Tag: Comedy

So much yarn

(yarn for days!)

My flatmate has started crocheting. This isn’t a problem, and could actually be a rather rewarding creative experience, especially because it’s so radically different to some of the other, exclusively mental, processes that people like me tend to engage with. But there’s a key issue with the relentless yarn-weaving: there’s yarn all over the place.

It gathers in balls, like slugs performing bizarre mating rituals on one another, on tables and surfaces; there are strands dotted around the floor and the stairs like the hallmarks of a guilty dog, slinking through a house after flopping into one too many puddles, an dropping slick, wet hairs in their wake; a brave few pieces make it up the stairs, peering boldly over the nightmarish precipice of our short steps like the Yarn World’s equivalent of Neil Armstrong, forever breaking barriers and ascending, quite literally, to new peaks of shocking brilliance while the ogreish humans lumber about their hero, forever ignorant to their accomplishments.

And, in all honesty, I don’t want to disturb the yarn; for too long have the small, functional things of life been disregarded by pretentious blog-writing intellectual types, who reckon their latest half-baked magazine idea is of greater intrinsic value than the slow, heroic lurching of a piece of yarn up a flight of steps, clinging onto the sock of an unwittingly history-defining human. A salute you yarn, and your colourful diversity that has never been an obstacle to success unlike in human culture, and wish that these achievements continue, and records of Yarnkind continue to tumble as the crochet-hook of history bends towards more fluffy things inexplicably stuck to my socks after they come out of the wash.

Godspeed Yarn. Godspeed.

I Am A Dromedary

(camels are too mainstream)


(pictured: my uncle Kevin)

I am a dromedary. I go for days, weeks even, without sustenance, crossing the oft-fatal desert of living alone for the first time. It’s not that there isn’t food and water available – there are many watering holes, oases even on my path – but I rarely find them, too often distracted by the rabbit hole of some footprints in front of me, some sky writing that might actually be a clickbait title, and a copy of Jim Lindberg’s Punk Rock Dad dangled on a string just ahead of me.

But every now and then, I am forced to stop. Sporadically, a TV pokes its antennae out of the sand, and The Great British Bake-Off is playing, Mel and Sue bouncing around their unusually sandless enclosure like baby dromedaries. And when I stop, other dromedaries give me food, until my hump is bloated, I struggle to walk, but at least I’ll survive until next week.

When I’ll do it all again.

This is, indeed, my way of communicating that I’m overstuffed with my parents’ food, found an amusing picture of a dromedary online, and am probably high to the point of incoherency all at once.

Photo credit – http://www.todayifoundout.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/camel.png

The Ball-Breaking Clan Of Grovelands Park

(not those kind of balls)

I was nearly killed today. Nearly killed by the earth-trembling savagery of not just one local hero, but two; two related local heroes; a heroic local father, and a heroic local son.

I was making my way along the path running around the edge of the big pond in Grovelands Park, and had reached the point where the public exercise area was just looming into my view, with the children’s play area and café behind it, billowing in the distance like a rising sun over the bleak, silhouetted crests of a mountain range. Then, behind me, the sounds marched first, leading their drummers, their bouncers, and filling me with the dread of a thousand Uruk-hai spear-stompers.

Then they flanked me, walking in brisk silence, their thoughts clearly coordinated by some form of malicious telepathy; the father – for I considered this to be the father, being taller of stature and balder of head – led, with a football in his hands, and the son followed behind him. But this was not a dutiful following, the sort a small child will engage in as it shadows an elder it respects and reveres, but a darker following, one of obligation, of one individuals’ sentient independence leashed to that of another. This was a resentful follower, one armed with a heavy basketball nonetheless; whoever these warriors’ masters were, or indeed if they existed within their own insular political duopoly, there was clearly a lackadaisical nature to their rules, with inferiors being allowed to carry weapons openly, and held at the blind spot of their superiors.

I quickly noticed the source of their harrowing drums: their balls. Each clansman was bouncing one such ball as he walked, drilling in into the ground in an act of subtle deviousness, underhanded to the point of being undetectable, and existing purely for the thrill of the vandal, not the lofty aim of the political revolutionary. These balls rose and fell with a military precision, suggesting great control and power on the part of each bouncer, but also bounced separately to one another, furthering the child’s independence from his father.

I was afraid, and I was alone.

I dodged to one side, keeping to the left-hand side of the path as their train dominated the right. But they did not accelerate past me, but kept a steady pace with mine, the child six feet in front of me at all times; they knew where I was without looking back – their telepathy was more powerful than first appreciated – and held me in check, as they continued to bounce their balls. I waited behind them for a few more minutes, struck with fear; I couldn’t stay where I was, that’d be playing into their hands, but to risk walking past them could be suicide.

But, emboldened no end by the fact that I happened to be listening to ‘Born This Way’ by Lady Gaga as I reached my decision, I decided suicide on my terms, not death on theirs. I quickened my stride, powered past them, and dipped into the forest just past the café that our little party had now reached. I didn’t look back to check if they had followed me, or continued along the route of the path, for at that moment my playlist ended, and I was left to be guided by the sound of broken twigs underfoot, as opposed to the foot-tappingly empowering anthems of the early 2010s; twigs, apparently, are no match for Lady Gaga.

With this realisation in mind, I fell deeper into the woods, away from the ball-breakers, and into a NOFX playlist.

The Pilot Of The Magical Camden Cheesemobile

(that’s three of these kind of posts in a month – my friend meets real celebrities, but I find the cool ones)

I was on my usual 1am stroll around the perimeter of Regent’s Park this morning, and I noticed a strange sight on the road to the north of the park, around London Zoo: the Magical Camden Cheesemobile.

The Magical Camden Cheesemobile is, as the name may suggest, a vehicle roughly in the shape of a block of edam: pointed at the front, spreading out to a slightly curved back end, and with a flat side at the bottom running parallel to the ground. It was also a dull orange, giving it the colour of the red-and-yellow cheese, and had tiny little triangular headlights poking out from its bonnet like mangled bits of wax wrapped jutting out from the smoothness of the rest of the coating. It was also small, having just two seats, so it could have been mistaken for a large piece of cheese, rather than a small vehicle in the shape of some cheese.

It was also blaring some weird music; I was listening to Anti-Flag’s excellent new album American Spring while walking, so I couldn’t hear it too clearly, but it certainly didn’t have lyrics, or a recognisable melody, or seemed to include instruments known to mankind. Obviously, to suggest that this is the work of aliens would be too easy, and would ignore the fact that the Pilot of the Magical Camden Cheesemobile was expertly obeying the human laws of the road; no, this is a decidedly human creation, although one infused with a power that is typically not associated with humans: magic.

I don’t know who the Pilot is, or why they were driving the Magical Camden Cheesemobile. Indeed, I don’t know where it was going, where it had come from, or the nature of its fly tunes. Unlike a lot of other local celebrities I’ve found, this one has left me decidedly in the dark, but really this only adds to the mystery and wonder around this experience: I’ve seen the Pilot of the Magical Camden Cheesemobile, and will never know more than that.

Dammit, Fruit!

(or, How I Learned to Stop Loving and Hate Potassium)

Fruit, darling, we need to talk. I like you. Really, I do. I know things have been tough this past year, and I’ve not seen you in literally eight months by this point, but I think you’re being a bit unfair now. I’m trying to make things better, okay? I’m trying to see you more often, and just the other day I threw out all my other food and just had you, like the old days when my one vegetarian relative would come to visit and we’d grow close that day, before tumbling apart again.

But you’re not even making that effort any more. I see you there, in your so-called airtight bag, bananas bruising and softening, oranges growing thicker and tougher to peel off into segments, so I have to eat them by sinking my teeth into their spherical surfaces, like those sadists who refuse to eat a Hubba Bubba correctly.

And I know there’s not too much you can do about this, because you break down naturally just as I can ignore you sometimes, equally naturally, but you could at least make an effort. Do you know how hard it is for one person, who may legitimately be suffering from a potassium and vitamin D deficiency (again) to get through a dozen bananas in three days? How torturous it is on my rotted taste buds and churning intestines to throw sharp, zesty flavours into these decaying systems, and not immediately projectile-vomit all over the nearest wall / book / flatmate?

I know I’ve been in the wrong in the past, but I’m trying to make it right. You’re not even dignifying me with an attempt.

I Found The King Of Everything

(all must bow before his magnificence)

Noted thinker and social commentator Khyan Mansley once offered this gem of advice: ‘Once you start wearing slippers outside, life has either gone bad, or you are the king of everything’. And, in following this most eminent of teachers, I have found evidence of his brilliance: today I found the King Of Everything.

I was just getting back in to my halls, having been to karate to learn to protect myself like the bodyguard-less pleb that I am, when I beheld him. I was wearing ‘clothes’, those most foul of bodily coverings, that only serve to distance our own natural beauty from the appreciation of those around us, and had upon my back in which I carried my meagre possessions. But the King had none of these trivial things.

He wore a white dressing-gown, the nobility of which was perhaps only enhanced by the greeny-yellowy splodges around the collar and under the arms, the reasons for the existences of which are clearly beyond my peasant’s mind. He wore it loose, as any royal should, bearing just enough of his toned, patchily-haired chest to involuntarily arouse me, and instantly impregnate female observers of his radiance, yet not enough that I was satisfied by what was offered to me; this both protects the King’s privacy, and further vilifies me for having the greed to desire more of this man’s sweet rack. For it was, from the glimpse I snatched, a pretty sweet rack.

In his hands were not a rod and sceptre, for our monarch has no need for antiquitous emblems of power; no, he carried – in his own hands no less, the true man of the people that our King is – a Sainsbury’s carrier bag full of cans of Strongbow, and an opened can of Strongbow Dark Fruit. Legend has it that this beverage can only be healthily consumed by those with the bluest of blood, and that the edginess and gloominess of this drink will erode the nervous systems of any commoner who attempts to drink it; like if you were to drink diesel oil. Or a bleach and snakebite shot.

Yet upon his feet – and I say ‘upon’ for the King does not wear footwear, but pounds them into the earth as the insignificant pieces of cloth they are – were his slippers, the source of his power. They seemed a simple pair to one so uneducated as myself, with a single thick strap over the unbound toes, and a thicker still rubber sole that the King has presumably used to break the necks of fallen tyrants, and the spirits of vile uprising peasants. Truly this was the footwear of not only a king, but the King, one whose words are law, whose rule is unquestionable, and whose superiority over the other humans he has the indignity of sharing a common ancestor with is obvious. To him, we owe it to ourselves to bend our knees.

But it must be said that the King was wearing socks under his slippers; and at the risk of sounding like an insurgent, that’s so 2014, babe.

The Townend Award

(Christ, now the awards are being named after the pretentious losers who invent them)

In my attempts to engage with other bloggers on this site, I made the mistake of tagging my friend and fellow spouter of sarcastic bullshit Bradley in the Liebster Award; what followed was a total dismissal of the very notion of answering questions, and was done in such a way that a new blogging award has been formed in the image of Bradley: the Townend Award.

To quote its founder, ‘all questions must be as sarcastic and ridiculous as possible. All answers must ramble off topic’; with these simple rules in place, here is my response to Bradley’s tag.

Bradley’s Questions:

– You are walking in the woods. There’s no-one around and your phone is dead. Out of the corner of your eye you spot him … Shia LaBeouf. What do you do? – My phone is dead? My phone is dead? Gerald! He was so young, how could this have happened to him? Wait, who am I asking? Aren’t I supposed to be answering?

– You’ve just died and reached heaven, only to find out that heaven is being demolished to make way for an inter-dimensional bypass. How much regret do you feel? – You see, the strange thing is that I’ve been told my phone has died with no context or explanation, suggesting that this information is not necessary. Not only does this place the Questioner in a position of omnipotence regarding what information is given, but a position of omni-judgement of what information needs to be given.

– Your phone rings in the middle of the night. It’s a private number. You answer it. A small child is on the other end of the line asking if you can help him find his mother. How much urine is soaking your bedsheets? – None mate; got me some Pampers’ Dry Nights.

– Do you understand the true meaning of “Cheeky Nando’s”? If not, what does “Cheeky Nando’s” mean to you? – It’s interesting, therefore, that the Questioner has the final say on what information is to be given, but it is the Answerer that gives information; the Questioner only demands it. The Questioner is therefore in a dual role of power, able to determine what is the ‘correct’ information without actually having any information with which to make a judgement; the Questioner controls both the known, and the unknown, and the Answerer a mere pawn in their schemes.

– When you’re at Argos with the lads and your mate Shaun (the mighty Pot Noodle) turns and says “Eh up lads, who fancies a cheeky nanders?” and Sam chimes in with his whole “Wait up lads, I’m a proper veggie now mate. I don’t eat chicken no more.” How much do you want to batter the poor bloke? – Yesterday I realised I could play Football Manager again now that exams are over, and literally stood still in the park for five minutes with a delighted grin spreading across my face. Then I got home, jumped into Steam and lost my first three games without scoring a goal; it’s good to be back.

– Which highway actually leads to the danger zone? Have you taken a ride on it? Was it a spiritual experience? – Oft him ānhaga āre gebīdeð, / Metudes miltse, þēah þe hē mōdcearig / gerond lagulāde longe sceolde / hrēran mid hondum hrīmcealde sǣ, / wadan wræclāstas.

– What happens if there’s a traffic jam on the Highway to Hell? Or maybe hell is just one big traffic jam? Does that make the bypass a good idea now? – I’ll take the Stairway to Heaven.

– What do you want to talk about? – I don’t know, it’s not like I have 500 frakking blog posts for you to read. Lazy prick.

– Actually, I don’t care about your opinions. Does that bother you? – Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of your questions being fundamentally pointless unless I’m here to answer them.

– Can you actually handle your nanders mate? – But what are these schemes into which the Answerer plays? Are they malevolent, or benevolent? Cruel or kind? And can these questions ever be answered in a mere blog tag?

My Questions

I am nominating but one person for this award, because getting through two Liebster Awards in a few months kinda exhausts your supply of friends on WordPress, Sam O. Bscure.

– How much wood would a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could pull out your intestines with a fishhook and lynch your pet dog with them?

– Why am I so lonely?

– Oo ee oo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang?

– Hwǣr cwōm mearg?

– Where are the voices coming from?

– Do you remember Skanners?

– Who aren’t you?

– Michal Bay, Mahatma Gandhi and the baby from the cover of Nirvana’s Nevermind album walk into a bar; how many dead goats are there beneath the Tower of Babel?

– How about no?

– What is your favourite suffix?