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.

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Omnishambles

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.

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

Benfleet