Getting to know…

…Billy Turnips

3a0e21b4-8e56-4b38-b75e-8ff0940c4a83-326-000000333b4a84f9-1Billy ‘Bastard’ Turnips shot to fame in 1976 after winning TV talent contest New Faces as the ‘Pogoing Painter’. Following several years enjoying the trappings of overnight fame, Billy hit the skids and went through a number of reinventions including the ‘Pogoing Window Cleaner’ and the ‘Pogoing Window Breaker’ before finally carving out a niche as the country’s first and only ‘Painted Pogoing Lollypop Man’. He lives in Basingstoke with his 97 year old mother, Tilly Turnips, and his autistic cockapoodle, Monbodison.

Who or what is the greatest love of your life?
Me first wife, Pricilla. She was an amazing women, tits that could stop a train. The Acker Bilk of the pink oboe, they used to call her. Although – and this is between you and me – Acker Bilk was actually better at blowjobs. I should know.

What word or phrase do you overuse?
‘Fancy a bath?’

What is your most treasured possession?
An original draft manuscript of Shakespeare’s The Tempest from 1609. It contains a song, removed from the final version of the play, performed by Caliban which goes ‘We art voyaging to Ibitha, Return’ed to th’island, We are art voyaging to Ibitha, ‘Tis our entent to stage a masquerade’. Of course, almost 400 years later, The Venga Boys picked it up and had a lot of success with it. Dutch arseholes. Which, incidentally, is the medical condition fucking ruining me sleep at the moment.

What is your biggest regret?
Failing medical school because I refused to get off me pogo stick.

Tell us a secret
If I clap 100 times very quickly a quid falls out me arse.


Millions riot over jaw-dropping TV blunder

By Kyle Redtop

An extraordinary thing has happened that has left millions of people fuming in anger and committing acts of mindless violence.

The gob-smackingly amazing thing happened on Russian television, to the total disbelief of thousands of viewers, who were left speechless and quick to air their blind fury on Twitter.

Another paragraph

Hundreds of Russian TV viewers have complained about the gaff, which has left TV bosses in a state of disarray. There have also been reports of mass suicides in the news station’s production gallery, following the blunder.

During a nightly news programme on Russia’s Channel 7, a story about pelicans  incensed viewers and left them shocked, stunned and [find another word even stronger than stunned – mentally raped??] to see stock footage of a crane mistakenly accompanying the piece about a heron.


On Twitter, viewers unleashed a firestorm of screaming e-fury. @MoreOpinionsThanThereAreThingsInTheWorld said “@Channel7 that’s a crane! Pretty sure it is. Easy mistake to make, I guess!!”. Another, @BornOnlineDieOnline said “ffs, get it right you disgusting nazi F***HEADS”.

The nightly news programme is thought to attract 7.7 million viewers. When contacted for comment, the station claimed not to have received any complaints about the incident, and expressed surprise that the “very insignificant error” was taking up column inches in the national UK media.

Unhelpful ‘news’ noise

Their spokesperson said: “the world is rocked by environmental and humanitarian crises, refugees are suffering and dying in their millions, powerful people commit crime and atrocity with impunity, and you are reporting this? Three years studying journalism…your parents must be very proud”.

I feel nothing anymore

When contacted for comment, my parents stated: “no, we are not. We love you, Kyle, but this mendacious, click-bait froth adds nothing to the world, and actually maybe takes a little bit away from it. And you spend so much time finding out what ordinary people are saying about inconsequential things on Social Media. That’s actually beneath hack work. Sorry son.”

Don’t make me think, it hurts

I was unavailable for comment, and I couldn’t find anything on Twitter about what I might feel about my parents’ views on my career. I looked for hours. Like, three and a bit hours.
When contacted for comment, the heron in the news clip said: “ok, firstly, herons can’t give comment. They don’t possess human language. Second, the whole point is that it was a crane, not a heron, in the footage.”

Fictional Heron

The heron’s denial has lead many sources close to the crane to cast doubt on whether any of this actually happened. Ooh look, if you scroll down a bit there are loads of other stories you could read. I mean, now you’re here.

Stupid punt

I’ve started up a lazy gentleman’s outfitters. It’s called Suit Yourself.

The heating’s on the blink at my masturbation stronghold. On the plus side it’s cheap. That’s cold cum fort.

I once worked as a grave digger for a milliner who really hated me. During a funeral for a stetson I stopped digging and said “look I really think we should clear the air, let bygones be bygones….”. She shouted “just bury the hat, shit”. I said “Exactly!”

Our lawn is really long and an obese Satan got stuck in our cat flap. “What do you want to do?” my partner asked. I hate gardening and like to deal with unusual mishaps, so I just shrugged and said “butter the devil. You mow”.

My best mate’s a shell. He refused to fight in the second world war but also came up with a lot of really good ideas for stopping wars altogether. That’s what I like about Conch, he ain’t just ‘objector’.

Bloke asked me if I wanted to join a group who drink tepid Darjeeling in a room full of calculators. I said “Is that ok?”, he said “yeah, safe tea in numbers”.

A Welsh General threatened me this morning. I said, “oh yeah, Euan Hughes’ army”.

Someone asked me the other day, “what did you use to transport the money to pay off that toupe debt to Dame Mirran?”. I said “Wig owing to Helen? A hand cart.”

I was queuing behind a sausage in Costa the other day. He went for a grande cappucino. When it comes to coffee I guess the weiner takes it tall.


I wrote this back in May then left it in draft limbo on the grounds that it went nowhere and weren’t bleedin’ good enough guv’nor. It’s all political about the Brexit that happened then. Were you one of the ballot-happy Leave nobs? Comment me up with a rejoinder if so. 

* * * *

Oi. You bastard of a Brit. In the 52 per cent you say? Speaking with that hate-pursed maw that mouths ‘help’ each night as you nocturnally pollute to a dream in which a bare and buttered Dolph Lundgren kicks an Afro-Caribbean fish to death in a nudist school.

You moral bender.

Five years from now, the EU Referendum and your project fear vote will donkey-punch you in the head. And it will be like when you drop a little bit of what you’re eating between the sofa cushions, unthinkingly retrieve it and pop it in your mouth. Except it’s not what you’ve been eating. It’s harder, and bitter and tastes of decay. Then the surge of horror, commingled with a feeling of betrayal and a stabbing sense of your own gormless, animal stupidity. You’d eat your own genitals if it were dark enough, they were covered in gravy and you could reach. You moronically stupid witless idiot.

And as the pound and trade plummet, division and intolerance sky rocket and agriculture and key public services go to the wall, you’ll be absolutely fine, because you don’t really think about things too hard, do you. Which was precisely the problem.

Getting to know…

…Richard Littlejohn

wp-image-838090468Richard Robin Marion Littlejohn was born several times throughout the 1950s in Harlem. After a disturbed childhood which saw him go in and out of several mothers, he was eventually declared permanently medically born at the age of 7. Littlejohn took up armed struggle at the age of 17, although he himself admits it remains unclear as to what the cause was. He lives in Surrey with his wife Alhambra Gerrymatticock and his two spaniels, Left Testicle and Right Testicle.

When were you happiest?
Yesterday. Mum had just called me in from playing Kerbie with Nick Ferarri. I had my favourite A Team t shirt on and we had sausage and ice cream for tea.

What keeps you up at night?
Mildly racist aural hallucinations. I have one recurring voice who I call Tony Abattoir – he keeps banging on about how black families don’t recycle enough and how manspreading indians take up more than 50% of bus seats.

What’s your most treasured possession?
A jar of fat I found in a derelect windmill. Another of my aural hallucinations – Sir Teddy History – tells me it’s from Cher’s eighth liposuction. My counsellor nodded and said ‘interesting’ when I told her which I took to signal agreement.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My smell. I’m told it’s like a mixture of burnng tyres and toddler poo. I’d quite like to smell like a Happy Meal. Or a box of Smyth & Quiggley offal chocolates. My grandad’s favourite (which I never was).

What’s your favourite word?
Floggnocificulism. It means to simultaneously fart and burp with such force as to bring about instantaneous spiritual awakening. I strive for it every day of my life. I often joke about my £10 a day Coke habit!

How would you like to be remembered?
As a fifth-rate, bigotted hate-pedaling hack, whose lack of journalistic talent was almost as offensive as the dog ordure he smeared across his columns.

Getting to know…

…John Virgo

a16c41b4-d5a4-4037-a452-1b57fd7f7f9a-211-000000049d221d5cBorn in Kingston, Jamaica in 1954 to Segway and Eunice Beaufort – the Caribbean’s most celebrated husband-and-wife clown act – John Chatwin Virgo rose to fame as a giant handed snooker tyrant in the shit-brown 1970s. He lives in rural Hertfordshire with his eleven children and civil law partner General Sir Michael Jackson.

What makes you happy?
Sipping a pint of lemon juice whilst watching my gerbils, Anthony and Pony Girl, fight over a peanut.

What’s your greatest extravagance?
Hats. I’ve got three hats. TWO! Sorry, I’ve got two hats. One’s Mike’s.

Describe your perfect weekend
Early morning Saturday stretching right through to late Sunday, with no weekday bits at all. I’m at my most powerful at the weekends. I am an electromagnetised warrior-titan of vengeful fuck-ass at the weekend.

Where were you happiest?
Bromsgrove, February 1973. I’d just chalked up my first 147 and discovered masturbation later that same day. I still remember shouting “sexy Spiderman!” as that maiden ribbon of baby butter shot towards the mirror.

What’s your biggest regret?
That I didn’t check for a pulse before throwing her to the pigs.

Tell us a secret?
Jim Davidson has a tattoo of Chubby Brown fucking Manning on his perineum.

How would you like to be remembered?
A formdable titan on the snooker table, a fearless and generous bonobo in the bedroom, and generally the personification of the generative powers of nature in all other aspects. And as the cohost of Big Break.

Wanted: Amanuensis

I have a terrible memory.

Very little seems to lodge there. Like the time a tramp slept in my car. I’d forgotten about that until reminded recently. My friend and I went to pick it up from town only to find the boot ajar, back seats down and the whole thing reeking of cigarette smoke.

fc59ca32-6601-4d3d-a55e-51467e9d0c10-233-0000001f5fa45448_tmpActually, it’s not quite true that I have a terrible memory. I have great implicit memory. We all do. It’s why you can cook your favourite meal without a recipe, or tie your shoe laces. Implicit memory is used in building motor skills, what you might call muscle memory. The repetition of a task, the practicing of an instrument, over and over, on an ever-refining path towards mastery. I’m a drummer, I got pretty good. No, nothing wrong with the implicit side of things.

I reckon my explicit memory is pretty titting plumb as well. Well, an aspect of it is, my semantic memory. You don’t get to be a The Chase™ champion without an aptitude for the conscious storage and recall of data, the conjuring of isolated facts independent of context. My insatiable competitive drive and dependency on shots of quick-win external validation see to that.

img_0281But it’s the other side of explicit memory – the episodic side – where my blindspot becomes blindingly easy to spot. I just don’t tend to lock in spatial or temporal data – sensations, emotions, personal associations of a particular time or place. Events pass through uncaptured, instances of hijinx, chance encounters with oddballs, none of them leave their echo. I have a terrible autobiographical memory. I could never be a raconteur. Or a spy.

img_0294Which is why folks keep journals, take photos, ceaselessly tell their stories to others, I suppose. We must curate ourselves, bring the patchwork of the past to bear on the present, to forge meaning, make sense. A mind alive only in the perpetual moment is either the heaven of the enlightened Yogi or the hell of the dementia-addled aged. Funny that.

My name is…wait…this is ridiculous, my name…anyway, my name is my name and I have a terrible autobiographical memory.