Monday, March 10, 2014
Back in the good old days, people washed with SOAP.
Now we have GEL, WASH, BALM — and if we’re lucky, maybe JUS.
Right now, my showering preference is for GEL. It’s smoother than a soap but not as liquified as an OIL or a CREME, and there are usually plenty of decent options to choose from in Wazzda.
But do we really need such a beguiling range of options? For scented semen-alike we spread over our skin?
I mention this because in addition to the variety of available brands and scents and colours, shower gel also comes in gender-specific forms. Some is FOR WOMEN, the rest is FOR MEN — which can only mean that some ad agency’s portfolio is about to split at the seams from an ejaculatory promo of frothing FOR HERMAPHRODYTES.
But what’s the difference between a girl gel and a boy gel? Actually?
And what am I to do with my latest purchase from Wazzda?
I just got into the shower and removed the cap on my Dolphin Musk FOR MEN only to be struck by the notion that I was about to misuse its azure latherness.
The label clearly says FOR MEN — yet as I ran my eyes round the crisply tiled walls of my shower cubicle, I felt certain I was the only man present (unless a curious dwarven assassin lay coiled like a spring in the airing cupboard).
The label does not say FOR MAN. So will I break my Dolphin Musk if I use it alone? Or will its oceanic gloopiness somehow break me?
Nether The Samaritans, the Citizens’ Advice Bureau nor Goog-gel could help with this conundrum, so I’m holding fire on the whole washing thing until I’ve got my facts in order.
Or sourced some other MEN.
Maybe that’s how it works.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
It’s funny what you remember about your early years.
All those characters from infant and junior school.
Like MANDY and her RUBBER. Why do I remember Mandy and her rubber? Because she would never let anyone borrow it. “You’ll wear it out,” she’d say, like somehow this was against the rules regarding rubber usage worldwide. I remember remarking once that wearing rubbers out was both inevitable and kind of the point but Mandy never saw it that way. That’s why we haven’t been on each other’s Christmas card list since 1973.
Then there was PHILIP and his TALKBACK. Why do I remember Philip and his talkback? Because he would talk back to the teacher every morning when she called out the register.
“Here. [great comedic pause] I’m always here.”
But what about Whatserface Girl? Whose name I’ve forgotten, and about whom I can remember next to nothing?
Whatserface Girl came and went, like Stu and Bev and Kim and all those kids who were around at one time before they disappeared. As the years passed, at high school and Do Your A Levels school, I’d bump into some of these kids again, maybe exchange a few words, but by my early 20s, late 20s, and onset of multiple stomachs 30s, it typically took an unusually obtrusive prompt to get me summoning their spectres once again.
So I’m walking down my local high street, some time in my stomachy 30s, and I see Whatserface Girl — and I salute her.
I do this because she is The Captain.
I can only presume that the reason she’s The Captain is down to the volume of black & white 50s films the TV companies insisted on screening in the 70s. One featured an unenthusiastic conscript called Binns, and me and my friends spent the rest of the week playing out the scene where he’s peeling potatoes while a sergeant major screams at him. As to where The Captain game came from, or what inspired it, I haven’t the faintest idea. All I know is that nearly a quarter of a century later, all it took to make me engage in an activity so missing, presumed dead that I might as well have been a knee-jerk zombie was for Whatserface Girl to have her Whatser of a face in my face.
It’s ludicrous, silly, ridiculous, but like 1920s Railway Station moments, this kind of thing happens all the time — and we’re lucky if we can match the stimulus to the response.
Monday, March 3, 2014
When I booked in for a checkup with my doctor, I never expected to be told (accompanied by the dourest Beethoven tunes ever, boosted to BASS BASS MAX c/o a shitty pair of NHS speakers), “hey, big nose — the reason you’ve been feeling under the weather of late is because a two hundred year-old turtle has taken up residence in your shit pipe.”
It’s at times like these that doubletakes mutate into tripletakes mutate into quadruple-then-polywhoople-OTTgazoopletakes, all of whose net nervospazzular flash results (bizarrely) in no reaction whatsoever.
My doctor coughed, as if a dog had died — alive — in his throat. “You seem unduly unbothered by this news of your imminent anal collapse-cum-potential-reinvention-as-a-novelty-theme-park.”
This is when the turtle finally shifted, upended from the horizontal unparticular to the distinctly perpendicular rectilinear. I thought only dwarf acrobats could do this, but no.
I’m tempted to say that my heart was in my throat at this point, but sadly it was 35 feet away from my cranium, propelled c/o a turtleshifty shunt, and saved from flying off into the stratosphere only by a strap of unduly taut aortic tissue gifted to me by leathery ancestors unknown.
My op is at high noon tomorrow. As I understand it, some guy from the UK Olympic shot putt team is coming down from Scotland to help get my heart back into my chest. A similar out-of-body hearting happened to Simon Le Bon live on stage during a Duran Duran comeback tour when he forgot the lyrics to Rio and panicked. Shot putt guy was in the audience, and raced onstage to save Le Bon’s life. Since then he’s gone on to make a decent living for himself as a professional cardiac eructatoprolapse specialist. Can’t wait to meet him.
As for my pipe reptile, I have to put up with its random wrigglings till some time in August — unless I can get a construction industry pal to nick a JCB and paw my crack with its scooper.
The moral of this story? Get regular health checks for all the essentials: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, dumpy drooper.
And don’t forget to bag the I HAD A DOCTOR’S HAND UP MY BUM sticker. Mine’s going on the fridge over my magnetic glow-in-the-dark Martin Clunes.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
I hate it when my blog post pool is empty. When all those half-baked ideas have been turned into novelty soufflés and every last sketch, note and doodle has undergone mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and been transformed into articles favourited by gazillions.
So right now, I’m stuck with Vladimir Putin.
As I threw on a dressing gown and slippers and made my way the study, his was the only image rolling round in my brain. I tried to shove him from the cliff face of my cerebellum for fear that I might make some obscene joke and offend die-hard KGB men the world over, thus sealing my fate as a human being, let alone a writer.
But the wily baldster wouldn’t budge.
He tucked the heel of his back foot into one of my least used sulci and crouched, frog-like, in his Judo suit, muttering, “where in hell can I buy me some proper pants?”
I wish this is how it was with the quality of my overall prose. Come rain, come shine, come mania or black dog, how great it would be if everything I wrote shone the instant it leapt from my synaptic internexus to page or pixel, undaunted in its determination like a phantom gay-bashing Russian matriarch in his combat spanglies, dug in for the long run.
I mention this because no fewer than two short story rejections winged their way into my mailbox yesterday. I know that sentence would work much better had I said three or a dozen, but I haven’t written them yet. So it’s kind of like a Catch-20Putin situation. I need the beady-eyed closet trombone player to help imbue my words with the spunk of quality but his phantom presence commits me to writing this drivel instead of my next novel. And the 20, btw, is the mark out of 10 he’s just given himself for flashing his glitzy I AIN’T NO LADYBOY thong while perfecting his Nage-waza.
Like I care!
So — who’s been your writerly inspiration/nemesis this morning?
Monday, February 24, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
As of now, I’m the Archrodent of Techno Impro.
My computer is up the duff, my laptop has been seized by Son of Whirl for nefarious purposes unknown (okay, maybe TumblrLOLing), my phone is onner the blink than a downtrodden housewife fluttering her eyelids at George Clooney during a chance meeting in the wasp sting ointment and trowel aisle of Poundstretcher, and, try as I might, I’ve never been able to compose a blog post on either the fridge freezer or the hoover, so strictly speaking I ought to be ferrockulated.
But I ownz a tab, so I is gtg.
Now all I have to do is say something interesting — not the easiest thing to do when you’re hacking away at a keyless & credit card sized keyboard with a rubber pen.
Luckily, as I said, I’m an Archrodent, and Archrodents are capable of just about anything.
Including thinking wazz this rubber-tipped nonsense, I’m having a bowl of bran flakes, three cups of coffee — and a shower.
My informative post on how to write informative blog posts has been mothballed until 2078, by which time the arch of my rodent will most likely be the rigor mortis curve of an inverted spine in a shallow grave just south of Cambridge...
Monday, February 17, 2014
I may just have jumped atop the Wangoprattic Donkey by signing up for Tumblr.
What is this site?
On first analysis it looks like a killer opportunity to develop a crippling obsession for regurgitating other people’s innards. Kind of like compulsive retweeting, only with pictures of cutesy kittens and other LOLfodder instead of 140 garbage-laden characters.
But, hey — let’s give it a go.
However the regurgitation tumbles and rumbles, it has to be better than signing up for Vacuous Shitbox. Their promo says it all:
As for the Wangoprattic Donkey (and the climbing atop of, thereof), the first reference I have for the use of this phrase is from the inside of an old cowboy boot I picked up in a junk shop in Salford in 1994.
We all know that “climbing atop the Wangoprattic Donkey,” is synonymous with phrases such as “being a bit of a twit”, “doing something stupid”, and (in extreme cases) “signing your own death warrant”, and it’s obvious why this should be the case. By their very nature, the terms ‘wang’ and ‘pratt’ are the stuff of ridicule, and of all the creatures God has spawned, donkeys sit high above platypi and wrinkly Sphynx cats as universally acknowledged Joke Fauna.
But here’s the thing.
The original Wangoprattic Donkey was owned by a crazy Edwardian spinster called Lady Demerara Cloothes — and here she is in 1904, almost atop him:
At this stage, the donkey’s name was simply Pull The Cart You Fucking Moron! but when Lady Cloothes died and her Yorkshire estate passed on to a wealthy American family, the previously ill-treated equine found himself going up in the world. A paid boy trimmed his hooves and shaved his scraggy fur, and his new owner renamed him Call This Darned Mule A Freakin’ Hoss?
Here he is in 1912, on a lane just outside Harrowgate.
How do I know all of this? Because I discovered both photos in the junk shop cowboy boot — a boot that once belonged to Call This Darned Mule A Freakin’ Hoss?’s American owner, the shipping tycoon Walter D. B. G. B. T. C. P. E. T. D. P. E. G. P. B. C. B. P. C. D. T. Z. Schluberberger Jnr Snr Jnr III VIII IX. On the back of both photographs, in handwriting confirmed as being that of Schluberberger, are written the words “Wangoprattic Donkey” — a reference that precedes the 1952 entry in the Oxford English Dictionary and the 2008 edition of Shit Whirl Has Clearly Made Up.
So I’m Tumblin’ this, big time.
Donkey pictures! Major leagues historical discoveries! Evidence of serious donkey shaving equipment prior to the Roaring 20s trend for horsehair skirts and dresses!
Man, I’m on top of my social media game right now...