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edwinbirch · 11 years

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Stroke The Pasty

A parlour game for upwards of three persons with nothing better to do.

You will need:

A book.

A chair.

A pasty.

Note: if you live in an area where pasties are not readily available you may use an alternative type of savoury pastry product as a substitute.

Set-up

Position the chair at one end of the playing area.

Position the pasty in the centre of the playing area.

Decide amongst yourselves who will be the Head Nob on this occasion. If there are four or more players, you may also wish to elect a Vice-Nob, though the game is playable without one.

Seat the Head Nob upon the chair (heretofore referred to as “The Nobbing Chair”). If applicable, seat the Vice-Nob cross-legged beside the Head Nob.

Gather all the remaining players at the other end of the playing area, far enough away from the pasty that it is not within easy reach. They must arrange themselves in a line, facing the Nobbing Chair and the incumbent Head Nob.

You are now ready to play Stroke the Pasty, at least on a technical level. I cannot vouch for your physical or emotional readiness and may not be held to account should injuries or traumas occur during play.

How to Play

The Head Nob opens the book at a randomly selected point. Starting at the top of the left-hand page, he notes the first interesting adjective he encounters. He must then turn to a different page at random and repeat the process, noting the first interesting noun. He will then combine these words into a two-word phrase, for example “furious policeman” or “rickety pie” or “low bugler”. If a Vice-Nob has been elected, the Head Nob will lean down to whisper these words into the Vice-Nob's ear for the Vice-Nob to then announce clearly to the assembled players. If no Vice-Nob has been elected the Head Nob must resort to announcing the phrase himself.

Each player then steps forward in turn to present a short mime, poem, song or dramatic act which encapsulates the essence of the phrase. These performances ought to be kept to under a minute in length, and the Head Nob has the right to demand a performance end prematurely if he finds it to be exceedingly tiresome. If this request goes unheeded, the Head Nob may then command the Vice-Nob to set about the offending player with their teeth and fists.

Once all players have had an opportunity to present their acts the Head Nob must decide whose was the least terrible. They have won the round and their reward is a stroke of the pasty. The Head Nob announces the winner by reciting the following refrain: “Your acts were all quite awful/As befits such common folk/But [Players]'s was the least worst/So step forth and have your stroke.”

The first player to stroke the pasty for the third time is declared the winner, but truthfully, in their own separate ways every participant has lost.

#fun #games #a waste of your time

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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The Mystery of the Ossified Archbishop...

Toc toc toc went the tiny hammer.

“Rigid,” said the sub-archbishop, blowing on her cup of tea absent-mindedly. “Totally rigid. He’s been like that for days now.”

“Any idea what might have caused it?” said the man from the government, putting the hammer back in his little bag.

“None whatsoever,” said the sub-archbishop with a sigh. “Unless… Has anyone analysed the bacon yet?” She pointed at the week-old, grease-laden strands of bacon that lay next to a congealing fried egg and a small, sad pile of baked beans on the archbishop’s plate.

“Beans,” muttered the man from the government. “That’s hardly traditional.”

“The archbishop had a great respect for tradition, as well you know,” snapped the sub-archbishop, placing her mug on a coaster with firm precision. “The media were very quick to paint him as some kind of reformist, intent on forcing through changes to the Church but he wasn’t like that at all. All he wanted to do was start a dialogue.”

“I wasn’t criticising the archbishop’s religious policies,” said the man from the government, “I was merely noting that we’re not looking at a traditional Full English here due to the presence of baked beans.”

“Oh, and what does constitute a “traditional” Full English in your opinion?” snapped the sub-archbishop, who was now very much on the defensive.

“Bacon (two slices), fried egg, toast (or fried bread, if you like that sort of thing), sausage, tomato, optional black pudding, cup of tea. No beans, no mushrooms and definitely no hash browns.”

“No mushrooms? Oh come off it!”

“No mushrooms! I don’t know who thought mushrooms were welcome on anyone’s plate at breakfast but they’re sorely mistaken.”

“Well, I think we’re straying from the point here. Traditional breakfast or not, could it be the bacon?”

“Why the bacon? Why not the beans?”

“Will you drop the fucking beans thing?” screamed the sub-archbishop. “The beans are blameless! We’ve checked the beans.”

“Well, if you checked the beans then why didn’t you check the bacon?”

“We don’t have the right analytical tools for bacon. We’re a church, not a forensic laboratory.”

“Yes, but in that case how did you can check the beans?”

“We fed some to the cat.”

“And the results were negative?”

“Does she look ossified to you?” The cat mewled quietly and licked the back of her paw.

“No. No I suppose she doesn’t. But why not feed some bacon to the cat?”

“She doesn’t like bacon.”

“What cat doesn’t like bacon?”

“This cat doesn’t, all right buster?” snarled the sub-archbishop, slamming her palm down on the table, knocking over a bottle of ketchup and nearly upsetting her tea in the process.

The man from the government sighed and massaged his temples. “I think we need to look beyond the breakfast,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who may have wished to see the archbishop reduced to a stationary mass of bone tissue and cartilage? Did he have any enemies or rivals, for instance?”

“Apart from Satan, you mean?”

“Yes, apart from Satan?”

“OK, though I don’t think we should rule out Satan just yet. Or the bacon,” she added, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes, but assuming it’s not Satan or the bacon…”

“Oh! Oh oh oh!” exclaimed the sub-archbishop, jumping up and clapping her hands together.

“Yes?” said the man from the government.

“What if the bacon was possessed by Satan?”

“Yes. Yes I suppose there is that. But if, as I say, we were to think beyond Satan, the bacon or any combination thereof, just for the moment, who do you think may have harboured a grudge against the archbishop and possesses the ability to ossify living matter?”

The sub-archbishop picked up her tea, took another long slurp and sighed. “Well, there’s Dennis, I suppose…”

“Who’s Dennis?”

“A friend of his from Cambridge. The archbishop always used to beat him at Settlers of Catan. He’s a warlock.”

“More of a frenemy than an enemy then?”

“I guess so,” said the sub-archbishop. “If you want to be a dick about it.” She finished her tea in two big gulps and placed the mug carefully back onto the coaster. The man from the government had yet to touch his, she noticed.

“Still, he has the means and he has the motive. Anyone else?”

“Mildred.”

“And why might Mildred be a suspect?”

“I don’t like her tone.”

“Right… Does she have the ability to ossify living matter?”

“Dunno. But I spoke to her on the phone a couple of times and I definitely didn’t like her tone.”

“I’ll put her down as a maybe then, shall I?”

“Put her down as ‘suspicious’,” urged the sub-archbishop.

“That’s implied by me putting her down as a maybe,” reasoned the man from the government.

“Yes, but I’d like you to make it explicit. Write down ‘Mildred – suspicious’. And ‘dodgy teeth’.”

“I thought you’d only spoken to her on the phone?”

“I did. She sounded like she had dodgy teeth.”

“Right, well there’s nothing particularly incriminating about having dodgy teeth, so…”

“Ever seen a criminal with nice teeth?”

“Yes,” said the man from the government flatly. “Is that everyone? You can’t think of anyone else?”

“Well, I suppose there was that spaceman…”

“What spaceman?”

“Well, I don’t want to be accused of stereotyping by saying it was Neil Armstrong, but…”

“But…?”

“But he did look like Neil Armstrong.”

“In what way?”

“Well, he had all this spaceman gear on. Y’know, shiny helmet and tubes and all that.”

“I see.”

“And a laser gun.”

“A laser gun?”

“Yeah. It sort of went pew! pew! and turned things into bone.”

“Turned things into bone? As in, ossified them? As in, exactly what’s happened to the archbishop?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“I’m putting him down as a ‘likely’.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t say ‘likely’. He seemed like a proper gentleman.”

“But he had what is in all probability the weapon which was used to ossify the archbishop!”

“I suppose, but he just doesn’t seem the sort. They had a lovely evening together. They watched March of the Penguins. The archbishop had never seen it before.”

“Nor have I, come to think of it.”

“Oh it’s good, you should watch it.”

“Yeah, I keep meaning to rent it or something, but ever since the wife cancelled our Lovefilm account… Anyway, what makes you so sure there’s no reason to suspect the, er, spaceman? Try and describe the evening exactly as it unfolded.”

“Well, the spaceman arrived at about… seven thirty in the evening, I think. He’d brought March of the Penguins on DVD and a big bag of Kettle Chips.”

“What flavour?”

“Sweet Chilli, I think.”

“Mm. Nice, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t try them. I’m allergic to crisps.”

“Oh, well you’re missing out. They’re nice. Anyway, you were saying?”

“Well, he introduced himself, said he was a big fan of the archbishop and would he like to watch March of the Penguins and eat some crisps and the archbishop was at a loose end so he agreed.”

“And what were you doing whilst this was going on?”

“I was dicking around on Facebook, mostly. I’ve already seen March of the Penguins.”

“And none of this struck you as suspicious?”

“The archbishop receives a lot of unusual guests. We had a librarian round last month. And a homeless. Anyway, after the film the spaceman showed off his gun by ossifying that carriage clock over there. Then they went upstairs to his bedroom and talked about God and Jesus quite loudly. He stayed for breakfast the next morning, and it was whilst he was polishing his ossifying gun that the archbishop suddenly got all… ossified.”

“But you don’t suspect the spaceman?”

“No,” said the sub-archbishop. “No no no. He doesn’t seem the sort.”

…and the Terrible Limericks He Wrote

Toc toc toc went the child’s hand.

The archbishop hated that sound – greasy little knuckles tapping away at the glass. Lords knows why they’d put him on display at the Victoria and Albert, stuck inside a glass cabinet, sat on a stool, fixed forever a fork held halfway towards his gaping maw (they had been unable to prise it from his bony grip). It couldn’t be a pleasant sight, he thought.

He’d been there for nearly three hundred years now, and still his brain hadn’t caught up with his body and died. Sometimes he wondered if this was the afterlife and it had all been some kind of terrible misunderstanding, but mostly he composed limericks. It helped to keep his brain busy, and distract him from the packs of giddy children on school trips and bewildered, disinterested tourists.

He was not a naturally gifted poet, as this never-completed slice of doggerel amply illustrates:

There once was a bloke from blah-blah

That bought ner-ner-ner from a Spar.

The dum-dum dee dee

Was der-der-der knee

And something about an old car?

It didn’t help that his predicament often brought out his more morose tendencies, which are singularly unsuited to the bouncy, jovial rhythm of the limerick. For example:

I think I am going to die

Or else be stuck here for eternitie

I wish I weren’t bone

And so desperately alone

But there’s no use crying over spilt milk. (Not that I could cry, even if I wanted to. Which I do, very much.)

As the years wore on, even his faith began to falter:

Fuck bugger fuck fuck fuck fuck cunt

Shitting hell, Jesus Christ, fuck fuck cunt

Bollocks bollocks fuck tit

Lord forgive me fuck shit

But I mean… fucking hell. You’re a cunt.

Finally, after one thousand years of frozen torment, his mind decided to call it a day. Thus, I present to you his final, unfinished work:

There once was a cat

It was… is… what colour was the cat? Blue maybe.

A blue cat called… Nathan. Or was it Julian? I miss him. Where was I?

He stepped on his tail

Which caused him to grow pale… no, fail… wait, no, wail – yes, that’s good

Duh duh duh duh… that is th-

#whodunnit #whydunnit #no seriously why did i dun this?

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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The Foreign Ambassadors' Annual BBQ & Quiz Night - Part 2: The Quiz

The survivors divided themselves into two teams: The British Common-Knowledge-Wealth (featuring the Sri Lankan, Pakistani and Tuvaluan ambassadors) and Diplomatic Immuniteam (Romania, Norway and Gabon). The Ukrainian ambassador assumed the role of quizmaster, following the sad loss of the Serbian ambassador, whose job it had been to organise the quiz. “Right then, er, round one,” said the Ukrainian ambassador hesitantly. “We all know that the Beatles were managed for several years by Brian Epstein, but can you name their original manager?” “That’s a bit obscure isn’t it?” grumbled the Romanian ambassador. The teams chattered quietly and wrote down their answers, both of which were total guesses. “Question two. Love Me Do topped the US charts in 1964, but what position did it reach in the UK charts on its initial release in 1962?” This time the Pakistani and Norwegian ambassadors joined in with the Romanian ambassador’s murmured complaints. “Are all the questions going to be Beatles-related?” asked the Tuvaluan ambassador. “Um, just this round I think,” said the Ukrainian ambassador, shuffling distractedly through the Serbian ambassador’s question sheets. “Can we skip it please?” said the Gabonese ambassador. “I don’t think any of us know that much about the Beatles.” “Give it a chance,” said the Ukrainian ambassador. “There’s only five questions per round, and you never know, you might get the next one right. Question three. There were fourteen songs in total on The Beatle’s first album Please Please Me. Of those, how many were penned by Lennon and McCartney?” A furious silence descended over the corpse-strewn garden. “Go on,” said the Ukrainian ambassador encouragingly, “have a guess.” Both teams reluctantly scribbled down an answer. “Can you complete the name of this B-side to She Loves You – I'll BLANK You?” “No I bloody well can’t!” exclaimed the Romanian ambassador, who was becoming quite visibly agitated now. “Last question of the round,” said the Ukrainian ambassador reassuringly. “What was the name of the first song penned by George Harrison to appear on a Beatles LP?” “Nobody knows. Can we move on to round two now please?” said the Tuvaluan ambassador curtly.

“All right,” said the Ukrainian ambassador. “Round two is all about… well, it just says at the top “1964-1966”, so, er… Question one. With Beatlemania reaching fever pitch in 1964-“ “Fuck the Beatles!” bellowed the Romanian ambassador, smashing a glass and storming off. “…the fab four starred in their first feature film, A Hard Day’s Night,” the Ukrainian ambassador continued meekly. “Can you tell me who-“ “Oh oh oh! I know this, I know this!” squeaked the Pakistani ambassador to his team. “It was directed by Richard Lester,” he added in a whisper, “write that down.” “Can you tell me who wrote the film?” corrected the Ukrainian ambassador. “Ah balls,” said the Pakistani ambassador looking somewhat deflated. Moments later, the Romanian ambassador returned astride his mammoth, decked out in a full suit of armour and wielding a morning star. “Let’s fucking finish this, you shit-quiz-tolerating cunts!” he roared as he caved in the Ukrainian ambassador’s face.

#she loves you #yeah yeah yeah

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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Phobias

Princess Anne is scared of nuts.

James Murdoch is scared of cars.

The Cadbury's Caramel Bunny is scared of beeswax.

Timothy Spall is scared of disappointment.

#I am scared of my own genius (lest I use it for evil)

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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The Foreign Ambassadors' Annual BBQ & Quiz Night - Part 1: The BBQ

"Did you just gob on my burger?" said the Austrian ambassador. "Yes," said the Bolivian ambassador. "In my country it is customary to gob on other people's burgers. It is a sign of respect." "You didn't gob on her burger," said the Austrian ambassador, pointing at the Canadian ambassador. "She is eating a hot dog, not a burger,” observed the Bolivian ambassador. “In my country it is not customary to gob on other people's hot dogs. That would be a sign of disrespect." "I think that's true of everyone's countries," said the Austrian ambassador. "Not mine," said the Danish ambassador, leaning across to the Bolivian ambassador's hot dog and gobbing on it. "In my country it is a sign of ambivalence." "In mine it is a sign of gratitude," said the Estonian ambassador before also gobbing on the Bolivian ambassador's hot dog. "That's for respecting the customs of my good friend the Danish ambassador," she explained. "Well in my country," began the Bolivian ambassador, "it is a sign of friendship to twat someone in the face with a pair of salad tongs." So saying, he picked up a pair of salad tongs from a nearby salad bowl and proceeded to twat the Estonian ambassador in the face with it. "And in my country," said the Estonian ambassador, spitting out a tooth, "it is a sign of friendship to crush a man's frail, fleshy body with the aid of a well-trained mammoth." So saying, she mounted her mammoth and commanded it to pummel the Bolivian ambassador repeatedly until all that remained on the patio was a kind of bone-flecked ambassadorial paste. "In my country," said the French ambassador quietly, "it is a sign of not wanting things to get out of hand to gently suggest that we all take our mammoths outside and tether them next to the oxen so that we may get on with having a nice, peaceful barbecue for a change."

"That's a stupid custom," said the Greek ambassador dismissively. The other ambassadors murmured in agreement, tossed aside their burgers and hot dogs, most of which had now been rendered inedible by copious amounts of phlegm, mounted their mammoths and charged.

#gobbing #twatting #pummeling

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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James Bond Poll Results

Well, the votes have been counted, the people have spoken and I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise to most of you that, with a whopping 64% of the vote, Sylvester McCoy is now officially the nation’s favourite Bond, beating the likes of Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Maggie Smith and current Bond "Whistling" Daniel Craig in the process.

McCoy first donned the super-sleuth’s famous tuxedo and sou’wester in 1986’s box office smash Pie Another Day, wowing audiences and critics alike with his surprisingly gritty take on the character. Cinema history was made with the film’s heart-stopping pie-eating climax in which the suave secret agent is forced by the film’s nefarious villain The Pieman to eat his way through a really big steak and kidney pie in order to disarm the bomb concealed in its filling.

Pie Another Day was the first in a run of five huge critical and commercial hits for McCoy, with the sequels Live and Let Pie, The Pie Who Loved Me, For Pork Pies Only and GoldenPie all playing on the pie-themed success of the first McCoy film. Things finally took a sour turn with 1994’s Mr Bond Goes to Anglesey, a misguided attempt to break from the successful pie formula partly funded by the Anglesey Tourism Board. At the ATB’s behest, the grittiness and shocking violence that, along with the pies, had become something of a hallmark of the McCoy era was toned down in favour of slapstick, puns and even a couple of particularly misjudged song and dance routines. Notorious film critic Gordon Fictional dismissed the entire film in a pithy one-sentence review:

"Mr Bond Goes to Shit, more like.”

Though Mr Bond Goes to Anglesey is now largely forgotten by all but the most ardent of Bond scholars, Sylvester McCoy’s powerful and compelling interpretation of the role is a permanent fixture in British cinematic history and for many it is still the definitive take on the character. Incumbent Bond "Whistling" Daniel Craig remarked in a recent interview for Not a Real Magazine magazine:

“Whenever I’m stuck on a take I always find myself thinking “What would Sylvester do?” To which the answer is obviously “eat a pie whilst scowling and punching a foreigner.” Of course, I can’t do that - everyone would accuse me of copying his approach wholesale. That’s why we’re making the most of my background in whistling. I whistled a bit in Casino Royale, and lots in Quantum of Whistling, but you can expect even more whistling in Skyfall. Whistling is the new pies, in a way.”

Pitiful. Anyway, here’s those results in full. Who is your favourite James Bond? Errol Flynn (1939-1948) 4% Sean Connery (1962-1967, 1971) 10% George Lazenby (1969) 1% Marlon Brando (1970-1972) 2% Roger Moore (1973-1977) 1% Timothy Dalton (1983-1985) 2% Sylvester McCoy (1986-1994) 64% Maggie Smith (1995) 3% Mr Blobby (1996) 8% Keanu Reeves (1998) 1% Pierce Brosnan (1999-2002) 4% "Whistling" Daniel Craig (2006-present) 0% Note: This is loosely based on an old thing me and my friend did back in art college. She is much funnier than me, so the chances are she thought of the bits that made you laugh.

#james bond #whistling is the new pies

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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Magic Battle

Kevin poked a wizard in the eye. The wizard took offence at being poked in the eye by Kevin and turned him into a log.

“Did you mean to turn me into a frog?” asked Kevin.

“Of course not! How dare you question my methodology!” spluttered the wizard, though his quickly reddening face seemed to suggest that Kevin was probably onto something. “Just for that, I will turn you into a frog,” said the wizard. He pointed his magic wand at Kevin and turned him into a dog.

Kevin laughed and pissed on the wizard’s leg. “Ha ha,” said Kevin. “You’re not a very good wizard, are you?”

“I am the best wizard!” screamed the wizard, pointing his wand at Kevin again and turning him into a cog, then a bog, then a phlog.

“I don’t even know what a phlog is,” said Kevin. “I think you just made that up.”

“It’s ugly and horrible,” said the wizard. “Far uglier and horribler than a frog, even. You deserve nothing less, because you poked me in the eye and made fun of me.”

“But I only poked you in the eye because you stole the batteries out of my torch,” said Kevin. “You’re a bully. And a rubbish wizard.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you could see yourself right now,” said the wizard. “You’re going to hate being a phlog.”

“Not as much as you’ll hate being a frog,” said Kevin, pointing his magic phlog-horn at the wizard and turning him into a copy of The Very Best of Status Quo on cassette.

“Ha ha,” said the wizard. “Not as easy as it looks, is it? I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“To be honest, I don’t think either of us has learned anything today,” said Kevin. Epilogue Kevin listened to the wizard in his car whilst driving home from work later that day. “Oh wait,” he said. “I have learned something. I definitely don’t like Status Quo.”

#logs #dogs #cogs #bogs #phlogs #rockin' all over the world

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edwinbirch · 11 years

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The Punch-Up

Ron Ellipsis. I studied the man carefully as he stood in his corner and yawned. He cut a curious figure, all yammering feet and eyes like a vending machine. He had nostrils you wouldn't trust in a department store and fingers like polyester. This was the man I called my father. He wasn't my father, I didn't even know him, but as I stood behind the perimeter with my megaphone and Wheat Crunchies it seemed the only appropriate thing to say. "Come on, Dad! Belt him one!" I exclaimed, spraying particles of bacon flavour mush into the ring. He was wearing a poncho and smoking a pipe as big as a medium dog. His upper lip was curled in a sneer of defiant sneering. It was plain to everyone but Ron himself that he was going to lose.

In the other corner lurked his opponent for the evening; Timothy Dalton (no, not that Timothy Dalton; this one was much hairier than the Welsh actor best known for portraying James Bond in The Living Daylights (1987) and Licence to Kill (1989), as well as Rhett Butler in the television miniseries Scarlett (1994), an original sequel to Gone with the Wind). A mass of thick, black hair jutted out from what was presumably his scalp, whilst an even thicker, blacker growth issued from his face, almost completely enveloping the rest of his body. Below this wiry bush protruded two long, stick-like legs standing in bulbous, well-worn boots. The overall impression was that of a beard on stilts. For all I knew, he may well have been just that.

The role of referee was taken that memorable evening by Jim Henson (no, not that Jim Henson; this one was considerably more fashionable than the American puppeteer, best known as the creator of The Muppets). This Jim Henson was an official representative of Mordant Red 19, a mordant used in textile dying who was sponsoring the event in a hopeless bid to raise its public profile sufficiently enough to legitimately expand its Wikipedia article status from a stub. Jim Henson looked resplendent in his official adjudicator's hat and goggles. Truth be told, I took a quite a fancy to him, but having neglected to brush my teeth for the preceding seventeen months I thought better than to attempt a sexual advance.

Having dispensed with the usual formalities of introducing the opponent's wives, complimenting the turkey and snubbing the arch-deacon, Jim kicked off proceedings with a quick marimba recital. As the last note faded the Deputy Bastard rang the bell and the fight was on.

At first the two men simply encircled one another, shuffling crabwise round the ring like Russians in a bell-jar, snarling and muttering to themselves, cautiously ducking behind the marimba and generally not fighting very much. It was Dalton who made the first move, scuttling behind Ron and kicking him up the arse.

"Ow," said Ron, though his heart didn't seem in it.

I booed through my megaphone.

Ron turned around and began grabbing clumps of his opponent's hair, tugging at them as though they were furry teats.

"Ow," said Timothy Dalton, with at least partial sincerity.

"Stop that," said Jim Henson. "It's probably against the rules." Ron shrugged, fished a large wooden mallet out his shirt pocket and struck Timothy Dalton squarely on his big hairy bonce.

"Is that against the rules?" asked Ron.

"Yes," said Jim Henson, "yes it is."

The Assistant Deputy Bastard rang the bell. "End of Round One!" declared Jim Henson.

Whilst the fighters were being swabbed by missionaries the shambolic figure of Neil Buchanan (yes, that Neil Buchanan, the British television presenter best known for his work on the CITV programme Art Attack) who had been mistakenly booked as the mid-round entertainer for the evening. He shuffled into the ring clutching a packet of peanuts in one hand and a pine marten's skull in other. His act consisted of individually 'feeding' the peanuts into the skull and manually operating the jawbone so it appeared to be masticating. The spectators began to slow handclap the beleaguered former children's TV presenter, but he was not easily flummoxed. Wilfully misinterpreting the gesture as a spontaneous act of audience participation, he began to clamp down the jawbone in time to the clapping. "You're rubbish!" I said through my megaphone, A consensus of boos arose from the spectator's pit and Jim Henson hurriedly returned to the ring and tried to regain the crowd's approval and trust.

"I'm so sorry about that disgusting spectacle, ladies and gentleman. I assure you the moment the fight is over we'll have him taken round the back of the bins and shot." A hearty cheer echoed through the village hall. “Hanging's too good for 'em!” bellowed a hunchbacked old lady and everybody cheered that too even though it didn't entirely make sense in this particular context.

The Deputy Bastard rang the bell. "Round Two!" shouted Jim Henson.

The fighters encircled one another again, snarling and spitting and baring their teeth.

"Go on Dad, hit him!" I bellowed to Ron, but he couldn't hear me. He was fast asleep. Many of the world's greatest boxers have been narcoleptics; Sugar Ray Robinson, George Foreman, Arthur Cravan and Ennio Morricone to name but a few. Ron Ellipsis was also a narcoleptic but, unlike the aforementioned legendary athletes, he was not one of the world's greatest boxers. Truth be told, he was not even a good boxer.

Just as Dalton was about to belt his opponent round the face with a packet of chocolate digestives the Assistant Deputy Bastard's Assistant rang the bell and Ron awoke with a start.

"End of Round Two!" Jim Henson exclaimed.

After the debacle of Neil Buchanan's misjudged and tasteless performance, his hastily-recruited replacement was Eric Dolphy (no, not that Eric Dolphy; this one was much waxier than the American jazz alto saxophonist, flautist, and bass clarinetist, though he was coincidentally also a jazz musician). With the aid of his bandmates (a six year-old girl on zither and banjolele, two disembodied hands haphazardly slapping a log and a bandaged walrus eating a brick) Eric blasted our unsuspecting ears with sticky gobbets of hot post-bop until our perception of reality had shifted so entirely that we had achieved a state of collective hive-mind energy and gained an implicit understanding of mankind's unavoidable decay. As the last note trickled out of his clarinet, Eric Dolphy smiled apologetically and left via the tradesman's entrance.

The Deputy Bastard rang the bell. "Round Three!" declared Jim Henson.

Ron started the round strong, thrusting a mechanical egg-whisk into his opponent's beard and cranking it hard until it was all jammed up with hair. Dalton responded by waggling his eyebrows and humming. The advantage was his, and soon he had Ron pinned to the ground like a French basin.

Jim began to count Ron out but in the nick of time he wrestled to his feet and began dancing round the ring, vying for his next opening. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the spectators and referee alike, Dalton was frantically texting a local Tory councillor from within the confines of his beard. Within moments the Tory councillor had responded to Dalton's request for assistance and burst into the hall on horseback. Letting off a round of air pellets as his charge tore past the ring, the councillor managed to hit Ron's weakspot, causing massive damage.

Visibly weakened, Ron staggered defiantly about the ring, his spectacles half-cocked, his wig half-mast. Dalton spat contemptuously at his opponents feet and I watched with dismay as the colour drained visibly from Ron's trembling legs.

Dalton concluded the event with a climactic punch launched directly into Ron's bloodied and miserable face. He went down like a hornet with kidney failure, and I had lost a pound.

Note: For the mildly curious, there is a recording of me reading an earlier version of this story (it's basically the same though, like a twin with a slightly bigger forehead) on my Bandcamp page, which is here.

#hitting people #the power of jazz #neil buchanan #citation needed

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edwinbirch · 12 years

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When Mr Hollis Met God

Mr Hollis ought to have known that when he finally met God it would turn out to be a disappointment. He’d raised his expectations so high that no deity, even an all-encompassing one like God, could ever hope to meet them. In his mind’s eye’s mind God had been some kind of mystical amalgamation of Mother Nature, Gandalf, the innocent smile of a newborn child, clouds, crème brûlée and Stephen Hendry during his 1990’s peak. Nobody could ever have lived up to that, not even God. Especially not God, as it turned out, for even in his deepest, darkest moments Mr Hollis had never entertained the possibility that God might actually be a swearing cup holder.

“Are… are you sure this is the right place?” he asked the guide.

“Quite sure,” said the guide patiently. He clearly got asked that a lot.

“But he’s…”

“Bollocks,” said God.

“He’s a…”

“Titwank,” said God.

“He’s just a…”

“Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck,” said God.

“He is a swearing cup holder, yes,” said the guide. “It was a shock for me too at first.”

“But you’re absolutely certain this really is… Him?”

“I’d lay off the capitalisations if I were you,” advised the guide, “he’s not really worth it.”

“But he’s God!”

“Yes. He’s also a swearing cup holder. Kinda puts things in perspective, I think.”

“Bumhole,” said God.

“So, is this just a form he has taken? Some kind of reflection of the worst aspects of our society as a way of cajoling us towards higher aspirations?”

“What’s so bad about cup holders?” asked the guide, not unreasonably.

“They’re… decadent?” ventured Mr Hollis.

“You’ve got to put your cup somewhere,” reasoned the guide.

“Yes, but we managed all right for centuries without them.”

“We managed all right without cars. But then we invented cars and we managed better.”

“I suppose, but-“

“And then once we had the cars we needed somewhere to put our cups, hence the cup holder.”

“Granted, but-“

“The point is, I can think of plenty of things that are considerably more decadent than cup holders. Private jets, sherbet, those weird shops where they make fish eat all the dead skin off your feet and that’s somehow meant to be relaxing. If God wanted to make a point about the decadence of contemporary society he’d be better off starting there than reaching straight for the humble cup holder. Isn’t that right, God?”

“Twat,” said God.

“I don’t like this,” said Mr Hollis.

“Not many do,” said the guide. “Still, at least now you know.”

“But I’ve wasted forty years of my life praising this… this… sham!”said Mr Hollis through clenched teeth and clenched buttocks.

“He’s no sham,” the guide said reproachfully, “a swearing cup holder he may be, but he remains the ultimate cosmic force, the divine creator of all you have known or ever will know.”

Mr Hollis kicked God.

“Tosser,” said God.

“Yes,” concurred the guide, “yes he is.”

#religious discourse #swearing is fun #never meet your heroes

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edwinbirch · 12 years

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An Analysis of George Osborne’s Face

I recently came into possession of a box of matter. At first glance I was unable to determine the nature or origin of the matter. Indeed, such was its vague and alien appearance that even on my third to nineteenth glance it remained an impenetrable mystery to me. It wasn’t until I noticed the accompanying note that I understood the true, horrifying nature of what I had received. “Edwin, Please find enclosed George Osborne, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Second Lord of the Treasury and Member of Pariliament for Tatton’s disembodied face. Don’t ask me how I got hold of it. Suffice it to say it was not something I had planned for, but misfortune can strike any of us at any time in the unlikeliest of fashions. Keep your wits about you, Birch, that’s my advice. Anyhow, I thought you might find some use for George Osborne’s disembodied face, perhaps as a subject of academic study or maybe as a coaster. Either way, please don’t send it back. I’m still trying to get the smell out of my utility room. Your loving friend, John Human.” I already have a set of four handsome coasters and only three cups to place on them so I found myself with no choice but to dust off my microscope and gets to studying. For the purposes of this analysis I have divided George Osborne’s face into four separate quadrants. Each quadrant (save for the fourth) has in turn been subdivided into between two and eighteen independent zones. I studied each of these zones and quadrants from top to bottom, left to right, much as one might study a book or a painting or a woman’s breasts. Here then is a generously brief account of what I discovered. The First Quadrant Upper Zone This zone is characterised by a series of small but pronounced lumps, giving the area a hilly quality not unlike the North York Moors, though markedly less scrubby. Lower Upper Zone This zone is rather beige, but not as beige as I’d originally thought. I attempted to take an accurate reading of its beigeness, but this proved impossible as the only equipment I had at my disposal was my microscope, a box of matches, two long things, one low thing and a loose bun. It’s definitely pretty beige, though. I think. Inner Hair Zone I have named this zone the inner hair zone because it is an inner area and there is a hair on it. Lower Zone (aka The Horrid Zone) Where to begin when describing the horrors that lurk upon the surface of this zone? The pustules, the stray teeth, the coin-operated flatulence machine… this is a truly nasty zone and I have nothing but sympathy for the family of bluebottles that have foolishly chosen to make it their home. Further to its horrid environment, this zone seems to be under the control of a nasty and oppressive regime, with major restrictions placed on freedom of speech, freedom to assemble, freedom to own a neck and other basic human rights. It is not clear who leads this regime, but it’s certainly not the aforementioned bluebottles. I attempted to persuade them to relocate to the comparative safety and calm of the Lower Upper Zone but they were having none of it, the poor idiots. The Second Quadrant Library Zone A paltry selection of volumes, consisting solely of the political guide How to Fuck Things Up For Everyone Like a Right Proper Cunt, Little Dorrit and a pamphlet about level crossings. Pitiful. Inside Leg Zone This patch of skin appears to have been grafted onto Osborne’s face from his inside leg. It was a seemingly successful operation, but the discoloured skin forms a noticeable border and it gives off an odour that is quite distinct from the rest of the face; a curious mix of boiled sweets, whimsy and the interior of a caravan. The Third Quadrant This quadrant is by far the most diverse of the quadrants so for the sake of expediency I have attempted to convey the nature of each of its manifold zones as succinctly as possible within the wording of each zone’s “zone heading” or “name”. Thus:

Ghost Zone

Old Mattress Zone

Small Window Zone

Large Window Zone

Stained Glass Window Zone

Stained Arse Window Zone

Zumba and Braille Zone

Red Light District Zone

Swearing Helicopter Pilot Zone

Ham Sandwich Under a Ringbinder Zone

Old Timey Zone

Man in a Hat Zone

Crumbling Replica of a Fat Hand Zone

Time Seems to Work Backwards Here Zone

Not So Much a Zone More a Kind of Balding End-Table Zone

Death Zone

Bonus Zone

Everything’s On Fire Zone

The Fourth Quadrant This quadrant proved much too challenging to subdivide into distinct zones due to the continually shifting nature of its topography. One minute its surface was coated in a kind of oily residue, the next that had dissipated, giving way to an arid, dusty desert-like area fringed with tiny trees, biscuit crumbs and iron filings. The iron filings would then suddenly vanish to be replaced by a gyrating guineafowl arguing with a factory foreman whilst the desert turns to a lake of enmity and lies, and so on and so on. As I write this it is in the process of transmogrifying from a quaint model village populated by tiny plastic halberdsmen into what appears to be a yawning fried egg. All in all, this is a baffling quadrant, even by the standards of an already baffling face. Conclusion So, what can we learn from subjecting George Osborne’s disembodied face to this kind of unnecessary scrutiny? Does it reveal anything of the man or his politics that we did not already know? Does it provide some kind of explanation for his frankly incomprehensible behaviour and Olympian disregard for the misfortune of others? No, of course it doesn’t. If anything, it only deepens the mystery, leaving us with far more questions than answers. Still, that’s science for you. Thanks a bunch, science.

#satire #george osborne #science #curiosity

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edwinbirch · 12 years

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A Ghost Story

My sister was staying over for the weekend so I'd made an effort and cooked us beans on toast. She took one bite and immediately died.

“Well, that's annoying,” I said. “That toast's going to go all soggy. I suppose I can save the beans for later though.” So I picked up her plate and started to scrape the beans back into the tin.

The following week my sister's ghost turned up. “Did you keep those beans?” she said. “Only, I'm a bit sick of eating these ghost crisps they give you.”

“I did keep them,” I said. “But then I ate them a couple of days later.”

“Well, that's annoying,” she said. “And a bit thoughtless, if you ask me.”

“I just assumed you wouldn't be coming back,” I said.

“That's the problem with you,” she said. “You always just assume. You never think to ask. It's like mother all over again.”

The incident she was referring to was the time my mother was staying over for the weekend so I'd made an effort and cooked us beans on toast. She took one bite and immediately died.

The following week my mother's ghost turned up. “Did you keep those beans?” she said. “Only, I'm a bit sick of eating this ghost chutney they give you.”

“I did keep them,” I said. “But then I ate them a couple of days later.”

“Well, that's annoying,” she said. “And a bit thoughtless, if you ask me.”

“I just assumed you wouldn't be coming back,” I said.

“That's the problem with you,” she said. “You always just assume. You never think to ask. It's like Keith Emerson all over again.”

The incident she was referring to was the time Keith Emerson was staying over for the weekend so I'd made an effort and made us beans on toast. He took one bite and immediately died.

“Well, that's annoying,” I said. “That toast's going to go all soggy. I suppose I can save the beans for later though.” So I picked up his plate and started to scrape the beans back into the tin.

The following week Keith Emerson's ghost turned up. “Did you keep those beans?” he said. “Only, I'm a bit sick of eating these ghost aubergines they give you.”

“I did keep them,” I said. “But then I ate them a couple of days later.”

“Well, that's annoying,” he said. “And a bit thoughtless, if you ask me.”

“I just assumed you wouldn't be coming back,” I said.

“That's the problem with you,” he said. “You always just assume. You never think to ask. It's like the Battle of Agincourt all over again.”

The incident he was referring to was the Battle of Agincourt.

“Hang on, Keith,” I said. “This is nothing like the Battle of Agincourt.”

“No, you're right,” he said. “I must be getting you confused with someone else.”

#ghosts #beans #memories #confusion

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