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10 Classic Toys And Why They Suck

2008-04-24T22:56:00.001Z

Ten Classic Toys And Why They Suck

over on Cracked.com

How To Woo A Lady - Part 2

2008-04-24T22:52:00.002Z

How to woo a lady - part 2

One of the most important lessons my good father ever taught me, other than how to deal with Financial Matters, was that everything action you do has a consequence and that whatever you do, you will have to face up to that consequence, especially if it has involved a magic spell gone wrong, with family friendly results, but such problems can be overcome by discussing them with your two Aunts or talking cat. Actually, come to think of it, I think the adventures of Sabrina the Teenage Witch taught me that. All my father taught me was how to pass water standing up, and he didn’t do a good job of it because I constantly have urine stains on the inside of my legs and all over my shoes.

Nevertheless, learning to deal with consequences is important. Everything we do has a second part, if you will, and the noble art of wooing a lady is one of those very things. Wooing is not over when your date screams “get away from me you asshole”, or disappears to the toilet and crawls out the window or even if she decides to come home with you. Oh no, if that’s the case, then you have a whole new subdivision of wooing to learn.

If you followed section one of ‘How To Woo A Lady’, then your date will be suitably wooed by the end of the evening. If you did not follow the guide to the very letter, then your date may be in the process of applying for a court action against you. Do not panic! This is an entirely normal consequence of a failed wooing and if you find yourself in such a scenario, simply pull up your socks, bribe the necessary officials and continue your preliminary wooing assault.

If, however, you correctly applied the hints suggested to you, then your date will be initially wooed to a satisfactorily degree, and stage two of the wooing process can begin. It’s a nerve-wracking journey, but don’t worry. We shall get through this together! So, let us begin:

“How To Woo A Lady Part 2 – Getting Intimate With A Lady”.

Preparation: Make sure your house is lady friendly before you leave for your Big Date

This is a simple task. Firstly, as you are a bachelor, you will not have changed your bed sheets for months, or maybe you’ve never even changed them at all. Whatever you do, do not change them. If your date sees fresh sheets, she will no doubt feel that you already have a lady to complete such tasks and will leave, feeling unwanted. Additionally, ladies like the smell of a man, and they especially like it if they smell of a man can be traced back for months.

Secondly, place lots of scented candles around your abode. Women are born pyromaniacs and are sexually aroused by fire.

Thirdly, make sure all your doors and windows are deadlocked. Knowing no one can get in or out will give you a secure feeling, making you more relaxed for your big evening.

And finally, if you have a pet, like a dog, cat, butler or Welshman, give them a nice hit of chloroform before you depart. This will keep them out of mischief when you are out, and will make it easier to use them for sexual games if the date goes well and you return with a lady. Or even if it doesn’t go well and you return alone.

And that’s all the preparatory work completed! You’re ready to go on your date. Go get ‘em, you rare, big, predatory cat!

Part 1 – Convincing Your Date to Come Back to Yours after the Meal

The first thing to do when the final morsel of food has disappeared down your gullet is check your date’s plate to make sure she has finished her meal. If she has not, it is perfectly acceptable to lean over the table and bellow ‘Will you finish your meal good lady I have still a full evening of wooing to undertake!’. This will ensure she finishes up double quick. If she is still faffing about, then take her plate away from her and finish the meal in her place, making sure to show her just how quickly you can finish a plate of leftovers.

So now she has finished her meal, the invitation to come back to your house must be delivered. In most scenarios, a simple request to return to your house, followed by a small list of why your house is desirable will do for a start. This must be followed by a sensuous action, and a hint or suggestion that you might be asking her back for something ever so slightly nefarious, and then asking if she understands you. For example: “Good woman, I suggest both you and I retire to my abode. It is a well built, colonial house and the plumbing is robust.” Follow this with a wink or a leer, or maybe even heavy salivation and a hand placed down the front of one’s trousers. Then continue; “I thought we might spend an evening in the company of our genitalia, if you know what I mean.

In many cases, your date will not know what your suggestive phrase means. In such a scenario, it is more than fine to explain your phrase fully. May I suggest even bringing a flipchart, overhead projector or blackboard along to your date, to facilitate this task? If this is not an option – maybe you have gone to a small restaurant without the facilities available to house a variety of teaching aids – I have compiled a list of suggestive phrases, and the appropriate explanation to give to your date.

Suggestive phrase 1: I would like to investigate your nether regions for parasitical infestations, using only my penis.
Explanation: I do not wish to perform a health check only a paid professional should perform, my dear. Instead, I was merely suggesting we adopt a position whereby my penis can be in close proximity to your vagina for elongated periods of time. (You may wish to add ‘and time isn’t the only thing that will be elongated’ but you may have to explain that as well, and then you’re headed down a never-ending path.)

Suggestive phrase 2: I would like to perform with you something I have only ever heard about from my mother.
Explanation: I wish for you to show me how to a) bake scones, b) tie my shoelaces c) darn socks, d) make a packed lunch or e) look so wholesome. Then we are to have Sex.

Suggestive phrase 3: I wish to make an honest woman of you.
Explanation: I will teach you about the virtue of honesty, and then we shall test your newfound virtue by my leaving my wallet on the table, leaving the room for ten minutes, then coming back in. If my wallet is still there, then you are an Honest Woman.

I don’t know how that last one can lead to intercourse with a lady, so it might be better to skip it for now. Unless, of course, she is Jaime Lee Curtis in A Fish Called Wanda.

So, if you deliver the big question with a suitable amount of panache, your date will be left stunned and speechless, which makes it much easier to bundle her into the back of a taxi without her struggling.

Part Two: Getting Home

In the taxi, small talk might be necessary, to make your date feel comfortable. Small talk is just what it sounds like – you may only use words that are four letters long or less, or words that mean small or refer to small things, words like tiny or wee, or you must make references to small things, such as Kaiser Wilhelm II’s left arm or Lisa Kudrow’s face. Try it, it is a fun game and your date will be thrilled that you are Including Her.

When you return home, you must leave the taxi first. Make sure you do this quickly else you will have to pay for it. Skulk behind a wall or hedge until your date has rewarded the taxi driver with money for getting you home. Now you must invite your date into your house.

When inside, make sure you create a safe, soothing ambiance as soon as possible. Put some music on - I suggest having a record already on the turntable, so you can play it instantly. The record you choose will give away a great deal about you to your date, so make sure you pick a record that reflects your personality, one that exudes confidence, strength and racial purity. A record from Prussian Blue or Screwdriver for example, or even play the soundtrack from Triumph Of The Will. This will assure your date that you are not a gentleman to be Trifled With, let alone Apple Pie and Ice Creamed with.

Another good tip is to dim the lights. Not too much though, else you may fall over your coffee table or topple over your meticulously stacked porn! Just dim them a little. It creates a sultry, sexy atmosphere, and has the added advantage of helping hide any facial blemishes your date might have.

When the music is on, and the lights are dimmed, you need to offer your date a drink. Some people call this a nightcap but that’s a very silly thing to call it. A nightcap is a cap for nighttimes. It is not a drink. Pour into the largest receptacle you have (I suggest a sink, or bucket) a generous measure of whisky and top it up with gin, vodka, brandy, bourbon, Bacardi (or dark rum if you are out of Bacardi) and Advocaat. Put a splash of mixer, a tonic for example, or soda, coke, chocolate milk or perhaps more gin. Present the drink to your date, unless you used a fixed vessel, in which case present your date to her drink. She might be a little surprised by the size of it, and reluctant to drink it. This will not do at all – you made her a present. If your date absolutely refuses to touch the drink you made for her, stand stock still and scream as loudly and as high pitched as you can in short, sharp bursts.

Part 3 – The ‘Talk’

When your date has consumed her drink, it is time for you two to sit down and talk dirtily on the sofa. Dirty talk is an important part of wooing, but be careful, women will take anything you say to them as a cast iron promise! So remember, whatever you promise, you must have nearby, so your date does not think you to be nothing but a big, fat liar. Your talk must be full of possibilities about where the night ahead can lead to. I would strongly advise you try to direct the possibilities towards bedroom activities, and not an all night session playing with your immaculate Hornby Train Set, as women are peculiar beasts and a thrilling, miniature model of the rail infrastructure leading into New York’s Central Station will not maintain her interest, even if you show off and manipulate the signal lights with your penis.

Try instead, to whisper promises about what might happen when you retire to your bedroom later that evening. Mention your fine selection of superhero costumes, PVC underwear or wide array of pool balls you can gag either her or yourself with. Not only will she be aroused and stimulated, she will also be thrilled that you live in such a world of equality that you can cater for the gagging of both male and females. I suggest you do not gag the pair of you, as this may cut short any conversation.

If your date appears uncomfortable with the idea of superheroes and pool-ball and duct tape gags, then try moving her away from that extreme, and instead, use fluffy, cuddly language. Tell her you just want to cover her in whipped cream and snuffle away at it until your heart’s content, or lay her down on a bed covered in roses. Though, of course, it might be wise to prune the flower heads, just as a precautionary measure in case your date has an allergy to pollen! She will take the promise of a bed covered in thorny, dead stalks as a sign of your consideration.

Your date, of course, may be repulsed at such slushy sentimentality. In that case, simply try promising her a mixture of both. I’m sure, with a little effort, you can cover your Edward Penishands outfit with roses and fluffy bunny rabbits. And if you buy a super-high powered staple gun, you may not even have to kill the rabbits before attaching them! The little blighters squirm free if you just use glue or sticky tape, and you don’t want your big night ruined by your date calling the Animal Protection Society because you, quite reasonably, have found yourself having to use a five-iron to cull the dozens of scampering, fluffy nosed, terrified bunnies running around your bedroom.

Part 4 – Putting the right moves on

With the lights dimmed, and your beverages drunk, and with the sound of Adolf Hitler’s Speeches ringing out from your gramophone, the time will come when dirty talk will only go so far. When that part comes, you may need to start ‘putting the right moves on’. This is a simple, physical sign that you are ready to take your date into your bedroom and have your way with her.

Such signs are numerous, and each will produce a reaction from your date, hopefully positive! I suggest starting by leaning back on your sofa and stretching your arms out sideways. But hullo! Why, it’s almost not worth bringing that arm back in, is it? So why don’t we just leave it resting there, behind your date’s head? It’s very natural, and it looks like you’re not trying to sexually assault her, either! Now, I know it may be tempting to rest your hand so it clamps the back of your date’s neck in a painful, vicelike grip, and this is an entirely natural instinct. After all, we don’t want her fleeing, so we? But that will not entice your date to have Carnal Relations with you, so you must refrain from doing that. Simply leave your arm there, and plan your next move.

OF corus,e this is a hard move to pull of if your date is not on the sofa and instead is desperately trying to jimmy the locked door open with her credit cards. Or maybe you’ve had to sell your sofa, and whilst you are comfortably seated in your Laz-E-Boy, your date may well be sitting on the only other available seat in the house – the toilet. In this case, when you stretch your arms, you must stretch your entire body in the direction of your date. Shuffle sideways until you are next to her, or have pinned her into a corner, and then drape your arm over her shoulders. It is still an entirely natural action and your date will be none the wiser that she is just one step closer to being Totally Seduced.

Next, try suggesting to your date that it is a bit hot in here, and ask her if she would like you to remove her jumper. This tactic works best if you preset your thermostat to a hundred degrees before leaving your house for the original date. If your date is reluctant to take off her jumper, even though it is hotter than the sun in your house, try to make her feel at ease by removing your clothes instead. Start with your overcoat, then your hand-knitted tank top. If she has still shown no signs of wanting to remove her clothes, take off your leather t-shirt and wedding hat, Incredible Hulk mask, dog collar, pink ear muffs and chest wig. Then your assless chaps, jock strap, Thundercats underpants and fake foreskin, all the whiles fixing her with an unbroken stare and mouthing the words “hot, I’m hot”.

By now, your date should realise that yes, it is hot in here. Make sure you keep that unbroken eye contact, and dyour face expressionless and she should decide that maybe she ought to remove her jumper. When she does, bounce up and down, and clap your hands, and give a big squeal of happiness. Your Moves have Worked. Your date is ready to be led into the bedroom and the Act Iteself will commence.

Part 5 – The act itself.

This is the trickiest part of the date. The real deal closer. If you pull this off, then you are, without doubt, one of the finest wooers of your generation. Remember, many wooers do not reach this stage, for their lady may have escaped into the night during a previous section of wooing. However, because this last section of wooing is almost impossible to explain, I have included a handy three stage diagram, which clearly displays all the information required for you to succeed at this, the final hurdle.

And you’re done! The woman has been wooed, the act itself has finished! You may wish to climb off your date now, and show her to your door. Her part in the magical night is over. Now you must remove the tape from the hidden camera in your ceiling, and make sure you post your date’s father a copy of the film. He’ll want to see just how well his little princess performed!

Congratulations! You’re now a Fully Fledged Wooer and can go forth and tell others how to Woo. My work here is done.

What if he was a she? v2.0. Abe Lincoln edition.

2007-10-24T14:32:00.002Z

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Noted for:

Being one of the greatest Presidents of the United States of America (though he’s not as good as the one who wrote Peaches), leading the Union through the Civil War, passing the Emancipation Proclamation and head of the Ill-timed Theatre Visits Society.

What might have happened if he was born sans balls?

Lincoln was a staunch opponent of the expansion of slavery, and was a major factor in the North winning the civil war. He also diffused a war scare with the United Kingdom in 1861 and really popularised the top hat.

So what might have happened if he was born Abby? The prospect of Ol’ Abe’s being elected in 1860 can be regarded as a fairly significant factor for the start of the secession of the confederated states. So if Abe was born with a taste for soap operas, it can safely be assumed that she would not have stood as the Republican candidate in the 1860 elections and thus, the Southern state’s vaginas might have contained slightly less sand at the beginning of that decade.

Chances are that the country would still have slumped into war. The two likeliest men to have filled Lincoln’s shoes both held strong anti-slavery views. Rebellious rumblings would still have been stirring in the South – throughout the 1850s it was becoming increasingly obvious that a pro-slavery south and anti-slavery north could not peacefully co-inhabit. Throw in the other reasons civil war historians always harp on about so they can pretend that slavery isn’t the sole cause of the war but no one else remembers them, and you have a country that would still be on the road to punching itself in the crotch so hard the ache would take decades to leave.

So a Lincoln with tits wouldn’t have made any difference?

Of course it would. Lincoln narrowly halted a war with a harrumphing Great Britain in 1861 who would, almost certainly, have sided with the Confederated States. This would have given the confederates a huge boost – the were estimated to have almost half the manpower of the Union, but with Britain’s help, with both men and technology, the war could have been very different because Britain at this time was the pre-eminent nation in the world. It was not the crumpet eating, petticoat wearing land of poor dentistry it is today. Well, it was, but it also had millions of guns). Maybe a stalemate would have occurred, and the Union would have had to have recognised the Confederated States as a separate country or, even worse, the South could well have triumphed. Don’t forget, Lincoln was a great war president, and his leadership skills and his policies (especially decisions such as the selection of Ulysses S. Grant and other top generals) were fundamental in the Union winning. And if the Confederated States were victorious, then the whole political, social and economic landscape of America, and the world, would be markedly different.

Good Lord. So without him, the whole USA could well be the CSA?

Yep. And all those rich bastards who own summer houses in New England would be out in their pickups, wearing dungarees and shooting at road signs. Still, it wouldn’t have been all bad. We might not have had the Pussycat Dolls thrust upon us.

What if he was born a she?

2007-10-22T11:32:00.000Z

WINSTON CHURCHILL

Noted For:

Being British Prime Minister from 1940 to 1945 and again from 1951 to 1955, grimacing in photographs and being one of the best war leaders of the twentieth century.

So if he had been born with breasts and unpredictable mood swings, what would have happened?

If he was born a woman, Churchill would most likely still have been heavily involved in politics. By 1920, women were just beginning to become a presence in the British Parliament, after the huge suffragette movements of the late 1900s and 1910s. If his brash and independent streak surfaced in his womanly body, then we can assume that Churchill would have been at the forefront of the handbag waving women’s rights activists and thus would have been one of the first women to run for parliament. And she may well have scrambled in as well.

Mrs Churchill sounds like a she’d have been a roaringly good woman, and probably would have been mucking about in Westminster. So I guess you were being a total dicks when you claimed that the world would have been different, except for maybe we’d have a Churchill Saucepan instead of a Churchill Tank.

Pipe down. True, by 1940, when Churchill was elected Prime Minister for the first time, there were a few female MPs, and some had held their seats for years, but women were yet to hold powerful seats, or be given powerful roles in government, and they still faced a great deal of prejudice from within parliament itself. We suspect that many of the old boys poking around the House of Commons still thought of women as some whacky alien creature whose sole job was to bake delicious cakes and do something about those little pink people who spent their days crying and crapping themselves. Indeed, Churchill himself, in a sparring match with female MP Nancy Astor, claimed that having a woman in parliament was like having one intrude on you in the bathroom (to which, she replied “You’re not handsome enough to have such fears”). Thus, we confidently claim that although Winnie Churchill probably would have been a Member of Parliament by 1940, she would not have been anywhere near powerful enough to run for party leader, or win a general election. Besides, nearly all of the first female MPs joined the socialist Labour party, and in 1940, the right-wing Conservatives were in power, and Churchill had stepped into power after Chamberlain’s resignation without having to win a general election.

Well that’s a bit shit. So how would the world have looked if the Good-Housekeeping-reading Churchill hadn’t have been able to gather her skirts and dash for power?

Well, without Churchill taking over after the resignation of the appeasement loving Joseph ‘ooh, let’s give Hitler what he wants and hope he doesn’t then bend us over the dining room table and ravish us’ Chamberlain as PM, who knows what other kind of soggy napkin Great Britain could have had as a leader? Churchill is regarded as one of the best wartime leaders of all time and it’s unlikely that a similar character could be found in the British cabinet. In fact, power was almost handed to Lord Halifax, who was pre-eminent in the House of Lords (the higher body of British parliament), but the Lords were, and still are, more out of touch with the populace than the ministers in the Commons.

Halifax, whilst a practiced politician, shared a lot of views with Neville Chamberlain, who, as history can attest, was an arse. Halifax was also one of the main architects of appeasement, claiming that Adolf Hitler’s massive rearmament scheme and Germany’s remilitarisation of the Rhineland was not only of no threat, but to be welcomed. And when Halifax, as foreign minister, visited Nazi Germany in 1937 to meet with Hitler (who he assumed was footman upon their first meeting, and tried to present the dictator with his coat) ignored commands from his then-Prime Minster, Anthony Eden, to warn Hitler against attacking Czechoslovakia, and instead, went hunting with Hermann Göring.

Eden resigned in 1938, exasperated by Halifax’s general dickheadedness, and Halifax continued to mine this rich vein until the outbreak of war whereupon he was nearly handed the reins of power, presumably by ministers even more idiotic than he. In fairness, Halifax declined, and the reins were handed to an eager Churchill, but if Churchill had not been there, we can only think that this aristocratic boob would have taken the reins, and galloped Great Britain to an inglorious decline, whereby they would have continued to appease Germany until Adolf was shacked up in King George’s bed and the citizens of the Western Europe were all suddenly eating a lot of sausages and Woody Allen films would be doing brisk business on the black market.

So we probably dodged a bullet there then.

Damn straight. Thank Christ for Churchill’s testicles.

The ten most insane sports in the world.

2007-09-26T21:58:00.000Z

An article I wrote for Cracked.com

The Ten Most Insane Sports In The World.

A Beginner's Guide To Narcotics

2007-05-03T11:38:00.000Z

A Beginner's Guide to Narcotics on Cracked.com

So, You’ve Bought Yourself A Telephone

2007-04-28T07:03:00.000Z

Society’s moving on in the world, and there are new technological advances around every corner, most of which are baffling and exciting to the modern Gentleman. One such device is the newly patented Telephone. Created by some astoundingly clever types, (rumour has it a Scotsman was involved, but this has since proven to be laughably false) the Telephone allows the modern Gentleman to speak with other Gentlemen outside what can be considered a close proximity without having to leave the comfort of one’s own expensive yet tasteful Afhgan armchair.

No doubt upon announcing your desire to purchase the Telephone, you were bombarded with negativity by well-meaning friends and family. Don’t worry about that, it is all part and parcel of buying terrifyingly exciting new devices. It is believed there were even detractors when a prehistoric Gentleman decided that meat slowly roasted over an open fire was considerably tastier than when eaten raw, or when an early Victorian Gentleman suggested that not crapping in your drinking water might just be better for your health. I expect that when you told your peers that you wished to communicate with Gentlemen a London borough away, they suggested merely shouting louder instead of opting for the purchase of this new fangled piece of claptrap machinery. And your good Sir father no doubt informed you that back in his day, if he wished to converse with Gentlemen in another country, then they simply invaded it and made the Gentleman in question a colonial subject. Then they could tell him whatever the bloody hell they wanted and the Gentleman in question would have to accept it double quick.

Well, you should give yourself a round of applause for ignoring the warnings and going ahead with the purchase anyway. It was a noble and brave choice, and you ought to be proud of yourself. But now I expect you’re asking yourself “So how the bloody hell do I use this thing then?” Well, fear not, for your Handbook For The Discerning Gentleman will unravel the mysteries of the Telephone and deliver the information into your brain like your manservant delivers your slippers to your bedroom first thing in the morning.

What’s This Then?

Telephones, like all new inventions, are dastardly complex things. They operate via science, and as every modern Gentleman knows, science isn’t to be trifled with. Telephones allow a Gentleman such as yourself to communicate with other Gentlemen, sometimes over distances of miles. It’s a jolly clever device, and one that the manufacturers clearly stress is not suitable for use by women. It’s understandable to think that the fairer sex just would not be able to wrap their pretty little heads around the concept – indeed, in early tests, many a lady in London’s High Society fainted dead away when they realised the tinny voice in their ear was coming from a manor in Oxfordshire.

The manufacturers of the Telephone also wish to stress that the device isn’t to be owned or operated by poor people for fear they would sully it within moments, like they did with musical theatre, Gin or dysentery.

How The Bloody Hell Does It Work Then?

To operate your new Telephone, simply pick up the receiver (this is the loose wobbly part that bears a passing resemblance to a banana) and place one end to your ear. Via the medium of swivel, and remembering to keep one end pushed against your ear, manoeuvre the receiver until the other end is by your mouth. The part of the receiver by your ear should be emitting a low buzz. This is entirely natural. Now you must decide which Gentleman you wish to call. I suggest you call my good friend, Lord Oliver James Wenceslas-Grangethorpe III. I assure you, he won’t mind, and may even invite you over for a hand of whist after the Telephone call is completed. To Telephone Lord Wenceslas-Grangethorpe III, you must dial his number. This is achieved by mashing your face into the dial of numbers situated just beneath the area the receiver until recently resided. The amount of times you need to mash your face into the dial equates to the amount on letters in the name of the person you wish to call. So in our case, it’s three hundred and ninety-seven letters, so that’s three hundred and ninety-seven mashes. This may hurt a little, but as with all new technology, there are early discomforts. If you wish, you may place a small cushion over the dial, but this is viewed as bad Telephone etiquette.

When you finish face mashing, you should hear a ringing sound in the part of the receiver pressed against your ear (you may have dropped the receiver to facilitate your face mashing. If this is the case, pick it up and replace against the lobe). Don’t be alarmed by the ringing noise, it is meant to happen and simply means we enter the next stage of our exciting journey into Telecommunications!

What Happens Next?

The ringing may continue for an indeterminable amount of time, as it first has to traverse through a series of semi-cut wormholes which have been spliced through the medium of space matter, and will be scouring the edges of the chaos void that exists in the multiverse separating both you and the Gentleman you are Telephoning. There is no telling how long it may take the telephone call to make this journey, but whilst the journey is being made, you yourself, as the source of the call, will slip outside of time, so even though it may seem like the ringing has carried on for three or four months, it will, in reality, in our reality, have only been a few seconds and, naturally, as you slip back into our reality, memories of your adventures out of the time loop will quickly fade, leaving an uneasy feeling in the lower intestine, followed by a clenching of the buttocks. This feeling may well manifest into something more urgent, and you may need to relieve yourself at the next possible moment.

It is because of this reason that The Handbook For The Discerning Gentleman suggests you set up your new Telephone in close proximity to a Water Closet, if not actually within the closet, so as to allow easy access to the Pony Express.

The Final Step

After the telephone call has traversed the complex, clandestine shadow worlds which cling to our realities, and has fought its way back through a wormhole into our world, it will have arrived at the Telephone in the WC of the Gentleman to whom you wish to converse. That Gentleman’s phone will emit a high pitched ring which will inform the Gentleman that something has gone horribly wrong during the Telephone call’s epic journey through Space and Time and will likely explode at any given moment. The Gentleman whose phone is pealing out joyous rings will thusly have to dive out of his Water Closet to avoid the explosion fallout, and also to avoid contact with any extra-dimensional, demonic ‘hangers on’ the Telephone call may have inadvertently picked up in it’s journeys.

Though it is possible hitch-hiking transdimensional horrors have not latched onto the Telephone Call, a prudent Gentleman will always send his manservant into the Water Closet first, in case he needs to deal with the beast. If the butler perishes, it is up to your discretion if you offer the now manservantless Gentleman a new butler. Etiquette suggests you might, but if you do not, many members of London’s high society will view the Gentleman you attempted to Telephone in a harsher light, as he had not sufficiently trained his butler to deal with extra-dimensional demonic terrors.

And That’s It!

That is how a Telephone call is made! If you practice these methods, you will soon be highly accomplished to using a telephone and may be able to make upwards of three calls a week. Given time, you may not even need to don the protective headgear and biohazardous suit that comes free with all new Telephones purchased!

I hate asking for days off work.

2007-02-26T23:07:00.000Z

Hello Heather

How are you? I hope you are well. Please accept my commiserators on your recent loss - I know you enjoyed the company your pet rabbit, Flufty, offered you very much, and shall miss him terribly in his absence. I feel I must apologise also, because I cannot help but feel slightly to blame for the whole, sorry affair, for as you know, it was I who reversed my car over Flufty as he scampered free as a bird on your gravelled driveway. I admit, I saw the young scamp gallivanting around, and could have halted my car in time, but, as you may recall, relations between Flufty and myself have been somewhat soured as of late, ever since the 'Jewellery Heist' experience of last summer. Whilst I don't wish to go into detail over the experience, and uncover old memories, I would like to remind you that it was Flufty, not I, who tripped the alarm system, and again, it was Flufty, not I, who failed to remember to fill the tank of the getaway car. Whilst I was still sprinting down the vault corridor, trying to dodge the security guard's bullets, Flufty had, for want of a better word, already fucked off. Now, call me a sceptic, but I do not believe Flufty's tale of him being transported to a Lord Of The RIngs-esque middle earth world, inhabited by Elves, Orcs, Goblins and well-respected gentlemen proudly bearing gigantic beards - you know the type, the kind of man who just looks like a man. A man a man can call a man's man and call on when he needs a man who can fit a man shaped hole where only a man's man can fit. A man who can be called on when a man needs a man. You understand what I'm trying to say.

As we all know, Flufty returned with far-fetched tales of such men, but to my knowledge , he was telling an enormous porky pie. Flufty had not been to Park Lane Royal Gentlemen's Club, which, as all who keep an eye on current events, is the only place where such men can be found. The esteemed gentlemen of the Club wouldn't be seen farting around, fagging up the air with their beards and pet elves, dropping their rings into rivers of fire and embarking on an adventure laced with intent and homo-erotic undertones. No, of course they wouldn't. They would be discussing the stock market, drinking brandy, and betting their newspaper businesses on the outcome of a race around the world between Rear Admiral Lord Henry St. Staffordshire Johnson Hadely-Smythe III and Field Marshall Sir Anthony Charles James Beresford M.B.E, Duke of Norfolk and godson to his Majesty Edward VI.

But that's neither here no there. Basically, Flufty was talking shit. Two policemen spotted me holding the stolen jewels, and chased me into an alley whereupon I was forced to dickwhip them into submission. However, one had time to call for backup, and it was only due to my quick thinking and impressive groin that I was able to escape, albeit without the jewels, and have been in hiding ever since, whilst that rabbit of yours has grown fat on freedom. Thus, when I furtively appeared at your Somerset mansion last weekend, to attend the barbecue celebrating your ascension into the House of Lords, I spotted Flufty in the driveway, a fat cigar hanging from his mouth and a meat pie in his paws, I accelerated rapidly towards him. The little cunt ducked underneath my wheels, cigar and pie forgotten, but was not quick enough to escape my almost stunt-man quick reversing manoeuvre. I also drove over him a second time, just to make sure.

So, please accept my sincerest apologies for killing your beloved rabbit, though it was a total shit. And I also regret my following decision to turn up at your house drunk, as I fear this may have speeded my decision to run Flufty over, and it almost certainly had a helping hand in my following decision to strip naked and wear the flattened body of Flufty as a makeshift hat. Again, I apologise for this. And I must apologise further for making rather forward advances on members of your family. If/when your grandfather comes out of his coma, would you please forward this apology to him.

By way of repairing the strained relations between us, I would like to take Monday 12th March off work, so I can prepare a suitable burial for Flufty at my Lancashire house Cholmondesley Manor. I will hold a small memorial service, followed by a respectful wake. There will be party sausages and pineapple chunks and cheddar on sticks. There will also be jelly and rumour is, Gary The Musical Clown may make an appearance.

I look forward to hearing from you, or if this has forwarded on to your lawyers, from them.

Yours

Captain Otis Koln Weathersley Pervical-Jivefunk O.B.E., Commander-in-Chief of the Royal British Mediterranean Navy, Her Majesty's Lord of the Admiralty and First Sea Lord of Portsmouth.

How To Woo A Lady

2007-02-06T20:44:00.000Z

Some things over the last few decades have changed, either for better or worse. Things like the internet, the price of oil or the quality of Steve Martin films. Some things, however, have remained the same, like Brian May’s hair or Heather Locklear’s face. And, of course, the noble art of wooing a lady.

Wooing a lady is a daunting task, and has been for many centuries. Some Gentlemen have the innate ability to woo born into them. Some develop an ability to woo, whilst others have no idea and are desperately seeking a handy guide to help end their lady solitude. If you belong in the third category, then this guide is for you!

PART 1: MEETING A LADY

When meeting a lady, you need to consider a location, a location where ladies are typically found in abundance. Places such as a haberdashery store, a hair salon, a laundrette or a maternity ward are fine examples. These are all places where you can be guaranteed to find many ladies and critically, not many gentlemen. An abundance of gentlemen is a bad sign when trying to woo a lady as many of the other gentlemen will be trying to do the same thing. Too many Gentlemen often scare ladies and the ladies will then retire to the nearest lavatory, leaving nothing but Gentlemen in the vicinity. The result is what historians call a ‘Sausage Fest*’.

When you have located an ideal spot full of ladies, approach carefully. Ladies are skittish creatures, and when approached by a Gentleman, will close together in a defensive huddle. An experienced wooer can break into the huddle and reach the young, healthy ladies, but an inexperienced wooer, such as yourself, will have better luck if they pick off the old, crippled or sick who were too slow to enter the huddle. These ladies can easily be rounded up and cornered, and your wooing assault can now begin.

When approaching your selected lady, do so slowly; any quick movements will send the lady scurrying for cover. Also, be careful of your body language. Be open and confident and do not look shifty, or look straight into the lady’s eyes. This can spook them, and make further wooing tricky. Instead, keep your eyes on her breasts - on no account must you stop looking at the breasts. Furthermore, do not keep your hands where you usually keep them. Instead, remove them from the front of your trousers and slip them into your trouser pockets. This way, you can achieve a nonchalant look and still massage your balls and also keep any resulting erections in check.

SPEAKING TO THE LADY

So, you’ve located a lady to woo, and have approached her without her taking flight. Well done, but that’s only part of the challenge. Next, you have to talk to her. This is tricky, and must be done with great care. A large part of wooing a lady is the initial contact, and if this goes badly, it can be hard to recover.

Ladies expect the Gentleman to initiate a conversation, so when you are within talking distance, introduce yourself by giving a short exclamation on how the day has been, and then give your full name, followed by any titles, qualifications and nationally recognised awards you have. Follow this with your current no-claims bonus on your car insurance, your foot size and finally, your preference of bacon. This may seem needlessly excessive, and it is, but ladies enjoy excess, because excess is two-thirds of success, and that’s what ladies really crave.

The lady may or may not give her name back. It doesn’t matter. However, what you must next do is comment on a feature you find acceptable, features such as her eyes, breasts, hair or tennis elbow. Ladies are shallow beings and a compliment is to them what a nice pair of trousers or good electric powertool is to man. As such, compliments are the lifeblood of wooing, and a gentleman must get used to delivering them with gusto.

Thirdly, you must ask the lady out on a date. This is the deal breaker. If your delivery of your name and your compliments were good enough, she will accept the offer of a date, and you will pick her up at seven accordingly. When asking the lady on a date, you have to specify where you wish the date to take place. Make sure you take her somewhere she will enjoy. Be careful though, as even though your lady enjoys places such as a kitchen, supermarket, bingo hall or Gynaecology Clinic, she will not want to go on a date there! Instead, I suggest going to a fancy restaurant, as a lady gets pleasure from eating, and will thus be amenable to further wooing.

To give you a complete example of how to talk to a lady, I have recorded what I, a master wooer, would say to a lady. I would approach a lady, and say “Isn’t it a Good Day? I am Lord Admiral Sir Charles Geoffrey St. Gloucestershire Cholmondesley-Taylor, O.B.E. I have seven years no-claims bonus, thus proving I am a more than adequate driver. My foot size is12, and my favourite bacon is applewood-smoked thick back slices. Your thighs are very impressive. They have a solid, trunk-like quality about them and you must be able to scoot up a ladder jolly quickly indeed. I’m going to my mother’s house for tea. You are to come and meet her.” If delivered with the aplomb only a master wooer has, this would devastate a lady into next week.

GETTING DRESSED FOR THE DATE

Ladies like a well turned out Gentleman, and you must be no exception. So put away your usual attire - those hotpants, rucksack, bum-bag and well-loved Wham! T-shirt just won’t cut it on a date. What you need to acquire is a suit – any kind of suit, double breasted, zoot, armour, you name it. Ladies go floppy at the knees upon seeing a man in a suit. The material you wish the suit to be in should be an expensive one, like silk, leather or a metal alloy. You will also need a pair of shoes so shiny, you could use them as a shaving mirror. Your clothing must impress your lady as well as be a display of your wealth, strength, and ability to dress yourself. And, of course, nothing impresses a lady like a man with half an iron foundry on him.

PART 2: ON THE DATE

THE FANCY RESTAURANT

Fancy restaurants are intimidating places, but they are a vital part in the wooing process. It is an ideal place to bring your date, and if everything goes swimmingly well, it is a good place to bring your date’s father a few months later, so you can apologise for impregnating his only child. There are many obstacles to overcome in a fancy restaurant, most of which must be negotiated with practice, patience, and guile. This part of the guide will help you through the most common stages, so you emerge the other end with your dignity, your wallet and your wooing intact.

Upon meeting your date, it is advisable to give her a present, something she will find charming and romantic. I suggest flowers, chocolates, a cream for a vaginal yeast infection, or some form of edible underwear, laced with intent.

You date may appear to be either pleased or displeased with your gift, but it doesn’t matter. It is the Thought That Counts, and not the number of toggles and straps on that expensive peephole PVC bra.

GETTING A TABLE:

The first thing to do in a fancy restaurant is get a table. You may not bring your own and put it in the middle of the room, or even in a corner. Getting a table can be achieved by approaching the maitre D and inquiring if he has a table for two. Sometimes you may be required to wait because there are no tables available. Do not panic, storm out, or blame your date. This is fairly common and often, the wait is less than an hour. If you are required to wait, simply take your date over to the bar area and order a drink. Enquire if your date wishes to have a drink, then order her a gin and tonic regardless. Ladies like Gin and Tonics, though often pretend to enjoy other drinks as well. This behaviour is not to be encouraged and it is your duty as a Gentleman to put your foot down.

If you do not have to wait, or if your waiting time is over, the Maitre D will show you to a table. This is your table for the night, but it is only on loan, so you may not take it with you when you leave. At this point, some people recommend you slip the Maitre D some money as a thank-you tip; I find money impersonal, and suggest a full kiss on the lips to be more appropriate. The Matire D will enjoy your more physical thanks a lot more than a handful of crumpled, sweaty dollar bills.

When seated, you may need to make Small Talk until the wine list arrives. Small talk is not as daunting as it sounds: Ask your date how her day has been. Any answer will not be interesting to you in the slightest, but you must appear keen. She will talk about what Jennifer said at the coffee machine at work about Timothy, or what Sebastian said at the tennis club about her serve, or what Rosemary said about racial equality whilst beating her new Puerto Rican servant. Just nod and agree when your date takes a breath. Hopefully, the waiter will soon arrive with the wine list and she will shut up.

ORDERING THE WINE

Ladies enjoy wine almost as much as a Gin and Tonic, and your date will be no exception. Men like yourself are not meant to enjoy wine, but we must pretend to in order to continue wooing a lady. Therefore, when the waiter arrives, take the wine list in a haughty, authoritarian style, and stare at it. Reading the list will not make sense as it is written in a style alien to most men. Nod your head knowingly at perplex terms like ‘full-bodied’, ‘fruity’, ‘earthy’ or ‘jockular’ but do not be alarmed when you see a wine referred to as ‘dry’. This is an impossible paradox and the wine waiter will have put it in to try and panic you. Do not fall for it – instead, after about fifteen seconds of staring, point at a random line, claim you wish to imbibe it and read out the description as if you know exactly what it means. Your date will be impressed.

The wine waiter will return with a glass bottle of wine, and he will pour a little bit into your glass. Swill the wine around, sniff it, and take a mouthful. Do not swallow it, as all taster wines are not meant to be drunk, else no one else can taste it. Instead, spit it out back into your glass, and offer it to your date to try. Don’t be alarmed if she refuses. Ladies always let men pick the wine so as to provide a scape-goat if the wine is not Good.

I know the wine tasted awful – that’s how wine is meant to taste. Even so, you must tell the waiter it is acceptable, and allow him to pour your date a glass. He will only pour half a glass of wine into your date’s glass. This is normal – ladies cannot drink more than half-a-glass of wine at once. If they do, they become giddy and unpredictable. The waiter will then pour you a glass of wine. If he attempts to stop pouring halfway, reprimand him with a raised voice and a two-fingered smack on the nose. You need to prove to your date that you can drink a whole glass of wine. As this proves you to be a virile man, who will be a fine candidate for mating. When the waiter has filled your wine glass to the brim, he will enquire as to whether you are ready to order food.

ORDERING YOUR FOOD

There is only one rule when ordering food at a fancy restaurant – meat, meat, meat! Make sure you order at least three courses of meat. If possible, have three steaks. Your date will be impressed that you can eat so much meat. Do not try and order any food with a foreign language in its name. You will not be able to pronounce it and your failure to do so will lower you in your date’s eyes. Instead, when the waiter enquires what you wish to eat, confidently hand him the menu and say you want meat. He will understand what you mean, and provide you with as much as you need.

Your date will order foods like salads and fish. This is perfectly normal as ladies can survive on such foods. Do not attempt to shove meat down your date’s throat in a misguided attempt to fatten her up in preparation for future pregnancies. This will not go down very well and your date may well end.

Some fancy restaurants offer a round of Sorbets in between each course. If this is the case, politely refuse, telling the waiter that there is no meat in a sorbet.

THE CUTLERY

The cutlery is the hardest obstable to face in any fancy restaurant. You may have up to six knives and six forks in front of you, with a variety of spoons hanging around the edge. When presented with your first course, whatever you do, don’t hesistate over the cutlery! Your daet may well take this as a sign of weakness.

Most of the items of cutlery are decoys placed there to test you. Any sensible Gentleman knows the only cutlery you may possibly need is a large spoon, and this is simply because they look amusing. Fingers will serve you just fine when it comes to eating your food, unless you have foolishly deviated from meat and ordered a soup. If this is the case, simply ask your waiter for a straw, or you can just place your face into the bowl of soup and suck. Ignore the burning sensation. You have already fouled up by ordering soup and you don’t want to lose even more respect, do you?

Put your spoon to one side, and offer the rest of your cutlery to your date. She will be impressed by your generosity. If your waiter replenishes your cutlery at any time, thank him, and when he leaves the table, offer the new set to your date. If she refuses, try giving it out to other diners. A lot of people like cutlery, and you will look generous in the eyes of your Date.

WHEN THE MEAL ARRIVES

With the clever elimination of cutlery, your food will arrive with only a spoon to distract you. You may use the spoon if you wish, but as you have ordered meat, I advise you to just shove your food into your mouth using your hands. And remember, like everything in life, eating in a fancy restaurant is a race. You must finish your meal before your date finishes hers. Don’t be alarmed when you see your date eating her food delicately with a knife and fork – this is a trap designed to make you doubt yourself and slow down. Nothing impresses a lady more than a Gentleman who can fit a twelve-ounce steak into his mouth in one go. If you think your date is catching you up, it is acceptable to distract her by throwing her food across the room. She will have to waste valuable seconds retrieving it and apologising to the other diners.

Periodically, your waiter may approach your table and ask if everything is okay. Common protocol is to have too much food in your mouth to answer coherently, so keep an eye out for any waiter approaching, and make sure you have enough food ready to cram into your mouth. If you are running out, try procuring food from the plate of your date or those of the other diners. They will do the same to you if you give them even half a chance.

If you behave as you should, you will finish your food before your Date. In such a scenario, it is perfectly acceptable to reach over and help yourself to whatever is on her plate. She would be doing the same right now if you hadn’t finished before her. She might put up a bit of a fight. If that is the case, use the ‘look over there, it’s a sale at Bloomingdale’s and it appears there is to be thirty percent of the price of skirts, blouses and undergarmets!’ Your date will be too eager for the chance to buy cut-price clothing to care how much food is filched off of her plate.

FINISHING YOUR MEAL

When your date puts down her knife and fork, the meal is over. You must declare in a hearty, booming voice how lovely it was, even if it tasted like battery acid. Phrases such as ‘that was jolly good,’ or ‘mmmmm’ will suffice. You must also ask your date if she enjoyed the meal, though this knowledge will be of no use to you whatsoever. It is all part of the Fancy Restaurant Dating Etiquette.

You are now expected to pay for the meal. This is tricky because, like all respectable Gentlemen, you will not have a job and therefore, you have no money. Ergo, when the waiter arrives with the bill, simply direct him towards your date, and she will have to pay. She will be angry, but this anger will be directed at herself because she didn’t think to direct the waiter towards you first. If your date continues to show anger, simply remove your napkin from your collar, place it delicately on the table, lean forwards and reprimand her with a firm, raised voice and a two fingered smack on the nose.

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And that’s it! Your date is over, your lady has been wooed. After a date, you are not expected to ever see the Lady again, which is a good thing because any attempt to do so will often result in a slap to the face or neck. However, wooing ladies is all part of being a modern Gentleman, and you must continue to woo as many different ladies as possible. Ergo, you must stick to this simple guide, and hone your wooing skills and soon, you shall soon be a master wooer like myself and eventually, you will become a Gentleman other Gentlemen aspire to be! Good luck!

--

*This term dates from the German duchy of Hanover. It was first recorded in 1864 when the then ruler, Duke Earnest Augustus, a long time fan of meat, asked all the city’s butchers to display their wares at the first annual Fleischfeier, or Meat Festival, where he himself had intended to judge the finest meats. However when the festival started, the butchers, all big, bearded, very German men, noticed to their consternation that they had all bought sausages to show the Duke. When Duke Augustus arrived, he was heard to howl with delight. “Fleischfeier?” the Duke boomed, “More like a Wurstfeier! It’s a good thing I like sausages and enjoy putting them in my mouth, and am secure enough in my sexuality to make such a comment. Now, I’m going to go and hug my wife!**” Thus the name Wurstfeier, or Sausage Fest, stuck as a term used when a large group of men are together without female company, and are thus free to discuss meat products without fear of reprisal.

**Of course, Earnest Augustus was an enormous mincer, and instead of wife, he means another man. And instead of hug, he means go boating on the royal lake.

Using your telephone correctly

2007-01-14T13:14:00.000Z

Hello Johnson.

Can you telephone call Miss James using the telephone please? If you have never used a telephone, here's what you do - pick up the handset, or receiver, and place one end to your ear. You should hear a low buzz. Then swing your face towards the concentric numbered buttons (you will see them numbered 1-0.with one in the top left, and 0 at the bottom). You need to mash your face into the buttons the same amount of times as there are letters in Miss James' name, so that's fifty nine face mashes. It'll hurt a bit, but don't worry. This is entirely natural.

When you finish mashing, you will hear a ringing tone (provided you still have the handset pressed up against your ear - if you have dropped the handset to facilitate face mashing, pick it back up and replace it against either lobe). The ringing may continue for an indeterminable amount of time, as it traverses through a semi-cut wormhole spliced through the medium of space matter, scouring the edges of the chaos void that exists in the multiverse separating both you and Miss James. There is no telling how long it may take the telephone call to make this journey, but whilst the journey is being made, you yourself, as the source of the call, will slip outside of time, so even though it may seem like the ringing has carried on for three or four months, it will, in reality, in our reality, have only been a few seconds.

After the call is made, the telephocommunication unit placed on Miss James' desk will emit a high pitched ring. This means that something has gone horribly amiss during the telephone calls epic journey through the multiverse, and the phone on Mis James' desk is likely to explode. Miss James will thus try and evacuate her desk and her office, for fear that the telephone call, whilst making it's journey, ahas picked up a 'hanger on', a kind of unwanted hitchhiking transdimensional horror, much like the one seen in Buffy The Vampire Slayer season 6 episode 3, when Buffy, newly reincarnated and returned from a heavenly plane, picks up a demonic hitchhiker on her way back, and unleashes it on the somehow still blissfully unaware town of Sunnydale. But don't worry, Buffy dealt with it. admirably.

So, I hope this helps! In no time at all, you will be a Telephone Master, and you will be able to make upwards of three calls a week, and you won't have to wear your protective headgear and biohazardous suit any more!

Congratuations, Cockwallader Merryweather Submersible Cholmondesley-Talyor Daddy-O Grooverider Johnson. You can now call yourself a woman.

Leclerq Reviews: Sam Taylor Wood - Exhibition at the Baltic

2007-01-01T15:08:00.000Z

Good day my friends.

Today I review the powerful work of burgeoning artist/photographer Sam Taylor-Wood, a woman with art in her mind and thankless fans drinking her every word like the blood of Trevor Nelson at her feet. Sam Taylor-Wood has presented a selection of photographs at nouveau art-house The Baltic Mill and her season runs from 17th May until 3rd September.

Sam Taylor-Wood, who but yesterday informed me she insists on the name 'Mistress Overgrown' during all formal interviews, whilst we sipped Campari and Gin over Ice at Brian Sewell's house with Ivorian street-singer and wall builder Gilles Yapi Yapo, claims the photographs and moving art tore her soul like a mother tears the paper of a bastardised child's school report - full of callousness and hate, but with a mixture of happy inside. I did not believe her.

Taylor-Wood insists on a blasé approach to her synthi-photographicalistic imagery. Her whims take her like a small child takes a jam-tart from her mother's fresh-smelling baketray at seven every summer's morning. Her faults lie in not pinning down an idea, but instead, she places her brain at our mercy, fingering it like some devilish putty, shaping it to our ideas of hatred, compassion, honesty and lies. Her work screams of maturity left at the bottom of the garden whilst she treats her three headless dogs to a spot of lunch on a hill in Surrey. If I were to liken her work to one of the nineteenth century impressionists, I would most certainly do so to Constable, whose skills with the lithograph are not easily forgotten unless one has too much sherry. Both Constable's and Taylor-Wood's work give the impression of each artist facing east whilst the wind drives northwards. Both speak of unspeakable teachings in a wild world inhabited only by the nightmarish fantastical beings we all see deep in our nighttime slumber. Both artists display enormous balls. Or Taylor-Wood would do, if she had but the fortune to be born with a set.

The show itself is of a nautical theme, but with humourous overtones of a political nature, but without the politics. When I viewed it, a woman was heard to remark about the lack of boats, but was shushed into relative silence by a brute of a Mexican, whom I felt was there for the chance to wear his traditional sombrero without seeming foolish. It did not work for foolishness was on his face when all asked where the boats are. Of course, I spoke up and claimed that Taylor-Wood had meant the exhibition to be entirely metaphysical, that the photographs and cinematography were completed entirely by another artist, one Gerald Hughes of Bootle, near Liverpool, thus highlighting, Taylor-Wood claimed, the power of suggestion over the infinite practicality of the subtle cynicisms of the human psyche. All silenced after my proclamation and I breathed deeply, tasting the air of mystery, confusion and the hint of unwashed hoi-palloi in the air.

The artist, despite our acquaintance on the art circuit of London, Harrow, Eton and Swindon has refused to have her work shown here, so I shall instead show the true meaning and behind a selection of her work.

Photograph one: Self Portrait Suspended IV, 2004

In this photograph, Taylor-Wood shows herself levitating magically above the sparse wooden floor of a drug-den in London. I feel this was not meant as a release from the human form, but a statement against the corporalisation of Asia, and the desperation felt by the inhabitants of entire towns eaten up after the pursuit of money. I am sure you can see why, my depiction of this image is as man in a beret.

Photograph two: Self Portrait Suspended V, 2004

This photograph was pretty much exactly the same as photograph one, and, to be honest, I felt somewhat ripped off. As such, my interpretation remains exactly the same:

Photograph three: Bram Stoker's Chair VI, 2005

Taylor-Wood's third piece tore into me like a sword brandished by a man in league with Danny Glover. The shocking yet gentle image filled my head with the impossible infinity that art offers. I felt I was looking through a mirror into the centre of the world, where tunnels flocked into the head of every citizen of Oman and Papua New Guinea. I heard their life through a synthetic symphony played by a one handed George Formby wielding a Xylophone with the Middle 'C' missing. This photo gave me a reason to live until tomorrow, which is why I feel I can only interpret it as a man with a beret on.

Photograph four: Prelude in Air, 2005

A childish image of nausea, Cardiff city docks and homoeroticism balanced on a shonky chair. This is the height of Taylor-Wood's almost adolescent cry of wanting to be simultaneously ignored yet noticed across all of society, save, as is clearly obvious, the Quakers. I felt her childlike innocent reverberating off of an invisible air shield set up by a bucketfull of evil. With such feelings swirling around the photograph like a lavatory flushed on the equator, I feel the only fair way to interpret the photograph is as follows.

Photograph five: The Last Century, 2005

As these denizens of the past quaff their barbaric ales and meads, the chirpy smile of the right hand figure cuts a vicious contrast to the almost Gallic nonchalance of the bearded one, a clear comparison to biblical author Ian Fleming's alter ego, James Bond. The disparaging glances of the background cast merely advance this fact. My interpretation of this piece cuts through the quibble and pierces the heart of the matter like a art-fuelled dart fired straight from a cannon made from half-filled paint tins.

Photograph six: Still Life, 2001

This is a picture of fruit. I have farted out better photographs than this. I can only interpret this as one thing.

And there we have it. Art has been on display here, and analysed like the dead at a crime scene. Taylor-Wood fought the good fight, with a rapier made from angst and a shield from the sheet music for Lionel Richie's "Hello". She fought against a wall of oppression and inebriation the like of which has not been seen since the signing of the Magna Carta. Art took on art and I feel the real winner was us, the meagre peasants supping at the breasts of culture. I have been Romain Leclerq, you have been barely worthy of my presence. Another day of art ends - let us hope tomorrow will occur much like today, with time running in the correct direction and not disappearing chastise my father like it did yesterday. Gentlemen and women, I bid you farewell.

Romain Leclerq Discusses: The 2006 Turner Prize Nominees

2006-12-19T12:15:00.000Z

Good morrow, dear comrades.

It is I, Romain Leclerq, and the time has come again. The date is 16th May 2006 and the saucer it sits upon is the Turner Prize, which is to Art as a sailor is to a shanty. I, your omnipresent portal into the shadowy world of art, shall take you firmly by the balls and lead you as a man leads a wife, through the ever-present pitfalls of artistry. I shall allow the seminal works by these great artists to fill your mind until it tips over and you must leave, leaking art from every orifice. You may well be bested by Art, yet you may still collar the beast for a moment, and allow it to masturbate culture down your throat like a thirteen year old schoolboy left alone in a house with the Playboy channel.

2006 sees the reunion of Art with life and life with Cheltenham. Four gladiators of the palette wield paintbrushes of destiny as they battle with closed eyes and beaten hearts. I shall reveal them all to you, dear readers, and their genius shall be put onto a place, covered with Clingfilm, microwaved for five minutes and served with a side salad and glass of Chablis for you to consume as you wish.

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1) Tomma Abts

Tomma Abts, dropped into this world by a passing miracle, though conversely by the cruellest mix of fate, landed in Hamburg, is at the front-running of a new sect of visual Artists, and is the first Ultra-Falsetto-Povoco-Grosse artist to leave the ghettos of Warsaw and seek meaning and truancy in the school of life. Her artwork sings to your soul, but the chords it sings are minor in key, and so low as to cause involuntary weeping amongst the very young or foolish. It cannot hurt you, yet it pulls at your heart strings like two members of a cataclysmic Olympic relay team pull at the baton, each certain the other holds the weight, each full of goodwill but inevitably the baton ends dropped, and a nations dreams lay shattered on the floor. Abts work leaves you exhausted, and barely able to continue on yet continue on we must, and we pray that we might find solace, as one finds a Little Chef, at the ext petrol station of existence.

----------------

2) Mark Titchner

Titcher has risen from the long dead carcass of his art career. He was written off by most; indeed, I disregarded him like I disregarded a beret covered in ice cream and magnets. His work revolved around a little known school of Art, one based in the Irish town of Cork, and one deploying the mediums of glass, light, fur and Mary J. Blige. Titchner stuck to the school of Glassica, even though his deputies left him one by one and eventually the school collapsed under the weight of arrogance. But Titcher is back, with a developed style. We don't see his clever use of glass anymore, instead, he has replaced with translucent plastics - a move so uncannily French, so amusingly retreative that it has turned the Art world upside-down like a salt shaker with us cowering inside, and now he is ready to liberally deposit us all over his Saveloy and Strawberry jam Scones, which nestle between his teats the same was as a mother keeps her remorseless lies ready to be delivered to the ever-willing ears of a child. And we must sup on his teats, and the milk that emits from them is warming and full of hope and sunshine. Titchner has swallowed our optimistic cares whole and has farted them back out into the world in a selection of iced Art biscuits. We take them and dunk them into the tea of wonderment and bedazzlement until their structure is waterlogged with the limitless possibilities of Art.

----------------

3) Rebecca Warren

Sprouting brilliance amongst murky enthusiasm is the sculpting of Rebecca Warren. Rebecca Warren is an enigma, a code, a puzzle created by a ten year old idiot savant fed on a diet of pills and Hulk Hogan. Warren's sculpting is softer than a rock covered in foam stapled to the skin of a boy washed with fairy liquid, yet it exudes a hardness the like of which has not been seen in recent years. The hardness of a life spent grovelling for change in the wretched streets of Bedford. One can only gape at the sights Warren saw there, and how those sights must have been absorbed into her, and thus manifest into her craggy visage and craggier artwork. Warren is a fighter, a lover, a warrior, a miner, a mother and father. Warren is all of these things, yet there remains space in her crowded soul for love and life to flow forth, though it is tempered by a fiery rage, which expands like a rapidly growing Afro. Warren is the favourite for the prize, the favourite to clasp the sweaty cup of Turner, the favourite to quaff from its magnificence and turn the waste into art.

----------------

4) Phil Collins

The barefaced cheek of Phil Collins is felt like a rectal half bared to the biting wind of an arctic gale. Collins, former drummer, former pop idol, former state of wretchedness paraded around the western world, former Bob Hoskins look-alike has blown forth into this alternate universe of shapes, colours, sounds and STDs like a cheap hooker stalling for time. Collins has provided the art world with an injection of wit and idiocy. Collins artistry, drawn childishly onto the backs of passing cars, outlined with gold and tossed into the air like confetti at the wedding of a dominatrix has shocked us all and continues to shock even in this flaccid age of apathy and ingenuity. His broad use of Art is appealing to the masses, yet it has a slightly contagious illness, and that illness has spread like head lice in a crowded school playing field. It is a shocking repost to what we believe in, and a hidden promise of endless dreams for what we don't. It offers us a future, a future filled to the brim with orange juice and fake bacon pieces, but it is a future only for those brave enough to take the step over the precipice. It is a bold faced insult to cowardice, but cower we must, for who are we to challenge the future and leave it panting like a dog who has seen his master run away with the remainder of the Pedigree Chum? Who indeed.

----------------

And there we are my friends, the four horsemen of the artpocalypse. The famed, fated four who shall battle with drawn swords and faces, coloured in by a psychotic minstrel who flourishes the Crayolas of death and warfare. The four above, these banner men, these avatars for culture must battle the minstrel until but one is left, and the one left standing will hold the trophy in their eager hands. The medal. The grail. The Turner Prize. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been inspiring. I have been Romain Leclerq and I have deposited art into your soulless bodies like a dog deposits the clinging earth onto his bone. You have been buried in art. You are lucky. Good afternoon.

Romain Leclerq: The 2005 Turner Prize Review

2006-12-10T12:05:00.000Z

This discussion of the three finalists for the Turner Prize was originally published in October 2005. It appeared in the esteemed News Skim and an abridged version was published in the Quarterly Art Review journal, "Art".

-----------------------------------

Hallo. I am Romain Leclerq and you join me as the world teeters over a vast, swathing sea of controversy. The art world is about to be turned on it's head, the eyebrows will arch like an Olympic polevaultist and that omnipresent question "what the fuck is that?" will be asked of the art world yet again. Yes, dear friends, for the Turner Prize has crept up behind us and is poised to pounce, like the voracious tiger of the African prairie, full of surprise, strange beauty and sharp pointy teeth.

The Turner is now down to three finalists, three works of art created by three human beings, all charging towards the prize like an out of control car powered by smugness and talent:

------------------------------------

1. "Le Dossier, La Douche Et La Petite Cadeau Pour La Grand Cadeau" (The folder, the shower and the little present for the big present)

by Alain Merlot

Firstly, I would like to present unto the world, my award-winning fellow Frenchman, Alain Merlot, that most gifted and enigmatic of the latest posse of Nouveau-Pastiche-Amaretto-Faux artists to emerge from the sun-drenched port of Marseilles.

Tortured soul, lost eyes and runny faeces, all wrapped up in a conundrum contained within a decoy, shelled into a corner by a joke and then patted on the head by a whimsy. Alain Merlot has truly asked the biggest of questions with this scintillating, provoking piece. Here, by the exact placement of the fez within the pram, Alain asks us, the sausage-eating and cravat-wearing public, 'Where do I come from?' But the question is twisted, returned and fired out twice as hard by the garish leopard skin print of the fez. And as we reel from this double blow, a third thought empties upon us like an enema from the heavens. "Where do I go from here that isn't a week last Tuesday?" And lest we forget, all decisions made are watched, hawk-like, by the rabbit, crouched like a water closet filled with dark matter, beneath this most fearsome of prams. And the answer to these dark, mirthful questions? It is nowhere and everywhere. Yes, a truly awesome stroke of genius by Merlot. A favourite, a mistress, a persona grata.

2. "Quack"

by Boris Odessa.

"The second piece, a flaming retort against everything you and I stand for, is by Boris Odessa, a ground breaking and wall shattering Left Wrong Flopsie artist from Tbilisi.

The harsh lines, the stark white, the glint of gold, the promise of pleasure mixed with pain, the time has emerged and it has been placed in a box in the corner and forgotten about. The callous laugh, the muted sigh, the wretched fervour of the defrocked priest. What more can one painting offer? The imagination shrinks at the possibilities offered by this piece by professional pie-eater Odessa. This piece reeks of the filth Odessa saw on the streets of Tbilisi as a small boy lost in a sea of men. Was it a past glory, or long forgotten shame that subconsciously guided Odessa's skilled hand across the flappy contours of the canvas? Who knows? Who cares? I for one do not. I just want to admire and weep.

3. "Granny's Seven Inch Long Wish List"

by Angus McLeod.

"The third piece has swung forth from obscurity like a ham thrown to an indifferent spaniel by the burly and manly brawn of Scotsman Angus McLeod.

Haunted? Hunted? Hounded? None of these fit, yet the mind is pulled towards their beguiling charms. This is the eternal war, of muscle squaring off against intelligence, on a table-tennis table of gloom and warmongering. Will the grizzly visage of Eddy Guerrero, former WWE World Cruiserweight Champion and Latino Heat Hero defeat the coldly Socialist visage of Karl Marx? What could be more perfect than the eternal and damning struggle between these two colossusi? These stalwart defenders of two completely different though eerily similar pillars of life? Look at the intensity of the struggle, the slight tilt and determination of Eddy as his eyes turn away from the icy stare of a long dead proto-communist. Does Eddy fear death? Fear life? Fear a life under the power of a Workingman's Union? McLeod brilliantly sums this feeling of heart-rending terror and mutual man love up with room to spare for tea and scones and a nice pot of gin. This, Gentleladies and Men is the past, the future and the present, rolled up into one, and if you are brave enough to look deeper, you might catch a glimpse into every man's soul. A wonderful moment of clarity, spoiled by the capricious saucer of inevitability. Tremendous.

------------------------------------

And those are the three musketeers of modern art, swashbuckling to the death with the Turner as their spoils. But that was then, this is now, tomorrow has been wearing a coat since Sunday and next week has leapt into my mother's bed and taken all the sheets. I have been Romain Leclerq, you have been amazed, our minds have been opened and Art has filled them like cannons firing wafers into the moon. Good day.

IRA No Longer Armed, Armed IRA Member Claims

2006-11-01T23:37:00.000Z

DUP leader Ian Paisley has blasted recent reports from the terrorist organisation, the Irish Republican Army (IRA) which claim that they have 'completely disarmed' and that there 'are no guns here at all, nope, not a sausage. Just novelty cigarette lighters'.

The IRA's novelty cigarette lighter range.

The IRA were ordered to decommission last September and hand all weaponry into specialist centres, and the Independent Monitoring Commission (IMC), a neutral body investigating Mr. Paisley's claims, have discounted his suspicions, saying that their study revealed that whilst an uncommon amount of men have been wearing balaclavas and holding objects which were 'a little gun-shaped', they couldn't have been IRA terrorists. When asked how they can be certain if these men weren't members of the IRA, General de Chastelain, head of the IMC claimed that the majority of men were 'drunk and fighting and rowdy and who's ever seen Irishmen behave like that?'

The IMC couldn't link the evidence.

Skim confronted alleged IRA member and Riverdance performer Michael Flatley about Ian Paisley's claims. 'Guns, you say? Oh no, nothing like that here. Perhaps it was a typo? We do have a small herd of Gnus by Kilkenny, but that's it I'm afraid'. Skim then presented Michael Flatley with a list of suspected weaponry under control of the IRA. 'No, these aren't weapons. They're nicknames! Yes, nicknames our members have given their penises. Irishmen name their genitalia after weaponry all the time. See, Connor Colin Collins named his '43 automatic pistols', Seamus Flagarty 'sixty high powered assault rifles'. It's all quite innocent - just a bit of banter going on between friends, though I can see why there might be some confusion!'' Added Flatley; 'I've named mine my 26lbs of semtex!'

Paddy o'Mothersborn's anti-tank penis.

Skim visited an IRA defect Damian Riley, to see if he could shed further light on this matter. For the interest of security and to protect Damian's secrecy, in the following interview all fonts have been changed.

'This seems to be most irregular. I mean, in my day, it was common practice to name your penis after prominent African-Americans. I called mine James Brown. Richard McIlkenny, one of the Birmingham Six called his Tina Turner, though during his time in prison, I believe he renamed it Kareem Abdul-Jabaar, for fear of bullying. He changed it back when he was released. I guess the IRA might have changed their policies recently.'

Skim then questioned Damian about the possible links between Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams and the suspected breaking of the disarmament policy of September 2005.

'Well, some lads always thought Gerry was great, especially when he named his penis Rosa Parks. Some of us though, thought he might be leading us down the wrong path. Our feelings increased when he renamed his penis 'The Underground Railway'. We thought that was too much.'

The inspiration for Damian Riley's penis.

Gerry Adams, leader of the legitimate political party 'Sinn Fein' called for an end to the bickering over IRA arms. 'Let's stop arguing about who's shooting who and who's waving what sub-machine gun around on Belfast streets under who's nose' Adams stated at a press conference. 'Because, at the end of the day, guns don't kill people, Catholics and the oppression of British rule in Northern Ireland do'.

One of Gerry Adams' assistants then leaned across and whispered into his ear. Adams was heard to mumble "but it's called 'I Have A Dream'" before turning back to the podium and announcing 'and my penis is called 'Suspected Secret Stashes Of Weaponry Across The Western Border Of Northern Ireland'".

We Didn't See Any Giant Space Otters, Chinese Astronauts Claim

2006-11-01T23:35:00.000Z

Two chinese astronauts returned safely to earth, after a five day space adventure, in which absolutely nothing exciting happened.

Astronauts Fei Junlong and Nie Haisheng came back from a five-day flight exhausted, happy, yet slightly let down that nothing memorable happened on their journey. The Chinese press gathered excitedly around the Mongolian landing sight, and peppered the astronauts with questions about the seven-limbed space goddesses that they didn't see.

Fei Junlong seated in the unexciting cockpit of the Chinese Spacecraft Shenzhou VI. Not pictured: Absolutely nothing of interest.

Soon after the astronauts touched down, Tang Xianming, director of China's Space Agency, called a press conference. "Everything went okay. Nothing went wrong. No computer went awry, no fuel leaked, no programmer left out a decimal point. There were no explosions, there was no risk, nor was there any excitement as the spacecraft re-entered the earth's atmosphere".

At this point, Nie Haisheng leant towards the microphones. The world's press held their breath. "Actually", Haisheng said, "the Spacecraft was a little bumpy on re-entry, but after a quick check of the instruments, it turned out that everything was fine. I think this is normal". When asked if it was true that he and Fei Junlong definitely did not see any Flaming Astro-Donkeys, Haisheng shrugged and replied "I didn't see any. But then again, I spent most of the five days imagining how exciting this could have been".

China's top legislator Wu Bangguo, who watched the return of Shenzhou VI from the Beijing Aerospace Command and Control Centre, said "I didn't see much. I fell asleep when I realised that there was not a lot going on. I did have a good dream though, about a small child with celery for arms who gave me advice about my marriage".

Staff at the Beijing Aerospace Command and Control Centre spent much of the mission finding ways of amusing themselves.

When quizzed why the space mission was totally unremarkable, Bangguo replied "the problem, I think, is that space is rather big, and as such, nothing much happens there. I think we would have done better if we had just stayed at home and pretended".

Space. Big and empty.

Moss Mashed At Mandela Mansion?

2006-11-01T23:33:00.000Z

The modeling world was rocked once again by allegations that supermodel Kate Moss was high as a kite* on a lethal cocktail of cocaine, smack, creme de menthe and Angel Delight during a 1998 party at the home of Former South-African President Nelson Mandela. Moss, when confronted about the allegations, denies she was mashed off her tits when she met the then-South African Premier.

“I wasn’t oven-baked,” Moss said at a press conference. “It was a long flight to South Africa, and I was tired. There’s no way I’d have taken some of the finest Colombian white snow to give myself the wallop needed to get through that party. And it wasn't even a real party. There weren't balloons, cake or any party hats. And anyway, if I needed a boost I’d have just gotten some coffee. And snorted it.”

Added Moss, “besides, we all thought we needed something to help us through that party. I mean, I didn’t even see Nelson there. Either of them.”

Kate, also known by her ‘drug-name’ of Medicinal Moss, has long had a very public battle with drugs which most felt was over when she finally snorted so much coke her ears exploded, her left arm became her right and her nose slipped down the front of her face and ended up by her navel.

Cocaine, a Class-A drug, has a variety of street names, such as Charlie, Gigglepowder, The Admiral's Daughter, Lively Dynamite and James Nesbit's Effervescent Nose Slicer. Cocaine gets its name from its ingredients, which include Chocolate, Tear Gas, Indian food and script music from Andrew Lloyd Webber Musicals. It's street-level price range from not much to quite a lot, depending on the quality of the musical.

Sources close to Ms. Moss claim that she may have used some kind of drug before the party, because she was hopelessly, hopelessly addicted to all kinds of chemical substances. Gavin Maselle, model booker and drug-buddy of Moss says, “yeah, she needed the drugs because she was hooked. That’s what drugs can do. Hook you. I reckon that’s because they’re addictive or something. And if you’re not careful, before long, you’re totally skint and on a deserted harbour in Weymouth, bent over a barrel with a six-foot high, twenty stone bald man calling himself ‘The Fagentaor’ behind you wielding a snooker cue and aiming for the brown. But, in Kate’s case, she just went for Pete Doherty. Probably a worse choice, but there you are."

*allegedly.
with thanks to Robotman for help with a photoshop

Political Cartoon - 06/02/2006

2006-11-01T23:32:00.000Z

With thanks to Daimon67 for finding the original

Fashion Skim: The London Fashion Week

2006-11-01T23:31:00.000Z

Good evening, fashion fans! You join me, Romain Leclerq, after the excitement of London Fashion Week 2006! What's "In" for this year? Listen up and soon you'll be the Mayor of Fashiontown!

Cloaks: IN

A smashing cloak.

Cloaks, favoured almost exclusively by goths and wizards, went out of fashion after King Edward VII spotted a palace functionary wearing a cloak in Buckingham Palace gardens during the bitter winter of 1905, and guffawed that the functionary 'looked like a total arse' and that 'no real man' would 'ever' wear a 'cloak' against the 'cold' because 'you look like an arse' in a cloak. Ironically, that winter, King Edward VII contracted hypothermia, a condition the royal Doctor, Lord Peter Cholmondesley-Haughstone, claimed would have been avoided 'had the Monarch donned a fetching cloak'.

This year, however, should see the cloak making a sterling comeback.

Socks: OUT

Socks. Not unlike those your grandmother might buy you.

Socks, unspurprisingly, remain well and truly OUT in 2006, as thay have done for the greater part of fifty years. Socks, the most hated of all undergarments, remain rooted in the public mind, forever blighted with the ignoble stigma of causing an unpleasant odour when a piece of sweaty footwear is removed. Especially when removed in the house of a lady. That lady will not be impressed with the loathesome sock, and many top fashion designers advise that the chances of sex will be greatly improved if the sock is totally ignored and a substitute is employed instead, such as the sleeve of a jumper, a very small pair of trousers ripped in twaine, or maybe you could even jam your feet into two willing and able bunny rabbits - which has the added 'cute' factor that is all the rage!

Comedy socks, of all shapes and sizes, are also OUT in 2006. And will forever remain so, if I have my way.

Jockstraps: OUT

A man in a revealing jockstrap.

Jockstraps swung back and forth, but I can suggest that they are pretty much OUT in 2006, except in suitable company, such as a company exclusively consisting of men with questionable bathtime habits after a sporting contest.

Trousers: IN

A woman in trousers! Now I've seen everything!

Trousers, trousers, trousers. When aren't they ever so IN that they're practically copulating? We all remember the crazy days of the nineteen eighties when legwarmers and embarrasingly short shorts made a break for stardom, but ultimately, the sensible trouser ruled supreme. Notable trouser wearers over the last century have included, but are not limited to, Hollywood Star Steven Seagal, Four Minute Mile Man Roger Bannister, German Overlord Kaiser Wilhelm II, and Famed Director Alfred Hitchcock. Yes, trousers are here to stay.

'Kerchief in the top pocket: OUT

Sophisticated, yet deadly.

The 'kerchief was always traditionally the final ingredient any young cad heading about town would add to his splendid attire. The 'kerchief says 'Hey! I'm a man-about-town! A bounder! A knave! And absolute rotter! And I know all the best joints in this city, and, what's more, I'm probably some toff who's about to slum with a prostitute and die horribly of syphillis thirty years later!' Yes, they might look handsome and sophisticated, but the wearer is more likely to head off and roger your daughter than participate in any stimulating chat involving stockbroking and the Racing Post.

Murder Legalised In The UK?

2006-11-01T23:29:00.000Z

No. But British Laws are in upheaval as leaders debate modernizing the justice system. The old system of laws, which had been in place since the seventeenth century, had been criticized for being archaic and out-of-place. Currently one can suffer the death penalty or worse for any number of crimes, including impersonating a Chelsea Pensioner, fondling ducks in Regent’s Park and gruesomely murdering prostitutes.

It has been deemed the Justice system’s method for grading and punishing murder are due an overhaul, as punishments under the old model are many and varied:

Hanged by the neck until dead - if the victim was a wealthy landowner.
Hanged by the neck until annoyed - if the victim was a pleb.
Fennocked and Glossopped - whereby the guilty party’s hands would be cut off and then he would be sent to join a disciplined Tennis school – if the murder victim was a small boy under seven years of age and not over five stone in weight or an old lady with seven or more woollen hats.
Scroped - whereby the guilty party is buried up to the head in sand and is forced to watch the RSC’s critically slated performance of Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’, which was ‘flaccid, uninspiring, overlong and wracked with errors’ – if the murder victim was related to King Charles I, King Charles II or their hunting dogs.
Pithyman Hamothsmeared – whereby the guilty party’s mother is told and sent to deal with him – if the murder victim was called William and enjoyed playing with ducks as a child.
Spoondecked – whereby the guilty party would be made to go up to Henry ‘Skullsmasher’ McTaverty,the pre-eminent bareknuckled boxer of England, and call him a ‘lowly swine, fit nought for the use of a wimmin’s blouse’ – if the murder victim was devoid of at least three of his five senses or had all his Grandparents still alive.
Fletching The Scrutter – whereby the guilty party’s thumbs are nailed to his thighs and his feet are forced into buckets and several small children surround him, raining punches and kicks down on his helpless frame – if the murder victim pulls through and lives a long and happy life.

Though some of the old punishments have fallen into disuse, many still continue, the last being deployed when Rhys Ewan Evan Effans from Wales was Peggeted in 2003 for the accidental death of a Scottish widow called Susan, whom he backed over in the west side of Arbroath in a Red Triumph Spitfire.

“When Mr Effans reversed over Susan, the laws dictated that he be Peggeted for his crime,” said Superintendant Jim Organs of the Highland Police. “But there's no question the laws should be updated. I remember the chaos in 1992, when Mr. James was given the punishment of Flaying The Spulgen for his murder of a twelve year old asthmatic girl with a birthmark in the shape of a decahedron on her left shin. It turned out later that as the birthmark was on the shin, he should have been subjected to a series of Ruttocked Mervins. It was hell of a job sorting that out, not least because after his Ruttocking, Mr. James was unable to even attempt Flaying the Spulgen.”

Art Skim: Turner Prize Finalists

2006-11-01T23:27:00.001Z

Hallo. I am Romain Leclerq and you join me as the world teeters over a vast, swathing sea of controversy. The art world is about to be turned on it's head, the eyebrows will arch like an Olympic polevaultist and that omnipresent question "what the fuck is that?" will be asked of the art world yet again. Yes, dear friends, for the Turner Prize has crept up behind us and is poised to pounce, like the voracious tiger of the African prairie, full of surprise, strange beauty and sharp pointy teeth.

The Turner is now down to three finalists, three works of art created by three human beings, all charging towards the prize like an out of control car powered by smugness and talent:

------------------------------------

1. "Le Dossier, La Douche Et La Petite Cadeau Pour La Grand Cadeau" (The folder, the shower and the little present for the big present)
by Alain Merlot

Firstly, I would like to present unto the world, my award-winning fellow Frenchman, Alain Merlot, that most gifted and enigmatic of the latest posse of Nouveau-Pastiche-Amaretto-Faux artists to emerge from the sun-drenched port of Marseilles.

Tortured soul, lost eyes and runny faeces, all wrapped up in a conundrum contained within a decoy, shelled into a corner by a joke and then patted on the head by a whimsy. Alain Merlot has truly asked the biggest of questions with this scintillating, provoking piece. Here, by the exact placement of the fez within the pram, Alain asks us, the sausage-eating and cravat-wearing public, 'Where do I come from?' But the question is twisted, returned and fired out twice as hard by the garish leopard skin print of the fez. And as we reel from this double blow, a third thought empties upon us like an enema from the heavens. "Where do I go from here that isn't a week last Tuesday?" And lest we forget, all decisions made are watched, hawk-like, by the rabbit, crouched like a water closet filled with dark matter, beneath this most fearsome of prams. And the answer to these dark, mirthful questions? It is nowhere and everywhere. Yes, a truly awesome stroke of genius by Merlot. A favourite, a mistress, a persona grata.

2. "Quack"
by Boris Odessa.

"The second piece, a flaming retort against everything you and I stand for, is by Boris Odessa, a ground breaking and wall shattering Left Wrong Flopsie artist from Tbilisi.

The harsh lines, the stark white, the glint of gold, the promise of pleasure mixed with pain, the time has emerged and it has been placed in a box in the corner and forgotten about. The callous laugh, the muted sigh, the wretched fervour of the defrocked priest. What more can one painting offer? The imagination shrinks at the possibilities offered by this piece by professional pie-eater Odessa. This piece reeks of the filth Odessa saw on the streets of Tbilisi as a small boy lost in a sea of men. Was it a past glory, or long forgotten shame that subconsciously guided Odessa's skilled hand across the flappy contours of the canvas? Who knows? Who cares? I for one do not. I just want to admire and weep.

3. "Granny's Seven Inch Long Wish List"
by Angus McLeod.

"The third piece has swung forth from obscurity like a ham thrown to an indifferent spaniel by the burly and manly brawn of Scotsman Angus McLeod.

Haunted? Hunted? Hounded? None of these fit, yet the mind is pulled towards their beguiling charms. This is the eternal war, of muscle squaring off against intelligence, on a table-tennis table of gloom and warmongering. Will the grizzly visage of Eddy Guerrero, former WWE World Cruiserweight Champion and Latino Heat Hero defeat the coldly Socialist visage of Karl Marx? What could be more perfect than the eternal and damning struggle between these two colossusi? These stalwart defenders of two completely different though eerily similar pillars of life? Look at the intensity of the struggle, the slight tilt and determination of Eddy as his eyes turn away from the icy stare of a long dead proto-communist. Does Eddy fear death? Fear life? Fear a life under the power of a Workingman's Union? McLeod brilliantly sums this feeling of heart-rending terror and mutual man love up with room to spare for tea and scones and a nice pot of gin. This, Gentleladies and Men is the past, the future and the present, rolled up into one, and if you are brave enough to look deeper, you might catch a glimpse into every man's soul. A wonderful moment of clarity, spoiled by the capricious saucer of inevitability. Tremendous.

------------------------------------

And those are the three musketeers of modern art, swashbuckling to the death with the Turner as their spoils. But that was then, this is now, tomorrow has been wearing a coat since Sunday and next week has leapt into my mother's bed and taken all the sheets. I have been Romain Leclerq, you have been amazed, our minds have been opened and Art has filled them like cannons firing wafers into the moon. Good day.

Face/Off

2006-11-01T23:27:00.000Z

French surgeons have successfully completed the first face transplant operation, attaching the face of legendary actor James Earl Jones' onto the front of a small French girl's head. Small French girl Marianne Cadeau, 7, is reputably delighted with her new ruggledly handsome, late middle aged, black face. "I feel it's every girl's dream", she enthused. "What seven-year-old girl wouldn't like to have the face of the man who played Johnny Williams in 1976's 'The River Niger' attached to her?"

Before

After

More than 13,000 patients are on the waiting list for a James Earl Jones face and doctors say up to 12,999 of them won't get one. Cadeau was chosen for the operation because of all of those who suffer from not having James Earl Jones' face, she didn't have it the most.

"The grafting of the face of '70's Blaxploitation star James Earl Jones onto a French girl was a complex process," says French surgeon Pierre Perrier. "We thought that such groundbreaking surgery was always going to be tricky, but failure to give this girl the face of actor James Earl Jones, who starred opposite Bill Cosby in 1977's A Piece Of The Action, was not an option."

During a press conference held by Marianne and her family, Marianne's mother, Claudette, 40, said "I thought this operation was insanity - that it would be impossible. Until, that is, Marianne said, 'nothing's impossible, Mama. Because even impossible is four fifths possible. And I'd bet my house with those odds!' She didn't, of course. She doesn't have a house. And I punished her for telling such lies."

China Blocks Cocks, Box: Freedom Talks Locked

2006-11-01T23:25:00.000Z

Chinese censors have stepped up their war on everything, with new efforts to block all information coming and going from the country via the internet. Experts believe this is an effort to keep people both inside and outside from finding out just how awesome their nation is, possibly so it will be a surprise later.

What are we missing in China?

Chinese officials are also concentrating their efforts on censoring any subversive Chinese site found guilty of displaying pornography, democratic images or any other adult-related material to their populace. However, they quickly realized they were fighting a losing battle and resorted to more subtle means to try and bring the Chinese populace back to order.

Propaganda teams modify popular internet sites.

Such reports have been strenuously denied by China. In a recent press conference, Chinese Minister of Information, Sun Ji-Hung, said, "there is nothing censored in China. We don't know what you're talking about. Everything here is fine. Nothing has gone missing, or anything."

Chinese foreign minister, Li Zhaoxing, was later quizzed about the denial Sun Ji-Hung put forward. "What denial? Who's Li-Hung? There is no offical record of these things anywhere. YOU LEAVE NOW."

China has long had a history of censorship, says Nicolas Becquelin, a research director at a Hong-Kong based human rights organisation to whom these events and the Chinese denial of these events and the Chinese denial of the denial of the events come as no surprise. "When the west first discovered China, and the wonders therein, China spent millions of dollars trying to convince potential tourists that their historical wonders were nonexistent. China values its privacy, much like, say, a crazy old hermit in the woods."

The Great _____ of China

UPDATE: In response to this story, the Chinese government has issued a statement declaring that what the world is referring to as 'China' is in fact just a small paddy field near the Mongolian border.

State-issued map of China

Airbus Accident: Could You Die Next?

2006-11-01T23:23:00.000Z

Investigators are looking for the cause of a Jetblue flight's emergency landing on Wednesday when a landing gear jammed at a 90 degree angle, a near-disaster which News Skim believes was likely caused by illegal immigration. Our experts tell us that fifty or sixty immigrants hiding in the undercarriage, trying to sneak into the country unobserved, could easily jam the landing gear and bring about a catastrophe.

The effects of immigration.

“Hiding in the undercarriage of airplanes is not a new trick.” Howard Plagens, of the National Transportation Safety Board said. “Immigrants have been doing it for years – hell, that’s how my family got to America in the first place. But in recent years there's been a sharp rise in the number of revolting immigrants piling into America from Urukryinstan, or Tajinirikkistan, or wherever the bloody hell else they’re from.”

Before, immigrants would simply hide in the undercarriage, maybe with a blanket to fend off the cold. But recently they have started bringing along furniture, livestock and their extended families. In the bigger jets, entire communities of Easter Europeans have been found nestling around the landing gear.

The all-to-common sight of landing gear being improperly used as a home.

Increasingly, immigrants have become more more inventive. German Airport officials at Hannover had to ground a Boeing 747 when it became apparent that three generations of Uzbeks had cunningly disguised themselves as the flaps and ailerons on the left wing of an Airbus 319. Indian officials have numerous reports of people approaching a plane, dressed up as “pilots” and trying to “fly the plane somewhere. Anywhere.”

International Evil Geniuses Attempt To Play God

2006-11-01T23:09:00.000Z

God 'Not A Happy Camper', Sources Claim

An internationally acclaimed group of Evil Geniuses have been bought to justice for attempting to play god. As is the nature of such Geniuses, they had hatched a horrific plan to conquer the world, in which they were to enslave humanity, by creating a master race of radioactive Jellyfish/Human hybrids. By splicing Human and Jellyfish Semen together, mixing them in the testicles of a hamster, and adding a healthy dose of 'green', these Evil Geniuses fought to produce a race of creatures that would 'far surpass any life form currently here on earth.

Suspicions were aroused when a security leak from the Evil Genius's superden, Iniquity Mountain, was passed into the hands of the press. From a bunch of papers found in a dustbin in Bognor, England, the groups plans were discovered, detailing the International Evil Geniuses plans for world domination.

Evil Geniuses are normally credited with the building of highly suspect machinery, such as the Robotelescopic Briefcase, George Foreman Grill and Nuclear Catflap. However, the documents found hinted that this disreputable gang of evil Geniuses has long had a history of attempted cloning. Last year, one of their number, Insane Professor Tim, was arrested for attempting to produce a half-midget, half-donkey "super-being", which, he claimed, would "be able to carry heavy loads, but at the same time avoid low branches and stuff". Prof. Tim was arrested when he attempted to staple a donkey to 'Willow' star Warwick Davies.

A snippet of information from the documents.

Prosecuting Lawyer, Hope Feathers, states "This group, under the guidence of Mad Dr. Peteter De'ath have attempted to mesh together all manner of beings, but, luckily for the world, their experiments always get cut short when the test subject complain bitterly about having an animal stuck to them in some way, from the midget with a donkey, to the hamster glued to the pregnant woman and the angry squirrel shoved down the trousers of an insurance broker. Though that could possibly be an unconnected incident. In a state of confusion, they once lashed a piglet to the Eiffel Tower and scarpered."

A flying rocket-gunhorse, presented as evidence of what 'real' genetic mutations should do.

Dr. Peteter De'ath, on his arrest, claimed that their latest vile plan had been successful, and that a Jellyfish-cross-Human had been created, and set free on the unsuspecting public. "But you'll never find him!" the good Doctor cackled. "No! He's indistinguishable from normal humans! And he's out to kill each and every one of you!" Dr. De'ath then proceeded to cackle insanely and would have raised him claw-like hands to the sky in triumph had he not been soundly beaten by alert members of the British Constabulary, on hand in court.

Early reports indicate this gun-toting Jellyfish Man might be the latest test-subject of the International Evil Geniuses.

The trial continues.

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2006-11-01T23:07:00.000Z

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China Causes Customs Chaos

2006-11-01T23:05:00.000Z

...due to the attempted smuggling of endangered species. China has been charged with smuggling creatures as diverse as the African Elephant, Impala, Siberian Tiger, Trouser Snake and Frenchman across international borders. The arrest came when Customs officials at Harare International Airport stopped China boarding a Boeing 777 due to it’s carrying a “suspicious giraffe-shaped suitcase”.

“I noticed China looking a bit suspicious as it approached check-in”. Assia Nwankwo, a customs officer at Harare International said, “It had a shifty look in it’s eyes, and it was sweating somewhat profusely as it approached the metal detecting machines. Of course, I asked for it to put it’s luggage on the table, for me to inspect, and I was very surprised by the contents.”

Due to legal reasons, China cannot be shown and has been replaced by a man.

Reports released by the airport customs officials reveal that China was carrying a suitcase with a secret apartment built into the bottom of the case, “in which was a large variety of African wildlife, including springboks and a black rhinoceros”, the zoo value of which was in excess of $3,000,000, if pure-bred.

China was immediately arrested and taken into Airport custody, where animal welfare officers interrogated it for sixteen hours. Chief Animal Welfare Officer Edward Maartins, present during the interrogation, later released the following statement.

“After intensive questioning, China admitted to animal smuggling activities over the last few years. It appears we are on the verge of cracking an international animal smuggling ring, in which China has smuggled class-one endangered animals out of Zimbabwe with a zoological value of around $40,000,000.”

“Well,” Maartins said to News Skim in an exclusive interview, “it’s sad, you know? These countries often come from a good upbringing, but are just looking for a cheap thrill, to get some easy beer money. They’re lured into this sordid business by other, bigger countries - pier pressure, really. They see these first world countries doing it and they just want to be cool, to fit in. It’s a great shame.” When asked what normally happened to the countries involved, Maartins replied, “oh, we normally call Kofi Annan and let him deal with it. He’ll probably just ground them from the next Olympic Games, and maybe even the World Cup if he really wants to teach young China a lesson. But, the thing to remember is, we were all young and silly once.”

Chinas arrest, however, had opened up the world of International Animal Running. From this simple arrest in Harare, a web of countries involved in this vile trade has been exposed, mainly developed countries who routinely use third world nations as their runners, or ‘smugglebunnies’ as they’re known in this sick trade. However, the process of revealing these countries has been painfully slow.

“We don’t want to arrest the smugglebunnies, because that’ll alert the big shots,” Sandy Vadge of Interpol states, “and if we alert them, they’ll be off quicker than a mother with a baby full of halibut. No, we need to bypass the lower ranks and catch the big boys by the short ‘n’ curlies”. When asked what progress has been made, Vadge replied, “Well, we had suspected some of the bigger European nations, but when we got to Europe, a little boy told us everyone was out and to try later, then we noticed Great Britain, Germany and Austria all trying to sneak out past the Faroes. We cornered them, but they claimed they were 'popping out for a smoke'. We had no evidence, so we had to let them go."

The noose is ever tightening around these shady big shots, and they know their time is up. The question is, how many more defenceless fluffy animals will they mercilessly smuggle before this mess is all over? One? Seven? Fifty-four? Who knows, but at least for now, someone cares.

Women Are Told Not To Mind Their Pretty Little Heads

2006-11-01T23:00:00.000Z

…by all those complex and terrifying gizmos in the job market. Women, one of the more popular genders of human, have long been mooted by researchers as “likely to get into a bit of a flap” over anything more complicated than an iron or simple washing machine. Indeed, recent research by the Department of Trade and Industry has indicated that women just aren’t designed to do anything more strenuous than prepare a lovely supper for their husband when he returns from work.

“Oh yes,” Professor Scott Hammer, chief researcher from the DTI said, “Our research indicates that women are just incapable of dealing with the technological advances that occur so rapidly in the workplace. It’s not their fault, bless them, but it’s just the way they’re designed.”

The research Professor Hammer and his department released show a clear difference in the ability of men and women to grasp certain aspects of work. Whereas men think solely of work, and whatever comes with it, save for a few quiet moments of contemplation about a comfortable armchair, women are unable to devote that much brain power to a single idea, preferring to flit between thoughts of nice curtains, fluffy objects, shades of pink and Tupperware. This leaves very little space for the female brain to perform vital tasks in the workplace.

The male brain - very work orientated

The female brain - note the key differences

“It’s simple really,” Professor Hammer explains, “give a man a big drill and he knows what to do with it. He looks at the drill and says ‘I am a man. This is my weapon. I am going to drill a big hole in something’. Give that drill to a woman and she’ll probably drop it. And then complain. Women are like a hamster with a wooden nipple. Completely useless”.

As expected, the Association for the Restriction of Sexual Equality (A.R.S.E.) have stood up behind the research. The chairman of the Association, huge, bearded Lord Darcy Leverhulme thundered “It’s about bloody time” before slapping his serving girl on the behind and calling for another brandy.

The League of Equality between Gender and Sexes (L.E.G.S.) chairwoman, Claire Nutsmasher, is outraged by this revelation from the DTI. “I can’t believe it! We don’t live in the dark ages. Women are just as capable as men are, and even more so, in many situations. I’d like to see that wanker Leverhulme force a thirteen pound baby out of a bodily orifice and come up smiling."

But what of the man in the street? Does the average male like A.R.S.E.? Or is he a L.E.G.S. man? Chartered accountant Wilfred Chucklepickett claimed “I tend to swing both ways.”

A street with a man in it, much like the street in which the man was asked.

So, after extensive research, the battle between the sexes looks set for yet another round. Man may have won this time, but will Jane Lady manage to get a smart uppercut in on John Gentleman, or will he simply punch her into next week? One thing is for sure, whatever happens, those jam-jars will still need to be opened.

Smoking The Cause Of Everything

2006-11-01T22:55:00.000Z

…experts in the United Kingdom claim. Dr. Chris Peacock, from the University of Aberystwyth, Wales, claims that new research into the evils of smoking “have revealed that smoking is the cause of more than just cancer”. At a recent press conference, Dr. Peacock declared, “Everybody knows the more common dangers of smoking, such as cancer, failed pregnancies, lowered sperm count, osteoarthritis, Oedipus complex, clubfoot and swollen balls. However, our recent research has linked smoking the a lot more than that”.

When asked what else could be cause by smoking, Dr. Peacock simply shrugged, “Pretty much everything, I guess.”

Research has linked smoking to natural disasters.

“For example,” Dr. Dicken Hairs, assistant to Dr. Peacock explained, “smoking has recently been linked to AMD blindness. Most people associate blindness with masturbation, not smoking, but we’re out to change that.”

Dr. Peacock continued, “Yes. We want people to realise just what smoking can do to you, and how to give up. Research indicates that smokers give up smoking when they feel the first signs of an unwanted after effect, like death. We wanted to get the message across that whilst death is the most effective way of giving up smoking; it’s a bit permanent for some people’s tastes.”

The University’s research indicates that smokers to tend to give up smoking when they have experienced a fairly large side effect. Mike Thrimble of Oldham gave up smoking when he first contracted AMD Blindness. When asked why he gave up then, he said “Well, I couldn’t find my fags any more”.

This old gent has been smoking for seventy years. And now he is ninety, just another side effect of smoking.

The University’s research is winning friends and supporters across the country. Felicity Walmer-Bucks, a sixteen year old Catholic from Brechin City said “I thought God hated me and made me feel guilty because I touched myself at night. Now I know it’s because I’ve thought about smoking. It’s a real weight off my mind.”

The University of Aberystwyth’s research is having unwanted effects, however. After hearing that smoking might cause the onset of puberty, fifteen year old David Patehands, a lifelong non-smoker said “It [smoking] might just be the case. I’ve never touched a cigarette and still don’t have hair on my balls. I guess I’d better start smoking if I want to get girls!”

Not everyone has been convinced by the University’s latest research. Frank Gibbon, a director of Imperial Tobacco thinks the research is a load of baloney. “I think it’s a load of baloney,” he said at a recent press conference. “The only think smoking gives you is a growth of coolness, not a growth on your left testicle. Nor does it give you pink eye, a decrease in footballing knowledge or make you appreciate the music of Celine Dion. Tobacco does none of those things.”

Students Are Too Lazy To Learn...

2006-11-01T22:54:00.000Z

…claims an education specialist, in a recent BBC education probe. Julian Elliot, a boffin from Durham University recently concluded that the popular schoolchild complaint of Dyslexia is not, actually, a recognised medical disorder, but an “umbrella term under which all lazy schoolchildren are placed”.

Speaking to BBC education correspondent Rick Spigget, Dr. Elliot said, “For years, I’ve suspected that dyslexia was just a blanket under which sleep thousands of children who simply cannot be bothered to learn basic literary skills. As a result, I started a study to discover if these slothful beggars were using dyslexia as a wall to hide behind whilst they simply masturbated their education away”.

Dr. Elliot spend thirty years conducting exhausting research, in which he read “well over half a dozen” books and leaflets, after which he came to the conclusion that it is simply an impossibility to tell the different between an indolent, brain-dead youth and a child with a serious learning block.

During his research, Dr. Elliot placed ten dyslexic seven-year-olds in a room, and gave them an hour to write a set essay. “And after that hour,” Dr. Elliot states “not one child had written anything cohesive or meaningful. One had just drawn a picture of a tank. A clear indication that they were just too lazy to do anything constructive.” When asked what he suspected they did for the hour, Dr. Elliot merely shrugged. “They were probably just mucking about”.

A letter Dr Elliot received. "I couldn't read most of them" he later admitted.

The British Dyslexia Association (BAD) claimed the findings were “complete and utter woghosh”. Professor Susan Tresman, spokesperson for the British Dyslexia Association, in an official press release stated:

“The British Dyslexia Association is outraged that Dr. Elliot is suggesting we’re all lathopogically lazy. Dyslexia is not a condition to be sniffed at, and we would appreciate it is Dr. Elliot would aplologise to dyslexia sufferers everywhere”.

Since releasing his findings to the public, Dr. Julian Elliot has been bombarded with “badly worded correspondence, rife with spelling errors” he can only deduce came from “lazy bastards who insist their condition warrants them an extra hour in examinations.”