt, Shop, Dave's missing tooth, the smell of poverty, caravans, drunks, clubs, aggression, sleds, huskies, samoyeds, Jasper, John Shuttleworth, nightmare scenarios, rimming, ramming, hymens, Romans, remains, The Ramones, geeks, weirdos, lobotomies, shyness, all-boys schools...
All of this and Brian was just less than 15 minutes into his run.
When Brian returned he took off his sweaty running gear and ran himself a lovely bath with a relaxing mix of lavender oil and ylang ylang in it to wash away his worries. Brian became chilled out to such an extent that he could imagine himself back in his mother's womb. He could feel himself swimming in the amniotic fluid with a pair of armbands he'd borrowed off a floating sea urchin. He was happy inside his mum, all warm and snuggly, protected from the harsh edges of reality, cloaked in her bulbous and squishy reproductive organs, and hiding from intruders behind her strong and powerful fallopian tubes. As he lay in this DSS-approved Bed and Breakfast bath with a couple of skinheads knocking on the door as they wanted a shite, Brian was having vivid body memories of a time long ago when he wasn't frightened, hyper-vigilant, traumatized and unloved. He started to massage his leg muscles; first his calves and then his hamstrings. He felt the pains and tensions of 20 years disappearing from his highly-strung and deformed body. He stroked his achilles lovingly with just his forefinger and thumb and moaned in ecstacy as he experienced the release of long-held stresses. He remembered reading in a book once that rustic stains were the true heirs to the throne of Jesus Christ and wondered what that had to do with anything.
Outside the bathroom door, the two skinheads, Alec and Dick were growing impatient and shouted to Brian that if he didn't hury up they'd 'nail his bollocks to a totem pole and force feed him heron's eggs whilst the newly-decayed corpse of Melanie C sang all of Brother Beyond's B-sides accompanied by Jerzey Dudek on viola'.
'Fair enough' thought Brian as he leapt out of the bath quicker than you can say ' My mum's grandad's mum's got a more intricate and cosmic menagerie of bullock-slaughtering devices than your gran's mum's dad's dad ever had in his entire life, apart from the time he was elevated to Robert Mugabe's Personal Assistant, which doesn't count as he had an unfair advantage'.
Back in the relative safety of his bedroom, Brian reclined on his bed like a hermit on an operating table and thought about the history of innards whilst cupping his swollen balls tenderly with one hand. As you can imagine he soon had a couple of copies of 'Innards and Entrails Monthly' open on his bed and was deciding which image to use for his 'money shot'.
As Sod's Law would have it, just as Brian was reaching a slightly disappointing orgasm, in walked Mrs Stainrod with a second-hand tractor glued to her immense buttocks. Driving the tractor was none other than Brian Cant's mum, Velma, who in turn was being seriously assaulted from behind by a profusely sweating David O'Leary, who was dressed rather provocatively in a tank top and flippers combo.
'Please don't stain my sheets, love', begged Mrs Stainrod in a voice which reminded one of Hitler's last wank.
'Oh Shit! Sorry!' moaned Brian, as a momentous globule of semen landed on his landlady's right shoulder, quickly followed by a second lump which nearly sliced the ears off a daddy long-legs, who was making its way over to the windowsill.
Angry, yet also inexplicably turned on, Mrs Stainrod pulled Brian's bed sheets back, pulled up her 30 year-old nightie and farted right in his open mouth , in an act of confused love. Brian took his punishment like a man and even found himself singing a couple of lines from 'Day Trip To Bangor' to himself to take the edge off the stench.
'Ok, now we're even son, I've got a business proposition to make to you' muttered Mrs Stainrod, her glass eye glistening in the late-February half-light.
'I'm all ears' replied Brian, which wasn't strictly true. In fact his ears only made up a small percentage of his body mass, but somehow it had seemed the right thing to say at the time.
'Tomorrow morning at 9 am there's going to be a delivery of £200,000 to the bank in the town centre. Me and my heavies are going to do the job but we need a look-out as the lad booked for the job has just accidentally beheaded himself with a meat cleaver. I was wondering if you want in?'
Flummoxed like only a halfwit can be, Brian struggled to find the right words before asking 'What's in it for me big tits?' to his noticeably startled but flattered landlady.
'Name your price, lad?' batted back Mrs Stainrod, looking more and more like a terminally ill Joe Bugner as every second went by.
Brian thought about it for a moment and then reeled out a seemingly endless list of demands.
'Ok Fat Arse! I want a 'Cheese Robot' t-shirt covered in cat mucus, 6 copies of Judy Garland's death certificate, a creaking old floor made from linoleum and cretin breath, the most ocular dirtbox in the world, Simple Simon's gaping arsehole, a photo of Trevor McDonald rimming Trevor Eve as the corpse of Ian Botham plays scrabble with a demon, 102 lizards coated in snot, a sensual back-licking from Nikki Sixx, 5 freshly boiled foetuses, 8 bullocks smeared in tortoise spunk, a babboon that's been nailed to a diamond, an electric shock the size of Immingham, a sock to the gusset, a video of Robin Hood being decapitated by les Gray from Mud, an original copy of Mickey Mouse's psychic imprint, Biff Byford's grandmother's head deliverered on a silver plate, a signed photograph of Old Mother Hubbard's innards being shoved in a box and poured on the decaying corpse of Lesley Grantham, King Dong's last erection nailed to a parachute, a print of Joey Barton's casket being hauled out of the River Humber, 3 dolls made out of stench, 25 sick notes, 7 pilchard anuses, 755 copies of the Bible hidden in a giraffes womb, some fart powder trapped in a kiosk, Alan Smith's clenched buttocks ready for embalming, a coat that once belonged to a ruffian, the total and utter illusion of happiness, Nick Faldo being anally assaulted by Nick Nolte's brother-in-law Herman, Chris Evert-Lloyd's ever expanding prolapse and a papier-mache reconstruction of the birth of Satan.
'Fuck right off!' repleied Mrs Stainrod and immediately mutated into her reproductive organs right there in front of Brian's tiny eyes.
Once again Brian was bereft. Alone. Lost. Traumatised. History was repeating itself again. Here he was in what he thought was home only to find out that it was another red herring. Home was in fact a cart. Home was a cart transporting some tramps from A-B with no sign of progress. Brian looked in the mirror and noticed that his arse had exploded. His once muscular ball-sac was a mere shadow of its ormer self, now resembling an out-of-date pork pie from Dummie's Dairy on ....Cold Bath Road..... His shoulders had expanded to the size of ....Slovakia.... and his nostrils were ablaze. Brian looked like a war veteran with no mates. His cock-ring was up for auction at sothebys as Jimi Hendrix had once spat on it during a church-funded orgy at the local scout hut.
It fetched 4 pence.
Bulbous and dripping with lard Brian hauled himself up once more and trudged back into the mean streets of life to suffer the next indignity. He packed his suitcase full of lead and marched nonchalantly to the bus stop where he understandably hijacked the No 37 and took the terrified passengers on a death-defying ride to ..Burnley.., stopping only to fart on the grave he'd meticulously built for himself in an undisclosed location.
Singing the theme from 'Rainbow' and imagining Zippy and George sucking the molecules off a bison's regret, Brian raced that bus like his life depended on it. The police set up a road block on the ..Blackburn.. by-pass but Brian heroically ran them over for which I awarded him an MBE for services for humanity. Eventually after a gripping 2 mile chase he abruptly stopped the bus and apprehended and arrested himself on the serious charge of impersonating his grandad.
Holed up in Clitheroe police station Brian yet again reflected on recent events. Well, he tried but his over-active mind wouldn't allow him to as it was making him think of the time he swallowed whole the curly-haired girl from Tatu only to regurgitate her all over Tony Blair's jockstrap during the infamous 'Buttock-Fest' at 10 Downing Street back in the late nineties.
Brian was put on suicide watch, deprived of his beloved 'Crafty Cockney' darts set and refused access to his breath.
'Things can only get better' thought Brian, briefly reminded of the uplifting song by D-Ream in 1994. Brian had always had a secret crush on the lead singer Peter Cunnah and had spent many a happy hour in his youth stroking his enormous sense of discontent whilst picturing Peter being decapitated by a hawk. In amoment of utter abandon Brian changed his name to Lionel, then to Ralph, then to Bungle, then to Pauper, back to Lionel, then to Raindrop, then to Stephen-Alan, then to D'arcy, then to Frederico. then to Alphonso, then to Remy, then to Col, back to Herman, before finally settling on his original name Brian, though now crucially spelled Bryan to add a bit of class to the proceedings. He took a humungous shit in a coppers helmet before lighting up the first of the days prison fags and contemplating on the travesty of existence he once again had found himself in. Bry lay back on the cold, hard concrete floor and understandably began punching himself in the gob repeatedly and with increased violence of every stroke. This was a kind of comforting to him, a form of self-soothing left over from his Territorial Army days. He had served his country as a locust impersonator in a field the size of a cloth back in '95. He had attracted all manner of crickets and grasshoppers from their abbatoirs and slaughter-houses on the pretence that he would save them from imminent death only to pull their eyelids open with an obelisk and sing the refrain from 'Moving on up' to them in a Hebrew accent he'd learned off a dying rabbi. he was, at least in his own mind, an undercover spy, a mole wearing a tutu, a secret agent smeared in the albumen of an entire race of shit-shovellers. he communicated to his bosses via an unknown language called 'Huhfoenbso' which to the untrained ear sounded uncannily like bollocks. in 1997 he worked in Croatia, basildon, iraq, Elland, ramsbottom, Rwanda, Ethiopia and his own personal favourite Newton aycliffe. There he'd been hired to eliminate the presence of air from the area. It was dangerous work. posing as a gay porn star he integrated himself in the community and was almost invisible to the passer-by. He ingratiated himself with the locals by assaulting himself in the high street with an axe and a pair of 9 foot scissors, ending up in hospital with serious head wounds. But it was here that he eliminated the existence of air from the area by sucking the fluff off God's nodules in an act of immense spiritual bravery. God collapsed in a heap before pulling a spliffs worth from between his butt-cheeks and skinning up a beauty and giggling like a Derek at His own ineptitude.
>
Bryan felt so inspired by the memory of his time in the TA that he immediately wrote a letter to a couple he'd never heard of, outlining his plans for the coming year...
>
154b ....Dementia Avenue........ Hovenhoe.... Depravation.... ..Paradise-cum-Hell...... XYZ 666.... .... .... Dear Mr Norville and Mrs Olga Degradation,.... .... I am writing to inform you of your immediate execution. .... In fact, by the time you will have received this letter you will both be firmly planted in your graves. .... I would like to say I'm sorry, but I'm not..... It's hardly my fault that your entire life passed by in a shivering fog of missed opportunities and regret..... If you'd spent more time planning to die rather than farting your way through other peoples misfortune then I may have been able to summon up some sympathy for you, but alas, I have chosen to distance myself from your version of "We built this city on rock and roll" you unleashed in a civic hall near Humberside..
..Anyway you utter bandit …HOW IS THE MISTAKE? Not the huge one you'll always regret till the day you die, but more like the endless stream of minor infringements and wrong turnings which all add up to a live unlived, or as its better known….... .... "A disaster"..... ..
..Some of my favourite things include:.... .... Graves, death, lice, public hangings, cot-deaths, the social ineptitude of mass murderers, piles, piles of human remains, soil, maggots, bile, frost, nothingness, frozen souls, knob-ends, decay, the stench of wastage, slurry, tips, bumming tramps, Genghis Khan's slaughter of over a million Persians, being hung, drawn and quartered for not paying your parking fine, pointlessness……………....... ......
..I need to get positive..think good thoughts rather than all this propensity towards death and carnage. In that spirit I present to you a list of things I would like to achieve in the next year or so…...... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------.... .... ....Bryan....'s goals for the coming year
.... .... Degrade myself in as many situations as possible..... 2. Shovel pig shite all over my decaying and empty shell..... 3. ..Order myself to pack it all in..... .4. Mutilate a passer-by..... 5. Stab at least a copper a day..... 6. and their wives..... .7. .Sponsor a twat/cunt to bum himself to death..... 8. Promote pointlessness on a huge scale..... 9. Gauge my eyes out with a stolen machete..... 10. find solace in the Lord…. only to slaughter myself eventually..... 11. Re-visit my childhood haunts and burst into tears..... 12. Try to stop wanking Brian never heard back from the ungrateful buggers and so turned his attention to his latest obsession. For a while now he'd been fascinated by everything to do with Greggs bakeries. He began to loiter around the one on Brentford High Street at all hours of the day. Usually, on a morning, he'd be wearing a sequined towelling robe over a pair of Asda jeans, finished off with a snazzy pair of loafers he'd found down the local cemetary. In the afternoons however, Big Bri would change into a suit of armour and cheap sunglasses which would certainly get the attention of the locals. Just before closing time would see one final change of clothes. He'd pull his oversized white Y-fronts up to his nipples and tie his socks up just below the knees with a piece of old rope that had been wasting time in his mum's garage. There was something about Greggs that he couldn't put his finger on. It may have been the shop layout, or the aroma of cheese that emanated from inside. It may have been the 6 year old dalek who worked behind the counter or the price list with its bewildering array of sarnies and pasties. Brian kept a record of every Greggs he'd ever visited. The results were pretty impressive, you've got to admit.here's just a few...
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Saturday, August 04, 2007
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Current mood:  obsequious
I've finally completed a follow-up album to 'Itchy Circus Odour' called 'A Conglomeration of Jockstraps'. It was originally going to be a concept album based on the life and times of Modern Romance bass player David Jaymes's battle with depression but i got too emotionally involved and instead decided to put out the usual execrable mixture of poetry, noises, songs, gases, a little smattering of air, and of course the sound of a dalek being castrated by a worm....I, of course, intend on ruining many a passer-by's night out by performing it . I think I'm going to struggle to surpass the 32 copies I sold of 'Itchy' but with your help I'm looking forward to becoming the destitute pauper I've always wanted to be..
Ashley
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Friday, January 19, 2007
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[1] Do you think there's a satanic message in line-dancing?
[2] Where do you keep your collection of pigeon erotica?
[3] Are you available this Sunday for your own execution?
[4] Have you ever accidentally siphoned some mildew off a deer?
[5] Is looking at bacteria through a microscope your idea of foreplay?
[6] Why do you start breakdancing at the sight of off milk?
[7] Have you checked for remnants of sausage fat in your plus-fours?
[8] Do you have a small pendulum I could borrow?
[9] Do you know anyone with the same size buttock circumference as Todd Carty?
[10] What did you think when you woke up next to the remains of Socrates?
[11] What time is your face?
[12] Have you ever coated yourself in the blood of a thousand paupers?
[13] Why is your back hair so unclean?
[14] Who did you most resemble before you were born?
[16] How tall is air?
[17] Do you have a favourite phase of disintegration?
[18] Do you think you look good in a coffin?
[20] Do you remember where you were when Chris Quentin got baptized?
[21] Does the mental image of Gary Lineker's come-face put you off your pie and peas?
[22] Do you often cry during lambing season?
[25] Do you sometimes wish you could mutate into my mum's inertia?
[26] Do you regret getting that tattoo on your innards that says 'Kiosk'?
[27] Do you have a secret crush on 'The Cheese Robot'?
[28] What exactly is the purpose of your abacus collection?
[30] Has any of your friend's kids ever mistaken you for a dalek?
[33] How many years older than Ray Reardon's gallstones operation are you?
[34] Do you have the faintest idea of what it's like to be called 'Derek'?
[35] Which friend do you most fantasise about assassinating?
[36] Why exactly did you buy that glow-in-the-dark jockstrap?
[37] Has the miasma in your sock drawer destroyed your fragile sense of self?
[38] Have you ever felt Cliff Lazarenko?
[40] Have you ever nearly choked to death on the bitter stench of regret?
[42] What brand are the jodhpurs are wearing right now?
[43] How tall is wind?
[45] Why did you secretly smear owl fat on your uncle's groin?
[48] Do you believe in the transformational power of warts?
[49] What do you plan on wearing for Jimmy Hill's re-incarnation?
[50] Who did you first turn to after you were arrested for stalking yourself?
[55] Do you ever lick your dad's y-fronts?
[56] Why does your chin turn into a farm on Good Friday?
[57] Why do you insist on being bed-bathed by Ian Beale?
[58] Where is the promise of redemption?
[61.] Do you know why that bloke from the 'Cillit Bang' advert exists?
[64] Whose grave did you last fart on?
[65] What size panties will you be slipping out of on Judgement Day?
[66] What was your first thought when you found yourself in a three-way with Geoff Capes and Doris Stokes.
[67] Who was the last person that called you Brian?
[68] Is there anybody you regret not slaughtering?
[69] Do you know where my family remains are?
[70] Would you care to elaborate on your dislike of hogs?
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Friday, January 19, 2007
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Ilie Nastase
Last night I had a dream. I was kissing and cuddling with Ilie Nastase, the Rumanian tennis player from the 70's. Ilie was the leader in the close race to climax, humping and grinding like a loved-up foal. His hips were shaking to the 'Best of Techno' album I'd borrowed from my cousin Roderick. His arse looked firm yet soft to touch as I imagined him draped in the Turin Shroud. "Oh Ilie", I moaned as he pulled off my socks. His breath was like a donkey in the electric chair. "Take me to the seaside and show me how to swim!" "Of course love", he answered in his Eastern Block drone. Later, I made a candlestick holder out of fish heads, whilst Ilie washed the dishes and strangled a mollusc. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Baron Dave
Baron Dave in his barren world, a castle alone in acres of bracken. He inherited a fortune from his blundering stepson, who died a quick and painful death, trying but failing to climb Everest alone. Apparently he fell like many before, though his body has never been found. Neither has he been steam-cleaned at a discount price. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Be your cloak
If marriage is a two-way thing, then why do couples enter into it without sheds? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ethel Gristlecorpse
My name's Ethel Gristlecorpse. I'm 92 years old and I'm bloody proud of it I've had to slow down a bit in the last few years but I still believe in living life to the full I work part-time at the village store I'm involved in fundraising activities for Help the Aged. And after all these years, I still like a good hard shafting from the vicar. It's a pity about his ringworm. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Table of goats.
Table of goats, plastic, yet classy. Spaced out on fruit gums and a couple of space. Grinning, cunning, summoning the cleaner. I'll spank your botty, if the flask isn't full. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Lieutenant of soil.
Crack your limbs on a fat lads face.
Collect china and the toast canary. Fill your colon up with meat and then maybe daleks will do your windows. Please chaps! Please fellas. Please, please, please demand to the court of law that I have no right to call myself H.T., this, them, these. I have a donkey his name is Jesus. Jesus donkey face. Jesus, cacky donkey frost. Jesus, Lord of frost. Patron-saint of mildew. Lieutenant of soil.
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Thursday, January 04, 2007
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| | Body: | 1. To stop calling myself 'Archibald' in my sleep.
2. To stop leaving shit-stains on my mum's mink coat.
3. To treat Tiffany's road crew to a pie and pea supper.
4. To cut down on the obscene amount of stollen I consume.
5. To set my mate Darren up on a blind date with Jeremy Beadle's puppy fat.
6. To accidentally fellate the grandad I never knew.
7. To get an invite to the opening night of Biff Byford's ceramic exhibition.
8. To write a book on the history of air.
9. To add to my collection of reptile carcasses.
10. To sentence myself to life imprisonment for a crime I didn't commit.
11. To spend Summer on a Fat Camp with Derek Batey.
12. To apply for funding to set up a hostel for depressed gasmen.
13. To be spit-roasted in a derelict farmyard by Peters and Lee.
14. To pray to God for the elimination of 'H' from Steps.
15. To direct a porno starring Jim Bowen and Sol Campbell.
16. To cake myself in tapioca on the Queen's birthday.
17. To learn to value my own scrotum.
18. To fully comprehend the true meaning of the word 'Homsen'
19. To move into a cot of my own.
20. To do a sponsored walk to raise money for Cheryl Tweedy's imminent wart operation.
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Sunday, December 31, 2006
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Ah!...A New Year...giving up smoking...going on a diet...joining the gym...getting a new job...beheading yourself...becoming a widely-respected peeping tom...covering yourself from head to foot in miasma...plucking up the courage to ask Ian Beale to gas himself...spray-painting the word 'Albumen' on a ghost's aura...setting up an owl sanctuary in Stourbridge with Chesney Hawkes...feigning a collision with some bubble wrap...peeling the saltwater off Frank McAvennies (dis)illusion...playing a game of blind man's buff with what's left of John Noakes...arresting yourself for gross indecency...buying a second-hand chopping board from Alan Pardew...moving to Hartlepool with the idea of becoming an enigma.. setting up a pub reggae band called 'Full Circle'...nailing Spit the Dog to the Magna Carta...being told that Socrates has set up home in your pancreas...going on a paintballing weekend with a vat of ether...pissing your duds on the way home from the chiropodists...going on 'Stars In Their Eyes' as Joe Bugner...getting off with your best friend's nightmares. .seriously assaulting the local vole...re-recording 'One More Night' with Martin Chivers...losing your entire body weight in gas...accidentally on purpose leaving a stain on your Grandad's birth certificate...polishing the bureau with a hectare of cheese...
Happy New Year!
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