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.

Ideas Mart

ff679e2b-9733-4217-85a1-ce4f37761833-255-00000006795e6fdb_tmpHere are some business ideas for which I have no use. They are good ideas, don’t get me wrong. They’re just not good ideas for me. Each idea retails at £6.95 although I’m running a time limited special of 3 for £21 until St Porrington’s Day.

Each idea comes with branding and logo, all trademarks and worldwide patents, several ever-so-slightly narked staff (there might be a minor pay quibble?) and a job lot of Charles and Dianna commemorative garrotting wire:

  1. Whorology – brothel where the girls also mend watches.
  2. Thirst Repaste the Post – horse racing themed eatery.
  3. Can-tan-caress Old Kents – Spray tan and massage parlour for OAPs in the ‘garden of England’ county.
  4. Bottom Feeders – gay fish restaurant.
  5. FUNerals – inflatable-based send off service.
  6. The Porner Shop – norks and newspapers, growlers and groceries.
  7. Race to the Bottom – horse racing themed gay eatery.
  8. Shoovers – footwear with suction cleaning.
  9. Woolworths
  10. The Drive Thru Dentist

Mail merge to World Leaders

Dear President / Prime Minister {surname}

I hope this email finds you well (and receptive to fresh thinking). Terribly cold at the moment, isn’t it?! Well, I suppose only if you’re on the same, or a similar latitude to me. I’m writing to you from my humble bedsit in Benfleet, Essex. I have been moved to compose this missive by dint of the dispiriting carnival of misery, want, tragedy and disaster that processes through my living room nightly, courtesy of desultory newscasts from my tele unit.

f703a76b-0906-4ffc-8822-d37829a35426-260-00000028d3227370_tmpI realise you have not sought my counsel but, in all conscience, I cannot withhold my long maturated ideas and insights from the world any longer. To deprive my fellows of the ameliorations, remedies and correctives to the global family’s multifarious iniquities cooked up by my brain over the preceding decades would be more than my conscience could bear. And I have a preternaturally capacious conscience, which is of course an unsubstantiatable claim.

Firstly, I implore you to do away with pop music. It corrodes the minds of young people, promotes louche and lascivious behaviours, and generally retards the development of the sort of serious, high mindedness that the world so desperately requires.

Secondly, subsidise libraries. These absolutely crucial hubs of community are a lifeline for many and play an inestimable role in the de-illiterisation of young people. They just can’t compete with googleweb or pop music.

Thirdly, put some kind of tax or levy on land. That way, nation states will be less likely to go to war over it. I have done some calculations and humbly propose that £13.50 per square metre would be an efficacious deterrent to the bellicose geo-gerrymandering of dictators and their bloody land-grabbing

Fourthly, phase out some of those new languages that have developed over the past few centuries. I’m thinking particularly of Russian, Chinese, European and American hip hop. They are confusing the picture and run contrary to the general global effort to promote integration, harmony and understanding.

Fifthly, selectively breed humanity into dwarfism. Permit only the most diminutive specimens to procreate. Not only will this go some way to address the problem of the fast dwindling natural resources and bounty of mummy earth, it will also retard climate change. I have done some calculations and humbly propose that an average height of 4 feet 5 inches would be most efficacious in achieving these objectives

e734517c-1ee9-4155-9f5b-bd3e34696800-260-000000283f2da1b7_tmpI hope that my ruminations prove useful in guiding your thinking and policy making. Should you wish to consult me further vis-a-vis the precise details of my propositions, I am available to speak on the telephone (+441268 297658) most weekdays between the hours of 10am and 3pm. Finding myself in a state of negative employment, I am also amenable to the prospect of relocating to take up a strategic advisory role in your administration.

Your humble earth servant,

Martin Ormonroyd
Freelance Global Thought Leader and Expert Dreamer



Q1. When was the last time you wet yourself?

Q2. How many people can you honestly say will be at your funeral?

Q3. Have you any idea how to make your partner happy?

Q6.  Does your net contribution to society equate to more than the crude monetary value of your organs on the Eastern European black market?

Q6. Can you envisage any kind of future?

Q7. Are you a Cunt?

Q8. Is the arbitrary and indifferent nature of the universe bothering you?

Q9. Have you failed to realise the creative potential of your early years?

Q10. Is there much point in carrying on?
Yes. I…yes. No. No.


The World of FMM

The other week I went to a big event, it was called #FMM16 – the Fat Masturbating Men conference 2016. The Birmingham NEC was packed with hundreds of fat men masturbating, I gave up counting at 756, although that was barely half. Not to mention the legions of officianados and collectors of fat masturbating men.

I spoke to a few of the fat masturbating men. Some of them had always wanted to be a fat masturbating man, others just kind of fell into it.

e3475a4a-ac2f-49ff-98b6-d453b296a005-217-00000005e859e7a9_tmpOne guy, called Gary, said he’d known all his life that he wanted to be an FMM, which is the term they use. “I was a skinny kid” he panted at me over coffee “but hard work and competitive eating saw me through”.

Another chap, Terry from Hartlepool, had a very different story. “I never saw myself as a fat masturbating man” he told me in the queue for the keynote speech. His voice was shaky, breathy, because we struck up conversation just before he hit the vinegar strokes. “I’m an architect by trade. This is just something I’m doing for a while. For the money mainly. I hope to go back to architecure in a year or so”.

The Fat Masturbating Men expo started at around 10am. By midday the Birmingham NEC was almost unnavigable. The exhibition space was becoming unhygienic and beginning to turn stomachs. Hardly anyone touched the buffet. Except the fat masturbating men. They all grabbed handfuls of it. Whilst masturbating.

The auction was a great success though. One fat masturbating man from Rochdale went for £17,500. I was outbid on a giant, red haired Welsh wanker. To be honest I only really bid on him because I liked his hat.

After the conference had ended I shared a taxi back to the station
with one of the fat masturbating men. He wasn’t masturbating anymore. We chatted awkwardly about the expo, although he seemed reluctant to discuss the fat masturbating man world. “I’m not as into it as some of the other blokes” he said. “Perhaps that’s why you didn’t sell at the auction!” I tried to joke, but it fell flat. He glowered at me like I’d just farted into his biscuit jar.

I don’t reckon I’ll go next year. I mean, it looked really interesting on the advert, but if anything I found it all a bit disgusting.



1227973961782836377farmeral_audio-icon-svg-medAudio version for the visually deaf

DREAMCATCHER, faulty. Parts and spares only. £70 ono. Collection from spirit realm, 14B Hippywank Drive.

MB GAMES ‘Embalmy!’. Help ‘mad’ Marty Mortician prepare a recently dredged ‘Jane Doe’. It’s a race against decay! £3 tel. 0116 673241

MITSUBISHI PISSBAG Emerald brown, plumbed in boot-bath, £2 under the seat if you’ve got small fingers. £7,000. Tel: 0115 926 5678

CUSTARD KLAXON Are people unaware of your custard? Two short bursts on our custard klaxon and they’ll come screaming in agony for custard, at any hour of the day or night. Call Thrump’s Pudding Sirens on 015 272 333

EDIBLE LUNCH BOX Apple (hollowed). 40p. Will throw in apple meat for a kiss/fiddle. Meet at Crochingham’s orchard, 3pm Sunday. (Bring a knife and wear something tight).

MEMORIES Unwanted gifts. Mixed bag but mainly beatings and arguments. Committed 6 hours worth to tape. Are you lonely? Do you have a tape deck? Tel: 0115 1010110101 and speak when spoken to.

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER novelty dildo. Hand carved from ebony in Papua New Guinea. 8.5″ with realistic veining. Lloyd Webber’s head the bell end. £1 or £3 plus commemorative ‘Tory Cabinet 1992’ anal beads. 0154 34724

DOG Possibly small bear, terrifying ‘1000 yard stare’ and eats its own ‘business’. Take it, just take it away. Tel: 0115 92367 82272

BATTERY POWERED HORSE Very reliable, perfect for commuting. Gets tetchy when inserting batteries (can get 40 AAA up there, but tends to shit them out). Tel: Ohoneonefive fivenineseven sixthreetwo

FECTATED TORP Slightly greasy, could do with a re-cog. Classic Swimp-style design, with original blade jets. I’ll be swimming at Grumpling baths all next week. Dive in and we’ll discuss price.

MY TEA It didn’t agree with me, perhaps you’ll have more luck? Reasonable condition (only used once). Contains fish, chips, stout and chewing gum (I think). Tel: 07783 338373 (be quick, I’m on my way home).

TRIPLE BED 8″ by 10″, minor frot damage. Possibly haunted (it wasn’t my fault). Ideal for a fat couple or Mormons. No money, will swap for your bed. Tel: 11.59652148 ÷ 100

RECURRING DREAM Nothing sinister, but not pleasant. In a tunnel of sand, a choir of flying worms sing to you. You have no hands and a breast where your balls should be. £11.11 o.n.o. Fax: 0111929229299 and mark it “Tit ball worm song dream”.

LONELY VAGINA Polite, shapely, well maintained, spontaneous, GSOH, seeks inquisitive, forthright, witty cock for “the obvious”. No perverts please. Tel: me I’m a wicked girl.

A BIT OF BLUE SOMETHING Sort of bluey-grey thing, like a sliver of ham but feels more like foam. Hums at night and appears to kill insects. Scary, hence quick sale. Tel: 0115 24something