The Whimsical World of Vincent Furnier!

Sat in his white towelling robe, Vincent sat at his opulent breakfast table, poured himself a glass of orange juice, a cup of decaffeinated coffee and lightly buttered a couple of slices of wholemeal, granary toast.  He picked up the daily newspaper and chuckled at the cartoons.  “Oh, that Garfield!”, he exclaimed, with a wide smile on his face.  There was a slight creak as the heavy, wooden door from the hall opened and his wife, Ethel, walked in with a face like thunder.  “Good morning, my love!”, smiled Vincent.  “Don’t you ‘Good morning, my love!’ me, you bastard!”, snapped Ethel. Vincent’s face dropped.  “What’s up, love of my life?” he enquired, with a puzzled expression on his face.  “What’s up?” she thundered, “You know what’s up, you son of a bitch!”. Vincent put his toast down and thought hard.  He paused for a few seconds while his red-faced wife stood there tapping her fingers against her arm.  “No, I’m sorry, I really don’t know”, Vincent replied, “I really don’t know what I could have done.  I’m a good Father, I’m teetotal, my only vice is golf and I’m dedicated to clean living and Christianity.  You’re going to have to tell me.”

“What a load of horse shit!” shouted Ethel, making Vincent wince with both the volume and profanity.  “So you don’t remember coming in blind, stumbling drunk last night with two prostitutes on your arm and cocaine around your nose, having soiled your britches, not having been home for three days?!”  A wide smile broke over Vincent’s face.  “Oh, is that what this is about?  Darling, that wasn’t me, that was my stage persona, Alice Cooper!  I’d have thought that, by now, you could tell the difference!”  Ethel looked dumbstruck. “What the hell do you mean, Furnier?” she demanded.  Vincent smiled, “Ethel, darling, I would never do those kind of things.  It was all Alice.  When I put the clothes and make-up on, I’m Alice. When I have them off, I’m Vincent.  It’s perfectly simple.”  Ethel shook her head.  “I’m not buying it!  Are you insane?  You are Alice Cooper, Vince!”  Nodding his head vigorously he retorted, “Well of course I am, my love, but we’re two separate entities! You’re talking to Vincent now, but it was Alice who came home last night!”

Ethel sat down and put her head in her hands.  “Vince, I want a divorce.”  The craggy rocker looked crestfallen.  “But I haven’t done anything!”, he pleaded.  “You have got to be kidding…” she replied, wearily.  “No, it’s all Alice’s fault, divorce him, don’t divorce me!” said Vincent.  “No, Vincent, enough is enough. I forgave you for the three week Jack Daniels binge last month which, apparently was Alice, I forgave you for breaking my vase, a priceless family heirloom, because you said it was Alice, I forgave you for never putting the fucking toilet seat down, because Alice was the last one to use it and even forgave you for putting sugar in my coffee when it makes me sick, because – you guessed it – it wasn’t you, it was Alice.”

Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but then slowly closed it, lowering his eyes to the floor.  “I’m sorry”, he murmured. “Please give me one more chance?”  Ethel shook her head, with conviction.  “No, I’m sorry, that’s it.  I’ve had enough.  I’m getting dressed and I’m going to see my lawyer.  I’m divorcing you, Vincent.”  With that final, decisive sentence, she flounced out of the room, slamming the door.  Vincent sat there for a moment and took a bite out of his toast.  Munching slowly, he removed a tube of black eye make-up from his pocket, carefully applied it round his eyes and on the corners of his mouth and then, with coffee in hand, opened the door gently, and crept quietly upstairs grasping a huge meat cleaver…

…but don’t worry.  Vincent didn’t hurt her.  It was Alice.

20 MORE Amazing Music Facts That Will Absolutely Amaze You!

  1. Now he has announced his retirement from music, James Blunt has decided that he wants to pursue a profession where he receives much less hatred and abuse.  In a statement last night he said that he is deciding between Parking Enforcement Officer or Inland Revenue Tax Collector.
  2. Ozzy Osbourne was banned from the set of “Last Of The Summer Wine” for biting Nora Batty’s head off.
  3. In 2008, Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour did a guitar solo so long that he had to urinate in the middle of it, so he carried on playing whilst visiting the gents and just held a very long note whilst he relieved his bladder.  He even managed to get back on stage before the majority of his audience, many of whom were asleep, even noticed.
  4. Paul McCartney recently received a very special telegram from the Queen, congratulating him on reaching his millionth public performance of “Hey Jude”, the momentous occasion coming at Beatrice’s 9th birthday party last year.  The kids wanted some Lady Gaga and were mainly crying instead of joining in with the “Na na na na na na na, Hey Jude!” bit, but Paul was undeterred and claimed that it was a “great gig!” afterwards.  He then put both his thumbs up, tilted his head slightly and went “Dooooooooooo!”
  5. Liam Gallagher’s secret passion is train spotting.  You will often see him on the south end of Platform 6 at London Bridge in his overcoat, grasping a Thermos flask full of Oxtail soup, taking video footage of electric multiple units rolling in and out of the station.  In an interview given to “Rail” magazine, Liam claimed, “It’s really fucking rock ‘n’ roll, especially when you see a Class 73 locomotive come through, usually for engineering works or that kind of shit.”
  6. Dark lord of indie, Nick Cave, has opened a newsagents in his local neighbourhood in Hove.  Called “Cave’s Cavern”, Nick informs us that it is a really good place to buy newspapers, chocolate, cigarettes and hardcore pornography and offers 10% off every purchase of satanic magazines on production of this ‘blog post.  Only two schoolchildren at any one time, please. Paperboy (or girl) wanted, good rates paid.  Adverts can be placed in the window, 50p per week.
  7. Ex-Nirvana and Foo Fighters frontman Dave Grohl cannot go to sleep without his teddy bear, Chuckles, which he has had since childhood.  He once left on tour and forgot him and so hired a private jet to pick up Chuckles at the cost of $250,000. “It was well worth it!” said the nice man of rock, whilst hugging and kissing his plush pal.
  8. Adele once ate her entire body weight in Snickers bars.  Afterwards she passed a stool so big, it became the biggest shit produced by a music artist in recorded history.  The Guinness World Records confirmed that she had beaten Bryan Ferry’s previous record, held for his absolutely massive shits, Otis and Merlin.
  9. The Move and ELO drummer Bev Bevan’s actual first name is Beverage.
  10. Quiz fan Madonna recently applied to appear on BBC obscure knowledge programme, “Pointless”.  Richard Osman, host and producer, wrote back thanking her for her interest but refused her application, saying that she was far too pointless for Pointless and needed to wait for a quiz show called “Irrelevant” to come along.
  11. Rufus Wainwright recently paid $75million for Judy Garland’s toe-nail clippings which now take pride of place in a special display cabinet on the mantelpiece in his Montauk home.  Their previous owner, Mr. David Gest, was sad to see them sold for less than half of the price he paid, but said, “These are difficult times we live in and I’m just pleased they have gone to somebody who will really appreciate them.”
  12. The Prodigy’s Keith Flint likes nothing more than a nice cup of tea and a long, relaxing, mind-clearing session of yoga.  Apart from anal sex.  He loves that shit.
  13. Bjork is happily married to a Powdered Tree Frog called Simon.  This kind of inter-species marriage is perfectly legal in Iceland and they communicate with each other in a series of beeps and chirrups.  They have no plans, at present, to have any tadpoles.
  14. Old “slowhand”, Eric Clapton, recently had a beard transplant after he took too much of his beard off after his personal barber sneezed whilst precision shaving. Distraught Eric, 84, was rushed to a Harley Street Specialist who shaved thirty-seven badgers in order to fashion Eric his brand new beard.  No badgers were harmed during this process.  Apart from the thirty-seven who were shaved.  They died.
  15. Who legend Roger Daltrey was actually born in Sweden.  His real name is Rogg Daltruss and his family were pickled herring magnates.  Daltrey keeps this secret closely guarded and strongly denies it if ever asked.  This is how you know it is true.
  16. Suede frontman Brett Anderson eats nothing apart from Kentucky Fried Chicken and Strawberry milkshakes. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, that’s his entire diet.  “I don’t like those rubbish chicken pieces that are just ribs and skin though”, said Brett, munching through his regular three-piece meal, “They’re rubbish.  I always ask for one drumstick, one thigh and one breast piece.  If the man behind the counter tries to give me anything else, I just throw it back in his face and say “That’s rubbish!” and start crying until he gives me what I want.”
  17. Bob Dylan has announced a musical collaboration with his brother, Woody Allen.  Bob has written two hours of poetry loosely based on the terms and conditions you have to sign up to on iTunes, which he will recite to the sound of Woody’s clarinet.  The album, entitled “User?  Manual.” will be available from August 2014.
  18. Marcus Mumford from Mumford & Sons is so rich that he bought two hundred thousand copies of their début album to make sure they became famous and then then, after they hit number one, returned them all as faulty and asked for his money back. This is, of course, why HMV went into administration.
  19. The secret of why Elvis Costello always wears a hat has now been revealed – it’s where he keep his stash of Fruit Pastilles!  Yes, the bespectacled music legend has a secret passion for the sugared fruit jellies and always makes sure he has several rolls sitting on top of his head for when he needs them.
  20. Bryan Adams is planning a sensational return to the top of the music business by re-launching himself as a woman.  Calling himself Britney Adams, he will be swapping his guitar for a big lollipop which he will suck suggestively between songs, whist wearing skimpy, sexy outfits.  “I’m not going to shave every day though”, explained Adams, “Fuck that!”

A Day In The Life Of Brian May

Brian May Badger


Brian woke, bright and early, at 11am, when his self-made alarm clock (constructed from an old food mixer and a small piece of weapons grade plutonium) woke him up with a tinny version of “Everything I Do Is Driven By You” and a shower of gamma rays. “Bloody thing”, Brian said grumpily, “I set it for half past seven!”. The first thing Brian did, like every technophile, was to check his Twitter account whilst still in his Flash Gordon pyjamas, after asking his personal assistant, Henry, to bring him coffee, orange juice, an array of vitamins and, as it was Wednesday, some mackerel on toast, topped with some scrambled eggs. He then spent around two hours answering every Tweet directed at him which was about forty-nine percent Queen-related, forty-nine percent badger-related, one percent calling him a twat and the other one percent asking him his secret for such lustrous hair. He then moved on to his hundreds of e-mails. One was from John Deacon which simply contained the words, “For the last time, no. Now fuck off, Brian”, to which Brian shed the smallest of tears. The rest was simply fan mail (mostly from people who could barely write in English) telling him how much they loved Freddie. The rest were badger-related. Oh, apart from the ones calling him a twat.

As it was already 4pm, Brian decided that he should skip lunch and wash his hair before dinner and so, after two hours applying lots of home-made concoctions to his masterpiece of a barnet, Brian finally came downstairs. “Good afternoon, sir”, smiled Henry. “Good afternoon, Henry”, said Brian, cheerfully, “Any post?” Henry shook his head, sadly. “Not much, just a couple of begging letters, your favourite periodical and half a dozen dead badgers in a box from your friends at the Countryside Alliance, your Brianship”. Brian’s eyes flashed with anger and a feisty guitar riff shot through his mind. “Those bastards, Henry!” exclaimed the ageing Queen maestro. “When are they going to learn that I’m really intelligent, have a degree in Astro-Physics, am the tallest man in Britain, thanks to my hair, am a rock and roll superstar and am, you know, right about everything?!” Brian ranted, sticking his bum right out in petulant rage. “I know, sir, they’re completely ignorant and you’re right.” Brian sat down in his favourite self-made chair (fashioned from railway sleepers and dead sheep) and smiled. “Yes, Henry, thank you. I am right.”

Henry shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. “Mr May, sir?” Brian looked up from his brand new issue of The Beano which had come in the post that day. “Yes?” Henry looked visibly flustered. “Well, I was wondering if I could have a day off. I’ve been working every day, without a break for nearly seventeen years now. It’s my Mother’s birthday on Monday and I’d like to…” “Tie her down?” Brian interrupted – and then roared with laughter. “Yes, yes, of course, have the day off, once you’ve completed all of your other duties and providing that they have called off the badger cull by that day.” “But, but…” Henry stammered. “No need to thank me, old chap, you’re very welcome!” boomed the massive-haired, wrinkly rocker. Just then, the phone rang. A tinny version of “Don’t Stop Me Now” echoed through the halls of May Mansions. “Get that will you, Henry?” Brian asked, wearily, “I’ve had a very difficult day.” Henry nodded and picked up the home-made phone, which was constructed from a calculator, a transistor radio and a pair of chopsticks.

“Mr May, sir, it’s your agent, Mr. Leech, and he has one or two proposals for you.”
“Ah, Lionel Leech, excellent. Well, what are they, Henry?”
“Lady Gaga would like to co-write a song with you and for you to play guitar on it.”
“Sounds great, it’s a fantastic way to introduce Queen’s music to the younger generation. I’m in!”
“OK, the next one – Justin Beiber wants to do a version of Bohemian Rhapsody and wants you to appear in the video, in one of those pairs of trousers that shows half of your underwear.”
“Beiber? What a fantastic way to introduce Queen’s music to the younger generation. I’m in!”
“Your agent wants you to know that Queen fans may object to someone like Beiber covering one of Freddie’s greatest songs and that you may be destroying the legacy of a great band.”
“Nonsense. I’m Brian May, I have a degree in Astro-Physics and I’m always right.”
“Very good, sir. The next one is a bit tricky. Sasha Baron Cohen would like you to appear in his new film in a scene where he appears as a giant badger who is wanking off and… er, spunks all over your face and in your hair… whilst you play ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ on the guitar.”
“That’s absolutely disgusting!”
“I quite agree, sir!”
“Yes, you tell Leech to tell Sasha Baron Cohen that it has to be one of the songs I wrote, not a bloody John Deacon song! The cheek of it. If it’s ‘Save Me’ or ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, then it’s an excellent way to introduce Queen’s music to a younger generation and I’m in!”
“Very good, sir. Mr. Leech says that he will be in touch soon with arrangements for all these collaborations.”
“Brilliant, thank you, Henry. Freddie would be proud of me, I’m sure.”

Just then, Anita Dobson came home from a hard day’s work of being Angie off of Eastenders. “Hello darling!” said Anita. “Hello, my love” said Brian. They both embraced and their hair styles both embraced each other too. They then sat down to a magnificent dinner of Heinz’s finest baked beans on lavishly buttered slices of Hovis wholemeal bread, washed down with plastic beaker after plastic beaker of Ribena. Brian told Anita all about his very hectic day and Anita pretended to listen to him whilst thinking about having sexual intercourse with Leslie Grantham. “Well!” said Brian, “I need to go and practise the guitar… one day I may make a career out of it!” Anita laughed politely (as he had made that joke ever day for a couple of decades) and enquired (still thinking about Dirty Den), “Brian, it’s Wednesday, our ‘special’ night. Can I expect you in bed at about half-past ten for our weekly lovemaking?” Brian grinned and winked. “Well, sweetheart, it all depends. Can I ask you to., er, well, perhaps you’d consider.. you know?” A look of annoyance spread over Anita’s face. “No Brian, I’m not putting that fucking badger costume on again, not tonight, not ever!” Brian’s face fell. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Grasping his sixpence and grabbing his ‘Red Special’, Brian went out to the garage to compose his masterpiece about badgers which, hopefully, he could then perform with some second rate popular artist who could help bring Queen to the younger generation.  I’m in!

The continuing story of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer

The big jolly man with the snowy white beard and twinkling eyes was looking a little less than his usual jovial self. Sat behind a big mahogany desk in a leather swivel chair, Santa shook his head and slammed his fist down. “No, Rudolph, my decision is final – I can’t afford to pay you more or give you paid meal breaks on Christmas night. It’s just not possible in these tough economic times.” Rudolph’s red nose glowed with anger. “It’s not right, Saint Nick! My boys work right through the night – nearly twenty four hours we do, non-stop, without even a toilet break and you’re suggesting we do it for less pay than we got last year… it’s nothing short of exploitation and we won’t stand for it!” The man known to millions as Father Christmas shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not my fault, old friend. Where am I supposed to get the money from? There’s not exactly a lot of profit in flying round the world handing out free toys, is there?” Rudolph screwed his face up in disgust. “Don’t give me that, old man. Isn’t that a brand new Mercedes outside the toy workshop?  How did you pay for that, fairy dust?” “Ah well”, Santa spluttered, “that was just…” “Don’t tell me the same lies you tell the Elf and Safety representative!” exclaimed the irate reindeer, “Remember, I know you! I know about all of the scams you have on the side… the 25% cut you get from every Santa in every department store around the world, the image rights you’ve managed to negotiate worldwide on every piece of Christmas merchandise, the fact that you have the elves making extra toys which you’re selling on to all of the major supermarkets! Business has never been better and you bloody well know it!”

Jolly old Saint Nick sighed. “You can think what you will, old pal”, he said calmly. Rudolph shook his antlers angrily. “Don’t give me that ‘old pal’ business either! All of the old gang have been with you for centuries and this is how you treat us. Reducing our wages, taking away our pensions, denying us basic rights such as toilet breaks and decent lodging facilities. There’s nine of us all sharing that tiny stable! Hardly the actions of a friend, wouldn’t you say, ‘old pal’?” Santa raised his hand dismissively. “Look, that’s the way things are. You do a unique job – and you only work one day a year! Tough economic times, you know.” Rudolph snorted, “Yes, but not for you, Pere Noel! I’m sorry, Santa, but you’ve left us with no choice. We’re going on strike on Christmas night, unless you give us what we want!” Santa’s face glowered with rage. “Stop these ridiculous reindeer games! You can’t go on strike! I’ll… I’ll…” “You’ll what?” snapped the bolshy reindeer, “Shake your belly like a bowlful of jelly? Say ‘ho ho ho’? Eat a mince pie and drink a glass of sherry?” The old man’s eyes stared darkly at the reindeer. “I didn’t think so!” smiled Rudolph, “Give us what we’re rightly entitled to or we don’t work tomorrow night. Your choice, Kris Kringle!”. With that, the reindeer turned round, strutted out and joined his reindeer friends outside Santa’s workshop. The bearded old fellow stroked his beard, thoughtfully, picked up the phone and then started to dial.

“How did it go?” asked Blitzen, expectantly. “I think it went well”, said Rudolph confidently. “He knows that he can’t do it without us. When Cupid and Dancer retired, he replaced them with Wojciech and Stanislaw, the Polish reindeer, but they have never been able to do the job as well as we have. I’m sure he pays them less than us, too. Hey, Stanislaw!”, Rudolph yelled to the stable buildings. An antlered face with straw hanging out of his mouth appeared in the window. “What do you want?”, asked the Polish reindeer, suspiciously.  Rudolph grinned, “Show us your pay slip!” Stanislaw grimaced, stuck out his tongue and went back to eating his straw. Comet looked worried. “Look, Rudy, what happens if Santa sacks us all and replaces us with more of these cheap immigrant workers?” Prancer shook his head manically, “No, no, no, no, Santa won’t sack me, I’m the only gay reindeer in the village! They have discrimination quotas to fill these days, you know.” Rudolph held up his hoof for quiet. “Don’t worry, gang. Old Father Christmas needs us and he knows it. Remember a couple of years ago when he overdosed on the sherry and we ended up not only pulling his sleigh, but also delivering the presents down the chimney too, which he slept it off? Not easy for reindeer with hooves instead of hands with opposable thumbs to deliver presents, but we managed it. We’re awesome!  The best in the business. Surely he knows that?”

Just then, Donna raced up with something in her mouth which she dropped onto the floor in front of the herd. “Guys, have you seen the newspaper? It’s not good!” The beasts all crowded round the tabloid and their eyes widened. “Greedy reindeer?” exclaimed Dasher. “Holding Christmas to ransom?” gawked Vixen. “Red Rudolph and his Commie Clan?” spluttered Rudolph. “I don’t understand it!” remarked Blitzen, “Surely we’re in the right? We don’t want anything other than a decent working wage and some dignity in retirement! They must see that?” Rudolph snorted, “You haven’t seen the comments section, yet!” The reindeer grew more incredulous as they read what the general public thought of the strike, including suggestions that the reindeer should come and explain to their children why they couldn’t have any presents from Santa, that Rudolph would definitely have a red nose if he came to Basildon because Big Frank would punch it right in and lots of people recommending handy recipes for reindeer burgers invented by none other than Gordon Ramsay. “I don’t want to be a reindeer burger!” sobbed Donna, running round in circles and totally losing the plot. Rudolph calmed her down. “Don’t worry, everyone. I know what’s happened.  Santa’s just been on the phone to his friend Rupert Murdoch and has asked him to try to turn the public against us. The rest of the press will be a bit more balanced, I’m sure. We need to stay strong, comrades! Are you with me?” The reindeer all cheered and huddled together in solidarity.

Just then, Bob the Crow, the General Secretary of the Animal’s Union, landed on a fence post right in front of the reindeer. “Awright deer!” he squawked, fixing his beady eyes on them, “I’m here just to let you know that animals worldwide are standing wing-to-wing, hoof-to-hoof and paw-to-paw with you! If you’re out, we’re all out!”. Rudolph looked delighted. “What, every single animal in the world is prepared to join us on strike?” Bob the Crow hopped from one foot to the other, shiftily. “Well, yeah.  Kind of.  The animals who are in the Animal’s Union, anyway. You can’t count on the ones who aren’t unionised or the stupid ones who have formed their own worthless breakaway unions. So you have literally dozens of animals worldwide supporting you!” Dasher look puzzled. “Dozens?”, he enquired, “Out of millions of animals worldwide?”. Bob fluffed up his feathers and stood to his full height of several inches. “Well, yeah. Most animals are too stupid to see the benefits of belonging to a union. Especially sheep.  They believe anything people in charge tell them.  But you have at least fifty animals, including the Queen of England’s corgis and a couple of famous racehorses supporting your courageous actions. Don’t lose faith, brothers and sisters! See ya!” With that, Bob the Crow flew away into the distance. On the same horizon line, the reindeer could see a group of animals heading towards them at quite a pace. “It can’t be…”, a worried Rudolph murmured, straining his eyes to make out who the quadrupeds were.

But it was. It was none other than a herd of unicorns, who arrived with a rumble and pounding of hooves on the frozen tundra of the North Pole. The leader of the Unicorns, Fernando, tossed his mane and addressed Rudolph scornfully. “Move aside, big nose! We’re here to break the strike and to pull Santa’s sleigh!” Rudolph stood tall. “Never! Besides, you can’t pull Santa’s sleigh, you’re unicorns – you can’t fly!” The unicorns all roared with laughter. “Er, right… and reindeer usually can? I don’t see no wings, mate. All we have to do is turn up and the fat geezer in the red suit will do all of the magic, innit?”. Fernando sneered at the reindeer herd who were all looking rather unsure, apart from their fearless leader who took a deep breath. “Look, unicorns – I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve. You can take our jobs for less pay… but one day Santa will want to pay you less and, if you refuse, who is to say which animals he will draft in to take your place? Ponies? Donkeys? Think about it carefully, brothers, we’re fighting for the rights of all workers, not just us!” The unicorns suddenly looked unsure and conferred amongst themselves. After a few moments, Fernando broke away from the group and grinned. “You’ve got a point, mate. OK, we’re with you… as long as you make sure we get a job here once you’ve won this battle!” “You’ve got yourself a deal!” exclaimed Rudolph, beaming. They were now at least twenty strong outside Santa’s workshop, all singing “We Shall Overcome”.

Mary Christmas, Santa’s wife, peered out of the window, wringing her hands. “I don’t like this at all, Nick, not at all.” Santa frowned and sat down, sighing loudly. “What can I do, dear? I can’t give in to this kind of extortion – they’re holding Christmas to ransom… and these are tough economic times for us all!” Mary rounded on Father Christmas angrily. “Not for us though”, she snapped, “We’ve just bought that eight bedroomed mansion in Jamaica as a holiday home! You’ve just ordered us a brand new luxury yacht! We don’t seem to be feeling the pinch at all!”. Santa spluttered and searched for words. “Well, we’re doing well, of course – but we have to! If we don’t stay rich, then our money won’t filter down to the working classes who then won’t prosper. The little people need me to live a life of luxury!” His wife exploded. “What a load of nonsense! If you paid them a decent wage and gave them better conditions, then they’d prosper! How does it make their life better by you having all of the money and them none?” Father Christmas shook his head, angrily. “You don’t understand, dear! All of the costs are up! Electricity, gas… extortionate! Even the little sea birds who deliver Santa’s letters are charging much more – Petrel prices have gone through the roof! Plus, it is my job as the CEO of Lapland Inc. to maximise profits for the shareholders!” Mary wrinkled her nose and dismissed his protests. “There are no shareholders, you silly old sod. There’s just you and me. We are Lapland Inc.! It’s greed – and nothing more! I want you to call Rudolph back into the workshop and give him what he wants.” Old Saint Nick almost turned purple with fury. “Give that four legged bastard what he wants? Are you serious?” Mary nodded, determinedly. “Absolutely. Otherwise I’m going on strike. In all departments! That means keeping your little yule log in your britches permanently!” Santa opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He bowed his head and could manage just the two words. “Yes, dear.”

The reindeer with the big, shiny red nose came out of the Santa’s workshop beaming.  Rudolph had won! Oh, how the reindeer loved him! How they shouted out with glee! Thanks to union solidarity, the kind heart of Mary Christmas plus, of course, Santa wanting to come more than once a year and not just down a chimney, the reindeer received a generous pay rise, their final salary pension was restored and they were allowed meal breaks during Christmas night as well as as many bathroom breaks as poor Donna and her dodgy bladder needed. The gallant unicorns got a job covering for the reindeer’s breaks and, although Father Christmas had to pay everybody more, he found that he could actually comfortably afford it, his workers we actually more productive as a result and were actually able to spend more money on Santa’s goods and services, leading to an even higher turnover than before and greater prosperity for all. What a shame this is a fictional Christmas story and not real life, eh? I would love to be able to say that they all lived happily ever after, but there were plenty of other struggles ahead, including the threat of job losses owing to technological advances, as well as rival Santa firms springing up across the world, threatening to put the original out of business, but that’s as far as this particular story goes because, frankly, I can’t be arsed.

Merry Christmas to one and all!

The noble art of education

Pies and beer. Lots of pies and beer. That’s all they sell in that place, which isn’t at all appropriate considering it’s a school cafeteria. Have you ever tried to teach a class of thirty fourteen-year-old children quadratic equations when they’ve had an afternoon on the Stella Artois? It’s not easy, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Still, I had no business in the school anyway – I just turned up to deliver the vodka to the teachers lounge and the headmaster collared me to stand in for Mr. Mutterington, who, thanks to a Viagra-spiked cup of Gold Blend, was suffering from a very painful erection and was unable to teach – or, indeed, stand up straight. Well, I know all about children, I used to be one, so I agreed. Being a fine, upstanding citizen (which is more than can be said for Mr. Mutterington), I put on my teaching gown (OK, it was my rather stained duvet) and stepped into the fray.  After the Headmaster had given me a tenner and the promise of a Big Mac after school, naturally.

It was a shaky start.  The kids started to give me a hard time, so, in order to gain their respect, I chose the biggest male in the class and smashed his face in with a brick.  Thankfully, that seemed to work.  Knowing what to teach was also tricky.  I struggled to find a textbook that hadn’t been defaced on each page with multiple penises of varying shapes and sizes by the children so, in the end, read my copy of The Daily Mail to them from cover to cover. I’m very proud to state that the kids are now experts in illegal immigration and advocate “sending them all back home”, even people who were born here. They’re also all deeply opposed to the European Union and ended up voting 89% to 11% supporting the motion that Lindsay Lohan is a shameless slapper devoid of all morality. Interestingly enough, the 11% who supported Lindsay had noticeably short skirts, which was quite worrying seeing as they were boys. After that exciting discussion, it was time for the awkward subject of sex education. I needn’t have worried, because the lesson was a complete success.  I learned so much more from those kids than I dreamed possible, some of which I thought to be illegal! My wife would be delighted at all of the little tips and techniques I’ve picked up, but unfortunately I don’t have one.

In the afternoon there was a Physical Education session and the little darlings got a good work out as they played an energetic game of football. I was so proud of them – they were running so hard, their cigarettes almost fell out of their mouths.  A couple even dropped their bag of chips.  I let them play a few games for fun after that – mainly Blackjack and Poker. I almost lost the mortgage money, but I was able to pawn the school laptop from Cash Converters and get enough stake money to win my cash back from ‘Snide’ Clyde, the school wideboy. In fact, he ended up owing me more money than he had on him, so I had to break all of his fingers. Look, I had to.  It was my moral duty to give the children valuable lessons in life and that is the kind of thing that can happen to you if you write cheques your ass can’t cash.

In the end, it was an extremely enjoyable day.  If they let me, I may even come back tomorrow and the children seemed enthusiastic when I suggested it to them.  Some of them even arranged to meet me later in the local pub.  I think I’m in with a couple of the more forward girls, too.  Yes, I believe I have found a vocation I finally enjoy which, after my many years in prison, is a real turn up for the books.  I love the English state school system!

Libby’s house

Constructed out of nothing but clouds and asbestos brake-dust, Libby’s house was, literally, a dream of an abode and sat happily amongst the red and golden coloured fallen leaves in the middle of a vaguely imaginary long and winding road. The best things about her home was that it was as big or as small as she wanted it to be and could be situated anywhere she wanted to live. All she had to do was to close her eyes tight, sprinkle self-raising flour on her sparkling silver hair and let her mind wander across rivers, streams, caves, mountains and branches of Tesco Metros until her house found a place to settle for the day.

Blessed with a sense of humour as fine as Tony Benn’s pubic hair, Libby would open the door of her house and flash her ample breasts at squirrels, for a laugh. Sometimes squirrels would get distracted and crash into each other, their nuts scattering all over the pathway, tripping ageing geese. This would cause Libby to laugh raucously, like steam escaping from a kettle, and could, on good days, generate just as much heat.

Libby thoroughly despised the working classes and would make it one of her many daily chores to fire little paper dolphins soaked in treacle at anyone she suspected to be working class walking by. Of course, she avoided poorer areas because she could literally exhaust herself doing so to so many unfortunate people and, drained of her legendary vigour and completely out of treacle, you would find her, stark naked, croaking “Filthy working class bastards!” defiantly from her horse-hair chair on her entirely fictional porch until she could do nothing but stare angrily with her piercing, beady black eyes.

One day – a Tuesday I think (or it could have been a Wednesday – I don’t believe it is important) – Libby died. She had simply forgotten to eat for quite a while and, devoid of food, her body just gave up on her. Her last words were, “Actually, now I come to think of it, I am feeling a little peckish”, after which her stomach danced the Macarena, her rectum prolapsed, her nose fell off and she broke wind loudly but in a extremely very high frequency, at a pitch at which only the dogs and children in the Greater Manchester area could hear. Their parents didn’t believe them, of course, probably because they were northern.

Libby was cremated, then buried, then dug up and cremated again (just to make sure) on a Thursday (or it could have also been a Friday… again, I don’t think it is particularly important to this tale – I don’t know why I brought it up, to be honest) and was finally laid to rest in the fuel tank of a monster truck which went on a never ending tour of famous pub car parks in Essex. No squirrels, geese or working class people turned up to her funeral, which teaches us all a lesson, I think.

There was a will, which was read out at Buckingham Palace – in one of the upstairs lavatories while the Queen was down the bookies.  Turns out that she left her house to her favourite member of the Bee Gees, Barry. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to find it and now wanders the globe searching for a house made of nothing but clouds and asbestos brake-dust, getting very strange looks from all the passers-by he asks.  Of course, that may just be because of the silly, high-pitched, squeaky Bee Gee voice.  Wasting his time, if you ask me.  Still, it’s not as if he’s interrupting a career or anything these days, is it?

Are you paying too much for your gas and electricity?

Just as Michael was about to take his dinner into the dining room, he spied something in the corner of his eye running across the tiled kitchen floor. He quickly put his plate down on one of the kitchen surfaces and went to take a closer look – it was a cockroach. Michael lifted up his shoe and was just about to crush the creature when he heard a little voice yelling, “Stop!”

Michael stepped back and blinked in astonishment. He asked the cockroach, “Did you just speak to me?” The cockroach nodded his little head. “Yes, that’s right – I can talk”, he squeaked, “and I was wondering – can I ask you a question?”

Completely astounded, nodding his head just a little was as much as Michael could muster.

“I was wondering – who is your provider for electricity and gas?” the cockroach asked. “You see, I’m positive that we could save you at least 15% on your combined monthly duel fuel energy bills if you switch to us!”

“What!?!” spluttered Michael. “You’re a cockroach – are you seriously trying to sell me cheaper fuel bills?”

“Sorry”, retorted the cockroach apologetically, “but old habits die hard. You see, there is such a thing as reincarnation and, believe it or not, in my previous life I used to be one of those annoying bastards who would cold-call people just as they’re sitting down for dinner.”

“And you’ve come back as a cockroach?” exclaimed Michael.

“I know!” remarked the cockroach, with a huge grin. “What did I do to deserve such a brilliant promotion?  I’m hoping to come back as a rat next!”

Tales of Old America

The three Sioux Native Americans, Flapping Bladder, Humping Possum and Dances With Incontinence, made their way slowly but steadily across the oppressively hot, hazy, tumbleweed-strewn prairie looking for a nice cold frosty beer. Smoking several cigar-shaped cigars, the two sons and daughter of the earth discussed matters of ancient wisdom such as land rights, herbal medicine and whether Britney Spears was, once again, up the duff. As they rounded the corner of the wide, seemingly endless open space which had no corners, Humping Possum decided that she could no longer wait for a beer and decided to drink the only source of hydration available, coyote milk. Flapping Bladder, ever the gentleman, offered to catch and milk the nearest coyote – who, luckily, was right nearby, having a cigarette break before having to return to work and make that important presentation to marketing.

One failed attempt at milking a coyote later, the bruised, bleeding and, frankly, humiliated Flapping Bladder made his apologies to Humping Possum for the lack of canine lactate and mentally steeled himself in anticipation of the forthcoming police action he was now facing for attempting to milk a male coyote. Then, it hit them.  Like a bit hitty thing.  All three decided that in their desperation for a beer they had forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. They called out of the window to a passing ragamuffin, sent him to buy the biggest turkey in the butcher’s window and ordered it to be delivered to Bob Cratchitt’s house. Unfortunately they were too late with the oversized bird as the Cratchitt family had already cooked and eaten Tiny Tim, after placing an apple in his mouth and stuffing his arse with sage & onion. Well, he was going to die anyway and, besides, it’s what he would have wanted.  Apart from the sage & onion bit.  That was a tad undignified, even if I say so myself – and I’m a member of the Liberal Democrats.

Old John Twain

Old John Twain, quite utterly insane,
Took his pet albino badger for a walk,
A policeman appeared, sporting a red & gold beard,
Shouting, “Stop, honey, we really must talk!”
“No need to be frightened, but do you have a license
for that badger?” John replied, “Cabbage.”
“Cabbage? My, my, what a very odd reply!”
mused the Copper, scratching his radish.
“A badger-walking permit? How on earth can I earn it?”
sobbed old John with a shake and a quiver.
“Fetch me a crab in a coat and then marry my goat
and a new license I shall promptly deliver!”
John did as he was bid – wed the goat, fed it’s kid,
The policeman beckoned, “Now you may pass.”
He performed a pirouette on a cheese omelette
and promptly disappeared – up his own arse.
His freedom assured, John chuckled then roared
He nearly soiled himself, my – he did laugh!
In the Constable’s clamour to legalize his badger
He failed to notice John’s purple giraffe!



Residents of Grimsby have been instructed to stay indoors as a plague of killer Budgerigars have taken over the city’s skies and streets. Driven by a thirst for blood and hell-bent on revenge for years of captivity, the evil budgies have been described by The Grimsby Chief Of Police, Pat O’Butter, as ‘Uppity little buggers’. Residents who have millet, seed, tiny little bells or sand-sheets in their homes are most at risk, experts say, and those who have parrots are warned not to let them free as they are likely to side with the brightly-coloured psychopaths. The sea around Grimsby has been swept clean of cuttlefish as the winged assassins sharpen their beaks ready for the ultimate battle.

The town’s Mayor, Fergus Tanktop, has attempted to negotiate with the budgies’ leader, a green coloured brute known only as ‘Joey’, but talks broke down when the mayor would not agree to stop calling Joey a ‘pretty boy’. He offered the following advice. “If you are attacked by budgies, attempt to distract them with small ladders, mirrors with bells on them and small imitation plastic budgies on springs – you may also wish to try to placate them either whistling or by offering them little bits of apple – but if that doesn’t work, just run… run for your motherfucking lives!”

When pressed for a more organised and useful response to the threat and asked whether the town had plans to do something to protect it’s residents, Mayor Tanktop replied that of course a major seaside town like Grimsby had a contingency plan for such an event. When asked for specifics the Mayor leaned in closer, looked both ways furtively, cleared his throat, raised his eyebrow five times, smiled backwards and replied, “Rocket powered laser cats!”



Your Comments;

“I’ve never trusted budgies.  Dirty bastard commies, the lot of ’em.  Hanging is too good for them.  Bring back the rope!” – S. Ballbag, Clitheroe.

“This never would have happened if the Queen Mum was alive, Gawd bless ‘er!” – L. J. Baldry, Horsham.

“I have absolutely nothing to say on this matter.  Apart from the fact that I blame the immigrants.” – N. Griffin, London.

“I like Doctor Who, Crowded House and rabbits, but I don’t like budgies.  They’re all feathery and evil.” M. Baker, Epsom.

“We should defend ourselves.  Where is the Dunkirk spirit?  What would dear old Churchill have done?  Nodded his head and said ‘oh yes’ a lot, I suppose, but, still!  Blimey!  Let’s show the bastards!  Let’s get some electric tennis rackets and show these multicoloured terrorists how we roll!  Big style!  With knobs on!” – T. Henman, Wimbledon.

“Gosh!  Er… mmm… well, yes!” – H. Grant, Notting Hill.

“GAZEBO!!!” – Great Uncle Teacup, Chichester.