I've never been able to write song lyrics, I do try, but they sadly turn into fucking Pam Ayers or Richard Digence within a verse, I am passionate about things, but I just dont have the personality to sit and think someone wants to hear about me pouring my heart out about lost loves and such like. I'd much rather write something about a nan falling down the stairs.
Anyway, these are from a while back, and if you dont know the original song, then turn back, as will not make any sense...
This is to be 'rapped' to Ice Ice baby, and is about asthma.
Breathing device-vice baby (x2)
All right stop collaborate and listen
I cant even deal with my own ventilation
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Stops the flow of air, daily and nightly
Will it ever stop yo I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll go
To a&e and to a Doc to get a handle
My breathings all fucked its mother fucking scandal
I cant rush to the Docs waiting room
Its killing my lungs like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly when my breathing gets ahead of me
Anything less than a breath is a felony
I could probably appease by losing some weight
But I love Captain Birdseye and that captain don't play
I've got breathing problems and yo I cant devolve it
Get a prayer book while the docs try and solve it
CHORUS
Breathing device vice baby (x4)
Now that my lungs are stunting
My medications not kicked in and the pumps are pumpin'
Quick to the floor and the floor no faking
How fucking long is this ambulance taking?
Burning lungs that ain't quick and nimble
I couldnt be arsed to finish it, this is to be rapped to MC Hammers, You cant touch this, and is about kidney failure?
I can-not piss
I can-not piss
I can-not piss
I can-not piss
My, my, my, my kidneys have failed so hard
Makes me say oh my gawd
Fuck you for cursing me
With a mind to wine and two kidneys,
that are fucked, and I'm always down
A super-yellow homeboy from the Old town
And I'm known
as such
And this is a beer uh I can't touch
I told you barman, I can-not piss
Yeah, that's how I'm livin' and ya know,
On dialysis
Look in my eyes man, I can-not piss
Yo let me bust the funky machine, dialysis!
Fresh new kicks and dry pants
I've got back ache so I cannot dance
I gotta, get out of my seat
And get to hospital all discreet
Machines rollin' so hold on
Pump a little bit and let them know it's going on
Like that, like that
Urinal inhibition and confined on my back
Let 'em know I dont come out much
And this is a beer uh I can't touch
Yo I told you, can-not piss
Why you standing there man, I can-not piss
Yo sound the bell dialysis time sucker
I can-not piss
And another MC Hammer, this is to be sung to, Have you seen her..
MC Hammered - I am a cleaner
ah yeah, I'm glad I picked this mop up,
I'm just gon' cruise down the hall,
look at the shit on the floor,
and drift off into the shitty smells that I have,
of a love that my heart has been searching for,
for so long, and I know somewhere,
If I keep searching, that I'll get a proper job,
the picture grows clearer and clearer,
from the back to the front of my mind,
and like love, a love I know I'll have,
the job that I want, It'll be mine, minimum wage, and it'll last,
I see lots of faeces everywhere I go
In the shitter in the street, so i'll let you know,
(I'm a cleaner?)
I'm a cleaner?,
(stop telling me im a cleaner?)
I've got a hoover and the make is a hen-ery,
There is shit everywhere but where could it be,
(I'm a cleaner?)
I'm a cleaner?,
(tell me have you seen her?)
I'm looking for that special love,
(Gloves, oh gloves, gloves are something that you need)
Gloves are something that the Hammer definitely needs,
(to make a shine)
to make it shine,
(I need your gloves to clean it)
I need your gloves to clean it,
so why don't you shine,
the scrubbing is going on,
from coast to coast,
a women for the man, who's mopping the most,
(I'm a cleaner?)
I'm a cleaner?,
Thursday 20 May 2010
Wednesday 19 May 2010
Blame Bill
Bill Tatchel was dull, probably the most outwardly dullest but inwardly frustrated 32 year old in the world, to describe how dull he was you have to go right back to the beginning, ‘Bill’, a name that sounds like the noise an unremarkable stool would make dropping into a plain white toilet in an average terraced house in Peterborough.
The only slightly redeeming feature of his name was the surname, ‘Tatchel’ which sounded like it could mean a small trendy shoulder bag that hadn’t been invented yet used for carrying documents, and a blackberry thing, and could ‘synch’ with an ipod and charge it with its solar ding dong, its £179 price tag would bring a brief moment of joy to the fashion/tech obsessed gap shopping trendy bespectacled cunt who was adorning it. It could also mean a large horses cock, or a small hamlet in Somerset, where apples grew and women carried children on the hip, while rosy cheeked men with hands like shovels drank 13% Perry straight from the trough and fought clubbing pitch battles with bare fists over silly things, with no police involvement, proper men, hairy muscular Mungo Jerry men, sparing only enough energy to go home and give the missus a swift cupping slap round the chops and send her on her way. Knowing Bill though, it probably didn’t mean anything, or even went into the negative, its meaning cancelling out a meaning for another word. Not exciting, like a similar standard of Indian name, like ‘Prabat’, or ‘Pratar’, which, although essentially were based around the word ‘pratt’, could still conjure up a more exciting image than ‘Bill’ did, Bill was like erectile dysfunction, Bill was a cold rainy day in Worthing, Bill was a lynx box set for Christmas when your Gran knows full well it gives you asthma.
It was a Tuesday, the worst day, and drizzling, poor mans monsoon, wannabe raindrops, gay rain, just enough to make you wet but an altogether irritating experience, like really average sex.
Bill’s Matalan leather coated loafer style one size too big £18 all-they- had-in-his-size shoes pounded the pavement with the slow and unenthusiastic beat of a recently widowed pensioners heart, they were probably made from BSC cattle, if they were cattle at all, probably squirrel hide, or missing Kurds, or just plain old leatherette.
Despite the unremarkable nature of Bill, and the almost suicidal greyness of this particular Tuesday, Bill, (and a small bird) were about to set off a remarkable chain of events and change the world forever, and possibly knacker it, not just EC1, where he was walking to a job interview after 10 years number crunching in the same shitty soul destroying job, but the actual whole world, even those little islands where the French did all that nuclear testing, and Magaloof, and Wales, Greenland etc, everything would change, the whole of mankind would united in their collective feeling of global fuckedupudtyness, and little would they know, it would all be the fault of gormless Bill Tatchell, who still lived with his Mum in Penge (Oh, and the small bird, that didn’t still live with its mum and flew the nest right on cue, at about 12 weeks old).
Bill tripped up the last step in Liverpool Street, nobody looked, it was a tepid trip, not worth straining neck sinew for, not like when an old person falls over, laden with Somerfield bags and shatters pelvic bones into a calcium talc, gets bruising on their whole body and dying alone in a nursing home, and eventually putting a whole family out by having to spend a perfectly good Thursday watching the old sod put into a hole in the ground while distant relatives pretend to be upset, hoping to get their grubby and ghoulish hands on that carriage clock/co-op savings, taking the clock on the antiques road-show and getting absolutely soul destroyed finding out it was worth a minus amount of money.
He moved to the crossing, just missing the sprightly looking green man, dithering before a motorcycle courier secured the next 4 minutes of Bills life standing with the drizzle dribbling all over him like a bad kiss, his life briefly being governed by a silhouetted man with a scarlet bulb behind him, big red Nazi luminous posturing cunt.
Finally, Bill crossed, tutting timidly when barged by a man whose eyes where so close together he would not look out of place in Jason and the Argonaughts, slowly making his way across the road and staring at a legal secretary whose wore a cut of clothes well about her salary, probably got a rich bloke in tow, a meal ticket, ‘slag’ he uttered, (in his mind). You would also have to be Steve Wonder in a darkened room (just in case of a miracle) and a blindfold on, to not see the sparkler on her finger too, it was like everything Elizabeth Duke at Argos had in all its range on just the one ring. Bill, who didn’t know a thing about jewelery mumbled under his breath, ‘fuck me, even bugs bunny doesn’t have that many carats, the woman, of course, never even gave poor old Bill a glance, her eyes even more distracted by a small topic wrapper that was caught in a gust and rolling across the pavement in a comedic manner, (the kind of comedy only really gifted people see, like your Uncle, the one with all them pills?), not at all like the herds of Saturday night TV cunts who find Cilla ‘lorra lorra’ Black funny and find Davina ‘shit bag’ ‘shit bag’ McCall refreshing and vibrant. Bill, as dull as he was, found Davina as refreshing as a pint of warm homeless persons piss with a foamy head and some fag butts floating in, with a used syringe for a straw that was downed in one on a hot summers day. Despite his hatred of her, he had spent many a night watching her Toucanesaque profile rocking back and forth eagerly, screeching sound bites into the mic to crowds of soulless needy gossip addicted 3G enabled phone voting reality TV obsessed viewtards, praying that a lighting rig would fall on her and not quite kill her, just enough to confine her to a wheelchair, and possibly some kind of drip and a machine that dealt with flushing her urine out in a hit and miss manner, turning her yellow occasionally, gradually poisoned by her own piss for the rest of her life, and hopefully a long life at that, Bill didn’t want her dead, he knew she had kids, why should they be without a Mum as such just because theirs was an irritating screechy she-cunt? No, he would allow them to have something they could call ‘mum’ even though she had more machinery around her than Metal Mickey giving Robocop a piggy back in PC World, and could only reply with a beep, a blink, or a special intake of breath that, in time, the children would learn to interpret as an acknowledgment, she would also be able to hear their tears reverberating in her uber-spazzed brain but would not be able to offer a hug or any comfort as she had less motor functions than a Battenberg cake, fair deal, Bill thought for parrot nosed and surely hell-bound ex coke shovelling Countess of Cunt.
The only slightly redeeming feature of his name was the surname, ‘Tatchel’ which sounded like it could mean a small trendy shoulder bag that hadn’t been invented yet used for carrying documents, and a blackberry thing, and could ‘synch’ with an ipod and charge it with its solar ding dong, its £179 price tag would bring a brief moment of joy to the fashion/tech obsessed gap shopping trendy bespectacled cunt who was adorning it. It could also mean a large horses cock, or a small hamlet in Somerset, where apples grew and women carried children on the hip, while rosy cheeked men with hands like shovels drank 13% Perry straight from the trough and fought clubbing pitch battles with bare fists over silly things, with no police involvement, proper men, hairy muscular Mungo Jerry men, sparing only enough energy to go home and give the missus a swift cupping slap round the chops and send her on her way. Knowing Bill though, it probably didn’t mean anything, or even went into the negative, its meaning cancelling out a meaning for another word. Not exciting, like a similar standard of Indian name, like ‘Prabat’, or ‘Pratar’, which, although essentially were based around the word ‘pratt’, could still conjure up a more exciting image than ‘Bill’ did, Bill was like erectile dysfunction, Bill was a cold rainy day in Worthing, Bill was a lynx box set for Christmas when your Gran knows full well it gives you asthma.
It was a Tuesday, the worst day, and drizzling, poor mans monsoon, wannabe raindrops, gay rain, just enough to make you wet but an altogether irritating experience, like really average sex.
Bill’s Matalan leather coated loafer style one size too big £18 all-they- had-in-his-size shoes pounded the pavement with the slow and unenthusiastic beat of a recently widowed pensioners heart, they were probably made from BSC cattle, if they were cattle at all, probably squirrel hide, or missing Kurds, or just plain old leatherette.
Despite the unremarkable nature of Bill, and the almost suicidal greyness of this particular Tuesday, Bill, (and a small bird) were about to set off a remarkable chain of events and change the world forever, and possibly knacker it, not just EC1, where he was walking to a job interview after 10 years number crunching in the same shitty soul destroying job, but the actual whole world, even those little islands where the French did all that nuclear testing, and Magaloof, and Wales, Greenland etc, everything would change, the whole of mankind would united in their collective feeling of global fuckedupudtyness, and little would they know, it would all be the fault of gormless Bill Tatchell, who still lived with his Mum in Penge (Oh, and the small bird, that didn’t still live with its mum and flew the nest right on cue, at about 12 weeks old).
Bill tripped up the last step in Liverpool Street, nobody looked, it was a tepid trip, not worth straining neck sinew for, not like when an old person falls over, laden with Somerfield bags and shatters pelvic bones into a calcium talc, gets bruising on their whole body and dying alone in a nursing home, and eventually putting a whole family out by having to spend a perfectly good Thursday watching the old sod put into a hole in the ground while distant relatives pretend to be upset, hoping to get their grubby and ghoulish hands on that carriage clock/co-op savings, taking the clock on the antiques road-show and getting absolutely soul destroyed finding out it was worth a minus amount of money.
He moved to the crossing, just missing the sprightly looking green man, dithering before a motorcycle courier secured the next 4 minutes of Bills life standing with the drizzle dribbling all over him like a bad kiss, his life briefly being governed by a silhouetted man with a scarlet bulb behind him, big red Nazi luminous posturing cunt.
Finally, Bill crossed, tutting timidly when barged by a man whose eyes where so close together he would not look out of place in Jason and the Argonaughts, slowly making his way across the road and staring at a legal secretary whose wore a cut of clothes well about her salary, probably got a rich bloke in tow, a meal ticket, ‘slag’ he uttered, (in his mind). You would also have to be Steve Wonder in a darkened room (just in case of a miracle) and a blindfold on, to not see the sparkler on her finger too, it was like everything Elizabeth Duke at Argos had in all its range on just the one ring. Bill, who didn’t know a thing about jewelery mumbled under his breath, ‘fuck me, even bugs bunny doesn’t have that many carats, the woman, of course, never even gave poor old Bill a glance, her eyes even more distracted by a small topic wrapper that was caught in a gust and rolling across the pavement in a comedic manner, (the kind of comedy only really gifted people see, like your Uncle, the one with all them pills?), not at all like the herds of Saturday night TV cunts who find Cilla ‘lorra lorra’ Black funny and find Davina ‘shit bag’ ‘shit bag’ McCall refreshing and vibrant. Bill, as dull as he was, found Davina as refreshing as a pint of warm homeless persons piss with a foamy head and some fag butts floating in, with a used syringe for a straw that was downed in one on a hot summers day. Despite his hatred of her, he had spent many a night watching her Toucanesaque profile rocking back and forth eagerly, screeching sound bites into the mic to crowds of soulless needy gossip addicted 3G enabled phone voting reality TV obsessed viewtards, praying that a lighting rig would fall on her and not quite kill her, just enough to confine her to a wheelchair, and possibly some kind of drip and a machine that dealt with flushing her urine out in a hit and miss manner, turning her yellow occasionally, gradually poisoned by her own piss for the rest of her life, and hopefully a long life at that, Bill didn’t want her dead, he knew she had kids, why should they be without a Mum as such just because theirs was an irritating screechy she-cunt? No, he would allow them to have something they could call ‘mum’ even though she had more machinery around her than Metal Mickey giving Robocop a piggy back in PC World, and could only reply with a beep, a blink, or a special intake of breath that, in time, the children would learn to interpret as an acknowledgment, she would also be able to hear their tears reverberating in her uber-spazzed brain but would not be able to offer a hug or any comfort as she had less motor functions than a Battenberg cake, fair deal, Bill thought for parrot nosed and surely hell-bound ex coke shovelling Countess of Cunt.
Monday 17 May 2010
Why I want to fuck Clapham.
If you ever see me lying down in SW12, face down, with my trousers round my ankles and my gluteus maximus muscles flexing, don’t worry, I’m ok, don’t call an ambulance, or the police, its just me trying to fuck Clapham, I love it see, I just want to show my appreciation in the most basic way known to all animals, to run down its streets with my neck puffing away and making that funny noise like a horny pigeon and just mount something, a drain, the air vent in Chicken Cottage, a slightly ajar window of one of the nicer houses, a bin. That said, if you see me lying down on the common in a state of lower undress face down, please do call the police, and an ambulance, I’ve probably been fucked by members of parliament (literally), and given the new Lib Con coalition, they are probably out in greater numbers.
Why is Clapham so great you ask (adding you fuck pig on the end), well, its great because unlike most areas you can do everything in one night without having to leave (You cant bowl you say, in a cocky tone that makes my blood boil) I don’t want to bowl. You cant drink a pint of Magners in Saudi Arabia, I don’t see you moaning to them, too busy looking for somewhere to bowl no doubt, fuck you, get a life, you bowling obsessed arsehole. (You can’t ice-skate either, you add, tilting your head like Ann Robinson) Me and you are going to fall out, seriously, Ice Skating is for fairies, and you can get to Streatham if you are that desperate, capeesh? (You can’t weight train now that Clapham Gym has been closed by Lambeth Council, you have to go up to the Virgin Gym and pay £100 a month?) Right, I’ve had enough of you, get out of Clapham, go away, nobody does any of the things you speak of, I’m talking about pubs, restaurants, atmosphere. Plus, the Virgin Gym, each of these machines is made from the same stuff as Knightrider, they talk to you, and they have lights and more buttons than a 747 cockpit.
I’d like Clapham to form independence from the rest of London nay the world, we would have a deal drawn up with Balham and Battersea to let people use each others facilities but we would have our own currency, Clambats, we would have our own flag (probably an eagle head butting a bulldog), we would twin with a town in Middle Earth, which would look cool of the sign when you enter (I say enter, I mean pull up at the armed check point and have a full cavity search and your papers checked and your intentions made clear, while being anally fisted). We would have our own anthem, which would be Lionel Ritchie, Running with the night. In fact Lionel Richie would be our leader, and the Bandstand on the common would be replaced with a HUGE clay Lionel head where families could go and worship, and grasp handfuls of synthetic afro which could be squeezed in the palm in a reassuring way, the crest of his huge circa commodores ‘fro would be visible from any point in the UK and, like the great wall of China, space.
Everyone would say hello to each other, in the manner of the song and the uniform would be one of the many from his numerous songs over the several decades his career has spanned, for example the tight trouser, red shirt ensemble from ‘all night long’, the all black affair from ‘say you, say me’ or its black leather and sequins, for the penny lover look. Anyone seen not wearing a uniform would either be taken to the nearest clothiers or shot on the spot.
Children would study his lyrics, breaking them down into the component parts, which are usually, a party involving everyone which goes on right through the night, people invited regardless of colour, or gender, dancing in really impractical places, the street or ceiling, and generally breaking down barriers, such as wanting to have sex with a blind girl half your age.
In the meantime, until this gets passed through and Lionel comes to SW12 to lead us to a new age we will have to make do with the numerous facilities on offer, the cinema, the Londis near by, a fully functioning Blockbuster Video, I could go on?. I’ve written several letters to Lionel Ritchie, including sending him a quiche in his image, he has written back (via a representative), and although this only threatens legal action, the fact that he has responded and taken time out of his busy schedule, means there is a vested interest?
I suggest you move to Clapham, or one of its subsidiary boroughs asap, when the Great Commodore comes to rest and the Golden age begins, you will wish you did, especially when one of the checkpoint guards is forearms deep up your poop tube searching for contraband using your arsehole like a lucky dip.
Anyway, bullock, Clapham is the best, I don’t see you looking to install an 80’s pop star as your Fuhrer?
Saturday 15 May 2010
Worlds shortest visit to Camden..
Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty nice guy, but a couple of little things fuck me right off, namely, crowds, cunts, groups of youngsters, older men with stupid little artisan impractical beards, massively disproportionate age difference gay couples when the younger of the two is Brazilian and usually just getting bum turked for a visa, anyone with a mohawk, silly little 'funky' coloured spectacles, anyone wearing a necklace with 'bonkers' or 'Dippy' on it, attention seeking cant let the past go ex junkies and cainers, markets, locks, really small dogs, DM boots, piercings, tattoo parlors, emo's death metal people (Don't get me wrong, I'm all for individuality and self expression, but I'm 51% in favour of communist style uniform system and no self expression of any kind) anywhere beginning with C (apart from Clapham) and anywhere on the northern line where the tube station acts as a junction allowing you to traverse both the Bank and Charing cross branches.
Given all the above, why I went to Camden Market was beyond me, I had a couple of hours to kill so against advice I went up there, as I had only been there a couple of times before a much younger and tolerant man. I left the station and was hit with a sea of colours and smells, it was like a fabric vomitus. I walked down towards the Market open jawed at the amount of fucking weirdos about, pretty much all of the above, added to that mix, tourists, dordling open jawed shuffling euro exchanging fucktards who make navigating the pavements of London a complete misery, take your strong Euro and fuck off.
I got to the Market and could see the walls of expensive and poorly printed T Shirts, the like of Che Guevarra, The Sex Pistols, and general play on words shit, the pope smokes dope etc, over priced, wear once and throw out due to shrinking in the wash type crap. I could almost sense that some poor young bloke had come up to the market to buy himself a trendy over priced top to wear out clubbing tonight and would just end up about 120 quid down and covered in sick, blood and probably some sort of excrement (London is harsh).
I was only about 8 minutes into my visit and passing ever weirder people and now practically seething through gritted teeth and jostling my way along the pavement wondering, where is a shoe or rucksack bomber when you need one? An explosion would help to speed people up and send a large proportion looking for somewhere else to spend their money.
As I was getting close to the Camden Lock, I quickly decided that I was 'Cunted out' and turned on my heels and back on the tube to Angel. I was there about 12 minutes in all and it was the worse 12 minutes of my life, how I imagine I would feel if I was arse raped on Hampstead Heath on a damp Thursday night. The only saving grace of the day was the fact that I walked past Lowry Turner in Islington without punching her in the face deciding quickly that although she is a big tongued annoying TV gnome, that nobody deserves punching in the face.
There is seldom a time when the use of Hydrogen bombs should be considered, but I believe in the case of the freak show that is Camden, there could well be a good case in point, not to evaporate everyone of course, I wouldn't want to see the patrons screaming while their clothes were burnt off their bodies and the skin enveloped off their arms, legs and faces while piercings melted and dripped down like metallic tears (and I was in a nuclear proof suit trying to save everyone using huge jif lemon dispensers) no, not that at all, you sick fuckers, I mean just to clear the place up a bit and start again, wider pavements, more space in the market and ban all the people in the first paragraph. The same goes with Borough Market to a certain extend, its in my top 3 bestis places in London, but its too fucking packed and some of the market traders are just taking the piss with their prices because the frequenters are just blind to the prices now, I cant stand paying over the odds for stuff. (I am writing this in a pub where I have just paid 3.80 for a pint of Heiniken). Anyway, I've decided to never go there again, no matter what.
Given all the above, why I went to Camden Market was beyond me, I had a couple of hours to kill so against advice I went up there, as I had only been there a couple of times before a much younger and tolerant man. I left the station and was hit with a sea of colours and smells, it was like a fabric vomitus. I walked down towards the Market open jawed at the amount of fucking weirdos about, pretty much all of the above, added to that mix, tourists, dordling open jawed shuffling euro exchanging fucktards who make navigating the pavements of London a complete misery, take your strong Euro and fuck off.
I got to the Market and could see the walls of expensive and poorly printed T Shirts, the like of Che Guevarra, The Sex Pistols, and general play on words shit, the pope smokes dope etc, over priced, wear once and throw out due to shrinking in the wash type crap. I could almost sense that some poor young bloke had come up to the market to buy himself a trendy over priced top to wear out clubbing tonight and would just end up about 120 quid down and covered in sick, blood and probably some sort of excrement (London is harsh).
I was only about 8 minutes into my visit and passing ever weirder people and now practically seething through gritted teeth and jostling my way along the pavement wondering, where is a shoe or rucksack bomber when you need one? An explosion would help to speed people up and send a large proportion looking for somewhere else to spend their money.
As I was getting close to the Camden Lock, I quickly decided that I was 'Cunted out' and turned on my heels and back on the tube to Angel. I was there about 12 minutes in all and it was the worse 12 minutes of my life, how I imagine I would feel if I was arse raped on Hampstead Heath on a damp Thursday night. The only saving grace of the day was the fact that I walked past Lowry Turner in Islington without punching her in the face deciding quickly that although she is a big tongued annoying TV gnome, that nobody deserves punching in the face.
There is seldom a time when the use of Hydrogen bombs should be considered, but I believe in the case of the freak show that is Camden, there could well be a good case in point, not to evaporate everyone of course, I wouldn't want to see the patrons screaming while their clothes were burnt off their bodies and the skin enveloped off their arms, legs and faces while piercings melted and dripped down like metallic tears (and I was in a nuclear proof suit trying to save everyone using huge jif lemon dispensers) no, not that at all, you sick fuckers, I mean just to clear the place up a bit and start again, wider pavements, more space in the market and ban all the people in the first paragraph. The same goes with Borough Market to a certain extend, its in my top 3 bestis places in London, but its too fucking packed and some of the market traders are just taking the piss with their prices because the frequenters are just blind to the prices now, I cant stand paying over the odds for stuff. (I am writing this in a pub where I have just paid 3.80 for a pint of Heiniken). Anyway, I've decided to never go there again, no matter what.
Friday 14 May 2010
Rant and Dick (and Dave) go Boxing
R & D (and Dave) go boxing
Since the dawn of time Humans have been punching each other, challenging everyone, and sometimes animals, to fight to the death in combat, from the simplicity of escalloping each other with rocks and other crude bludgeoning weapons, to the voyeurism and exuberance of Roman gladiatorial combat, and finally to the modern day, and the sweetest of all sciences, no not chemistry, that’s rubbish, Boxing.
Being a massive fan of boxing we were excited to be going to The Real Fight Clubs Showtime at the Troxy, excited also because the tickets were free, and to be fair, I would probably go to watch the 'Blackbirds having their beaks snapped off with pliers' show at Olympia if it was at no cost to me.
The real fight club is basically an excuse to punch office workers in the face repeatedly, and you can do this without evoking the wrath of some pumped up Human Resources Nazi, losing your job, and eventually having bailiffs take your precious plasma screen, XBOX and collection of specialist porn DVD's. I knew the evening was going to end in tears (or beers) when meeting a Tower Hill, we passed a huge Humvee limo at the lights, the back of this was choc full of excited kids screaming enthusiastically at anyone looking at the monstrous car, Rant got as close to the window as he could and yelled 'Santa Claus is dead', slightly confused another of the kids started shouting Britain’s got Talent, to which I yelled back, it also has the highest count of Paedophiles [Cue, mummy, what’s a paedophile? - Erm, you know Uncle Dave when he has had a drink...] Sitting in the Liberty Bounds and guzzling as much efes as possible (the beer of choice for Turkish Mini Cab Rapists) we were clock watching and had gambled everything on a quick KFC before first bell, going down stairs to some subterranean greasy shit hole only to find out it shut at seven was a new low, since when does a fucking KFC shut before most Libraries, fuck you Colonel Saunders, I'm demoting you, and defecting to the Cottage.
Arriving in Limehouse, you are greeted with that smell, even blind folded you know you are in East London, its more of a sensation than a smell per se, it just says to you, abandon all hope, its how I'd imagine failure would smell, we walked up past a cacophony of sub KFC chicken places, clicking a finger like the fucking Fonz of fast food at one of them, as if to say, I'll be sampling your wares later you chicken frying arse wipe. We arrived at the Troxy and could hear various noises of blokes rubbing their thighs, oohing and aarghing, and muttering things that are simply sub-human, 'get your rat out you slaaag' and 'Oy, I'm glaring at your predators mouth you wank with limbs', you know the sort of stuff you would never say to your girlfriend, unless you wanted to wake up with a mouthful of blanched teste. We couldn’t see the 'Bikini Bull Riding' from the cheap seats, probably a good thing too, no doubt some battered up old ex porn model slag stuck to the bull like some labial limpet with her bingo wings flapping around like a flying squirrel, no thanks.
Tonight promised to bring a touch of Las Vegas to East London (like a touch of fucking diarrhea), this was to be a huge challenge given that the only thing they have in common is that both areas vaguely inhabit the same planet. And what illusion did they magic up to create the Nevada Desert? Nailed a sign up saying, sure enough, Las Vegas, and played some video of Elvis shaking about like Michael J Fox in an earthquake and just put some American random telly on the TV's hanging about the place, a 'BIG BAND' (3 old codgers on various instruments) belted out big band numbers, to which we sang along with the most inappropriate lyrics, Ice Cube, Slipknots, People = shit, and Me so horny, by the 2 live crew. Getting restless, and a bit worried about the thought of paying £4 for a small bottle of pissweiser I hoped that the fighting made up for the cheesier than David Hasselhoff in a bath of primula set up, I didn’t want to see anyone die twitching, but I did want to see a corona of dentistry flying out of someone’s mouth and the following bloody puke running its way down the ring onto the horrified people at ring side, but this was going to be unlikely as the people were wearing head gear, I had hoped for hot wax and glass, like in all Van Damme films, but again, I was disappointed, its standard fare to me, even when I have a wank.
Me and the boys were wolfing down beers and generally heckling and being, what is commonly referred to by by-standers as, cunts. The fighting finally began, and it was clear in most cases who would win, generally when you have a beer gut, you have to do one of two things, know how to distribute your weight to your advantage, or win within 10 seconds, or you find you are a panting blueberry looking waste of space and the younger fitter guy will spend the next 5 minutes and 50 seconds of your life making you feel like that side of beef in Rocky, this was pretty much the case in the first fight and we were treated to our first knock down. We were all surprised to find out that the first fighter was actually the side of beef out of the first Rocky film, its really let itself go, its like biltong now, all leathery, like a fucking holdall. 3 fights in, and several budweii later, I was finding I was having to watch the fight through one eye, because I really was a bit drunk. I was woken up by the sounds of Eye of the tiger and a crazed Turk running in the ring punching the air furiously, on the way in, after seeing him knocked to shit in under a minute, I did wonder that he should maybe have been paired up to fight 'the air' I think they were about the same weight. Rant boomed laughter over to the 30 or so Turks who had paid to watch the absolute shower go down like a $2 whore on welfare (with aids). On any fight night, you always get the cocky cunt who thinks they are Muhammad Ali, feet moving about like an epileptic on a hot plate and being all cocky, we had one who tried to do a jumping, spinning, back flipping reverse forward, reverse slap, and failed, our heckling was even better as his supporters were sitting right in front of us, lucky for us that his name was Joseph Sackofshitcuntface, or we would have been in trouble.
There was also a charity auction, but everyone was being proper tight, no suit is worth £1500, even if its made from Dodo pubes, we were all getting a bit leathered now, apart from Dave, who was, at this point, was still on the aperitif setting and probably could have guzzled on for the rest of the night, his body now oblivious and ignorant to the damage of trying to self pickle.
Tired, drunk, listless, throaty and almost out of heckles I just wanted to sleep, but then something amazing happened, something that only happens once or twice in a life and something to be savoured and retold to the children’s children. A bloke moved across to the balcony and blocked our view, Rant shouted out, "OY You down at the front" - The guy turned around, only for us to all realised he was a downs, he quickly ran off, I cocked my head back, and was beyond laughter and just roared to the Comedy God, that such a bizarre set of events could have happened, we all pissed laughter tears out of our eye cocks, it was a magical moment
We finally left and Rant had to get back to the Pratt Cave (where we record) and left me or Dave flirting with the Chicken and chips places, teasing them all about which one we was going to get our salmonella coated greasy avian from. We sat on the DLR eating like beasts, gorging before the Northern Line (you can eat on there, its just not on) and back home, where unfortunately, my bomb doors opened and I let out a shit blitz, very late at night, fucking chicken comes out faster than I rammed it in. Anyway, you didn’t need to know that.
I fancy having a fight myself, I cant actually fight but I'm freakishly strong, my arms have to be checked by the UN once a year as they are technically a WMD (no, not a wobbling mass of dripping, you cheeky cunt), I only want to fight so I can have a cool boxers name, like John 'The Holoucauster' Smith, or Dave 'Once you pop, you cant stop, did you know there are 90 chips in the tube' Pringle, or Frank 'Cot death' Taylor, anyway, you get the idea....
More Rant and Dick adventures to follow, we don’t see enough of each other socially, we had a right laugh.
R & D
Since the dawn of time Humans have been punching each other, challenging everyone, and sometimes animals, to fight to the death in combat, from the simplicity of escalloping each other with rocks and other crude bludgeoning weapons, to the voyeurism and exuberance of Roman gladiatorial combat, and finally to the modern day, and the sweetest of all sciences, no not chemistry, that’s rubbish, Boxing.
Being a massive fan of boxing we were excited to be going to The Real Fight Clubs Showtime at the Troxy, excited also because the tickets were free, and to be fair, I would probably go to watch the 'Blackbirds having their beaks snapped off with pliers' show at Olympia if it was at no cost to me.
The real fight club is basically an excuse to punch office workers in the face repeatedly, and you can do this without evoking the wrath of some pumped up Human Resources Nazi, losing your job, and eventually having bailiffs take your precious plasma screen, XBOX and collection of specialist porn DVD's. I knew the evening was going to end in tears (or beers) when meeting a Tower Hill, we passed a huge Humvee limo at the lights, the back of this was choc full of excited kids screaming enthusiastically at anyone looking at the monstrous car, Rant got as close to the window as he could and yelled 'Santa Claus is dead', slightly confused another of the kids started shouting Britain’s got Talent, to which I yelled back, it also has the highest count of Paedophiles [Cue, mummy, what’s a paedophile? - Erm, you know Uncle Dave when he has had a drink...] Sitting in the Liberty Bounds and guzzling as much efes as possible (the beer of choice for Turkish Mini Cab Rapists) we were clock watching and had gambled everything on a quick KFC before first bell, going down stairs to some subterranean greasy shit hole only to find out it shut at seven was a new low, since when does a fucking KFC shut before most Libraries, fuck you Colonel Saunders, I'm demoting you, and defecting to the Cottage.
Arriving in Limehouse, you are greeted with that smell, even blind folded you know you are in East London, its more of a sensation than a smell per se, it just says to you, abandon all hope, its how I'd imagine failure would smell, we walked up past a cacophony of sub KFC chicken places, clicking a finger like the fucking Fonz of fast food at one of them, as if to say, I'll be sampling your wares later you chicken frying arse wipe. We arrived at the Troxy and could hear various noises of blokes rubbing their thighs, oohing and aarghing, and muttering things that are simply sub-human, 'get your rat out you slaaag' and 'Oy, I'm glaring at your predators mouth you wank with limbs', you know the sort of stuff you would never say to your girlfriend, unless you wanted to wake up with a mouthful of blanched teste. We couldn’t see the 'Bikini Bull Riding' from the cheap seats, probably a good thing too, no doubt some battered up old ex porn model slag stuck to the bull like some labial limpet with her bingo wings flapping around like a flying squirrel, no thanks.
Tonight promised to bring a touch of Las Vegas to East London (like a touch of fucking diarrhea), this was to be a huge challenge given that the only thing they have in common is that both areas vaguely inhabit the same planet. And what illusion did they magic up to create the Nevada Desert? Nailed a sign up saying, sure enough, Las Vegas, and played some video of Elvis shaking about like Michael J Fox in an earthquake and just put some American random telly on the TV's hanging about the place, a 'BIG BAND' (3 old codgers on various instruments) belted out big band numbers, to which we sang along with the most inappropriate lyrics, Ice Cube, Slipknots, People = shit, and Me so horny, by the 2 live crew. Getting restless, and a bit worried about the thought of paying £4 for a small bottle of pissweiser I hoped that the fighting made up for the cheesier than David Hasselhoff in a bath of primula set up, I didn’t want to see anyone die twitching, but I did want to see a corona of dentistry flying out of someone’s mouth and the following bloody puke running its way down the ring onto the horrified people at ring side, but this was going to be unlikely as the people were wearing head gear, I had hoped for hot wax and glass, like in all Van Damme films, but again, I was disappointed, its standard fare to me, even when I have a wank.
Me and the boys were wolfing down beers and generally heckling and being, what is commonly referred to by by-standers as, cunts. The fighting finally began, and it was clear in most cases who would win, generally when you have a beer gut, you have to do one of two things, know how to distribute your weight to your advantage, or win within 10 seconds, or you find you are a panting blueberry looking waste of space and the younger fitter guy will spend the next 5 minutes and 50 seconds of your life making you feel like that side of beef in Rocky, this was pretty much the case in the first fight and we were treated to our first knock down. We were all surprised to find out that the first fighter was actually the side of beef out of the first Rocky film, its really let itself go, its like biltong now, all leathery, like a fucking holdall. 3 fights in, and several budweii later, I was finding I was having to watch the fight through one eye, because I really was a bit drunk. I was woken up by the sounds of Eye of the tiger and a crazed Turk running in the ring punching the air furiously, on the way in, after seeing him knocked to shit in under a minute, I did wonder that he should maybe have been paired up to fight 'the air' I think they were about the same weight. Rant boomed laughter over to the 30 or so Turks who had paid to watch the absolute shower go down like a $2 whore on welfare (with aids). On any fight night, you always get the cocky cunt who thinks they are Muhammad Ali, feet moving about like an epileptic on a hot plate and being all cocky, we had one who tried to do a jumping, spinning, back flipping reverse forward, reverse slap, and failed, our heckling was even better as his supporters were sitting right in front of us, lucky for us that his name was Joseph Sackofshitcuntface, or we would have been in trouble.
There was also a charity auction, but everyone was being proper tight, no suit is worth £1500, even if its made from Dodo pubes, we were all getting a bit leathered now, apart from Dave, who was, at this point, was still on the aperitif setting and probably could have guzzled on for the rest of the night, his body now oblivious and ignorant to the damage of trying to self pickle.
Tired, drunk, listless, throaty and almost out of heckles I just wanted to sleep, but then something amazing happened, something that only happens once or twice in a life and something to be savoured and retold to the children’s children. A bloke moved across to the balcony and blocked our view, Rant shouted out, "OY You down at the front" - The guy turned around, only for us to all realised he was a downs, he quickly ran off, I cocked my head back, and was beyond laughter and just roared to the Comedy God, that such a bizarre set of events could have happened, we all pissed laughter tears out of our eye cocks, it was a magical moment
We finally left and Rant had to get back to the Pratt Cave (where we record) and left me or Dave flirting with the Chicken and chips places, teasing them all about which one we was going to get our salmonella coated greasy avian from. We sat on the DLR eating like beasts, gorging before the Northern Line (you can eat on there, its just not on) and back home, where unfortunately, my bomb doors opened and I let out a shit blitz, very late at night, fucking chicken comes out faster than I rammed it in. Anyway, you didn’t need to know that.
I fancy having a fight myself, I cant actually fight but I'm freakishly strong, my arms have to be checked by the UN once a year as they are technically a WMD (no, not a wobbling mass of dripping, you cheeky cunt), I only want to fight so I can have a cool boxers name, like John 'The Holoucauster' Smith, or Dave 'Once you pop, you cant stop, did you know there are 90 chips in the tube' Pringle, or Frank 'Cot death' Taylor, anyway, you get the idea....
More Rant and Dick adventures to follow, we don’t see enough of each other socially, we had a right laugh.
R & D
Monday 10 May 2010
Poems - One about a Nan, the other about a dog
Nannas at the bottom of the Stairlift
Nannas at the bottom of the Stairlift
Nannas at the bottom of the stairs
A sea of broken bones, a concerto of moans, and a sea of blue rinse hair
Nanna hit on every runner and smashed n every tread
on her way to the bottom where she's now brown bread
I was missing her already as she tumbled head first
Now I’m on the phone and calling for a hearse
Oh to never be in the care home with people going through her purse
Cos she met her end on the zig zaggy wood she just traversed
Only a matter of time before the relatives arrive
Going through your things in a manner I despise
Who will get the money, and who the carriage clock
And the weirdest of all, you Ken Hom Wok
This was brought for you against advice, but despite this
You couldn’t pick it up because of rheumatoid arthritis
I used to watch the hulk with my nanna, on Saturdays at seven
But now her body is turning green and her soul on its way to heaven
But it won’t be gamma rays that have made her colour turn
Its rigor mortis, decay, the earth and soil and worms
I'll never forget you nanna, and the end that you just met
Do you remember the time you set yourself on fire with that cigarette?
You had fallen asleep watching home and away
The smoke alarm saved you on that faithful day
Nannas gone to heaven where the stairlifts never do this
And I’m left alone with my thoughts of nanna to reminisce
How I miss my nannas night time stories and bed time kiss
I'll never forget her smile, and that smell of putrid, este lauder talc
£17 Injection
Champ and I would play all day my life could get no better
His coat was auburn, and his fur was soft, he was a big red setter
Through fields we'd trample, me and champ'l, run all day and then he'd say
[Dog noises] - ------ - - - - - - - -
I never knew what he meant, with all the barking that he'd lament
But If I could guess what my champ was saying
That he loved me loads, our walks and playing
One day Champ got up and his back legs crumpled,
He tried to walk the poor dog tumbled
I stood there crying as my champ was humbled
In a Renault Espace the poor dog was bundled
To the vets we went, my Dad was racing
A life without champ I was suddenly facing
A vet called Donald began to confer
That Champs oral frothing was dis-tem-per
It was cruel; it was wrong but not natural selection
As the vet pulled out a £17 injection
That price didn't include, the VAT
That was another £4 pounds and 33p
Poor champ was lying on the treatment bed
His poor little life hanging by a thread
I stood and watched and even prayed
As the vet injected between his shoulder blades
He wilted away like a backwards erection
All caused by the man and his £17 injection
That was £21 pounds and 33p,
by the time he had added the vat.
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