Turning pro in less than 362 days!

Hopefully turning pro in less than six thousand three hundred and eighty nine days!

Thursday, 21 July 2011

The Jonnie Marbles School of Shameless Self Promotion

Tired of being an anonymous cunt with less Twitter followers than Dean Gaffney?

Worry not, just subscribe to the Jonnie Marbles School of Shameless Self-Promotion and your future is assured. 

Just hijack the next mass publicised event with some madcap slapstick jinx and you’re sure to take the world by storm.

Just make sure that you have some material on the net to back you up and launch you into the big time.

For fucks sake don’t do anything whilst there may be some youtube video of you attempting to do stand up that’s as funny as having your face slowly sawn off, or a monologue of you spouting some horseshit that makes every single viewer look on you as an absolute cunt. 

This would completely invalidate everything that you have achieved.This is, of course, provided that what you did in the first place was something worthy of being invalidated. For fuck's sake don't do something lame and meaningless. And don't put yourself in a position where you could have the whole thing blow up in your face. If there is the chance that you could end up engaging in a possible confrontation with an octogenarian then make sure to power lift a water biscuit every day for a week beforehand, or you could end up looking like the cock of an impotent gnat.

Who is that guy that flung that bag of cowshit at the Queen? Don’t know – let’s see if Twitter knows. Yes, someone’s tracked him down – his name is Garth Jenkins. Wow – he could be cool, although his actions do suggest a bellend – let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and google him.
Wow, he has a couple of youtube clips – let’s watch them. 

Oh Christ no. Oh fuck. I really wanted to like him, but these are fucking awful. That’s the worst ‘comedic’ observation I’ve ever heard. And that delivery is shit. Why didn’t he make sure these were taken down before he flung all that excrement at our monarch? Maybe he thought they was good? Maybe he wasn't chucking shit at the queen to make a point about poverty diets and disenfranchisement, maybe he was just trying to get himself out there.

Jesus, he must be a right cunt.

That is definitely not going to happen with me, oh no - I'm planning ahead.

Saturday, 16 July 2011

Fare Ye Well

Firstly, for anyone who read last night’s drunken ramblings, I apologise, and am deeply ashamed. I would explain myself to you in person, but I don’t intend to leave my flat for the next two years. Can’t help but be a bit impressed by my grammar and narrative structure though, considering how smashed I was.

Anyway, this may be my last blog, as it’s all fucked. Don’t know if you remember, but I had this old ‘friend’ get in touch, saying how he’d made it in the movie business, and wanted to help me to make it, as I had helped him in the past. As a test of faith I was to pay for his ticket to L.A., with the last of my redundancy money, and he would pitch my TV and movie ideas to all his new contacts.

I thought it was a bit weird when, after he’d been out there a week I phoned him up and heard the music to The One Show in the background.  He shook it off, saying The Black Eyed Peas heard it whilst they were in Britain on tour and loved it so much they sampled it and have turned it into a hit stateside. When you want something bad enough you are blind to the truth.

What I wasn’t blind to though, was seeing him yesterday, running away from me in Sainsbury’s car park.
I’m afraid I took it hard. Got ramjacked on goofballs and clusterfucks.

And that’s probably me done. Don’t know if I have it in me to bounce back and make it in this cut-throat business. 

Hope you have enjoyed some of my ramblings, and that maybe some were of use, somehow, even if only to laugh as someone who is an even bigger cunt than you are. 

Would’ve been nice to have received a comment or two, but you can’t have anything, sorry, everything.

I guess I’m relieved in a way. My pursuit of being a great writer stopped me being a great son, friend, brother and person. 

Time to put that right. After I’ve had some ibuprofen, LSD and vitamins.

Good luck people, hope you make it!

Friday, 15 July 2011

Blah Fucking Blah


Like a diet of salted meat and pistachios, women can be a real pain in the arse. Train-of-thought destroying, logic denying, war avoiding little bleeders. And not only can they make you look at a cunt at any given moment they can make you look like one, too. 

Ok, maybe that’s not the best way to open up the latest entry about my attempts to become a professional writer but, fuck it, I don’t give a shit. No one is reading this crap anyway, so I might as well just fucking vent my spleen. I’ve noticed though that I have a couple of readers in Denmark and East Timor. If this gets lost in translation then that’s probably a good thing. My whole life has been lost in translation. Which is probably a good thing. Kronenburg lager on tap is evil, don’t drink it.

Back to women.  

As you almost certainly don’t know, tonight I was out drinking with my ‘mate’ Jimmy Stroker. Theoretically we were on the pull, though the only thing I usually pull is my plonker, which I do once I get back home, whilst crying into a pot noodle at 3a.m, which was five minutes ago. I dread to think what I would’ve written without that relief.  Jimmy, on the other stupid fat hand, muscles his huge face into any social orifice and emerges smelling of triumph.  

I arranged to meet him in this God awful club. I can’t go to those god forsaken meat markets any more. It’s hard enough going to the supermarket. And don’t tell me that you go there for the music. That shit? Sounds like it’s been programmed by a three year old wanker. No one likes house unless they are from Kent or like ‘The Only Way is Essex’. If you like either of these things, even if its ironic, then dress yourself up like a cow and get yourself down the nearest fucking abattoir. Anyway, I’m in the club and I steal a look from a woman in her early twenties, whose smooth, gravity defying face entranced me. She gave me a look that said “Forget it granddad, your time has gone. You’re yesterday’s people. Haven’t you seen Logan’s Run?” I feel ashamed and take my hand off her bum.

Christ knows what its like for women, who haven’t even got recourse to the ‘men get sexier as they get older’ bullshit. Man, this aging bullshit is tough. At least in England it is. If we were all living on some Pacific Island, all I would have to do is walk to the middle of the village, slug down copious amounts of some sludgery, gabble on about eagles for ten minutes, fart, perhaps even poo myself, then walk back into my hut for a lie down.

As it happens I did actually poo myself tonight. It’s the Kronenburg, it does something strange to me. Jimmy goes home with this incredible lady he’s charmed, sending me scootling off with her dodgy mate. It’s a twenty minute walk back to mine and the whole time all I could think about was not pissing and shitting myself. It’s been many years since I was last in such a promising situation and I wasn’t going to let my bowels ruin it for me. So I made a show of it, and pretended to do the entire sketch of the Ministry of Funny Walks to get us back. I would’ve got away with it, if she didn’t inexplicably find it hilarious and grab me at the top of my stairs for a squeeze and snog. The walk down the stairs was as cruel for me as it was for her.

Anyway, I wrestle her into the bedroom and put on the theme to the TV show QI to get her in the mood, whilst I go to the bathroom to have a shower, and into the garden to burn my soiled clothes.

Half an hour later I’ve finally shaken off years of socially imposed abstinence and am in bed with a woman. Who looks like Roseanne Barr’s scrotum.  If it’s true that our thoughts frame our faces then this woman has killed a lot of people. And animals. And hope. We were both pretty pissed, but that didn’t take the full edge off the fact that we physically repulsed each other and had no rapport and were going to regret it in the morning. But we both knew what we were doing there. We were going to runt. That’s what it’s called when two people who, for the good of the species, shouldn’t be fucking but do. I felt like I was a male black widow, moving into the web where maybe my life wouldn’t be taken away, but certainly my future and my self worth would.

We undress ourselves, always a bad side - that’s what you do at the doctor’s, right? We jump into the bed for a fumble.

“Can we be in character”, she said, “I’ve always wanted to do that”.

“Sure” I reply, in a gruff voice.

“Oooo!” she replies, obviously turned on.

“Do you like this?” I ask, perfecting the correct amount of gruffness.

“Take me!” she exclaims.
I run my hands down her considerable side.

“Ooooo, cold hands – God, you’ve the hands of a corpse”.

“I am a corpse” I reply in my sexy gruff voice.

And that was the last thing I was ever allowed to say to a girl called Natalie.

Monday, 4 July 2011

A Lol from @charltonbrooker is Worth More Than a Faberge Egg

Before you all say “What the bloody hell are you on about?” hear me out.

Whilst meandering on twitter recently, I think I may have uncovered a conspiracy every bit as heinous and pernicious as those responsible for the repeated recommissions of Miranda and Not Going Out.
It all started when I noticed that someone I was following, Andy Oxidents, @Health_Messiah, got a response from Charlie Brooker, one of the Holy Twinity. For those not familiar with Charlie Brooker, he is a brilliant British satirist, known in the twitterverse as The Ant Maker, for his ability to bestow a profound sense of insignificance onto strangers. If you get a response from him then you can puff out your chest and take the most self-righteous dump of your life. In any case, the response Andy got was quite something - as you can see, ringed in the pic below.
Charlie Brooker going LOL!!!!!! I didn’t think it could ever happen. Quite unbelievable. I regularly send Charlie ten tweets a day in the hope of something rebounding. Nothing. I looked on @Health_Messiah’s profile and suddenly he was getting followers by the dozen. That single LOL from the hands of Brooker was going to send Andy’s profile through the bloody roof!

What’s wrong with that, I hear you say, he obviously deserves it. Yeah, except I know that the man is a total bellend. That’s why I was the only one following him. This is the sort of dogshit he normally comes up with.

So, what comment was it that made Charlie Brooker laugh out loud? It wasn’t difficult to track down. Here it is.

Apart from the obvious grammatical error (it’s instead of its) it rang a bell. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. What I was sure of though, is that it felt too pro and trendy, and not from the same head that thought up this:-

Absolutely no chance. So I dug a little deeper. I googled his name, see what I could find, and, to my amazement, discovered that his twitter account was now up for sale: -

Nearly two grand and it still had 6 days to go! That’s more than this.

OK, admittedly they made the disastrous and schoolboy error of spelling the word egg wrong, so it’s fallen through the net, as it were, but still – a tweet from Charlie Brooker is worth more than a Faberge Egg!
What the fuck! No wonder there’s so many cunts tweeting the guy all the time, those brown nosers are looking for a lol and a quick sale! Good luck to them, but for me, I’m starting to get suspicious, I think this goes deeper. I go back to the comment he made, that produced such an outlandish response from Mr Brooker.

Then it hit me like an erection on a commuter train. It reminded me of this recent twitter hit from Milton Jones, a British stand up.

It created mayhem. For several hours it brought down the grid here in Britain. Only the one Stephen Fry wrote about poppers stopped it from being the most retweeted tweet in history. Within just four days it had lead to a barrage of copycat tweets, a veritable flood of twitter surfers, riding the wave for potential followers. Here are a couple of notable examples.

The basic idea is the same in all these tweets.

Now, I’m not naming names, but what if some reasonably high profile comedians, maybe second tier ones, weren’t online when anonymous bods and nobodies were sending high quality tweets, way above their station, to high ranked celebrities? Tweets which would generate tens, maybe hundreds of followers? Would this imply that they could be ghost tweeting?
Could it be possible that these people are selling tweets to cunts like us so that we can then sell on our twitter accounts for a small fortune – presumably for a 51% cut of the profits?
Apparently, 96% of all tweets are written by less than 50 people. Does this mean that we have all become privy to one of the grossest acts of extortion this planet has ever seen?
Has twitter become nothing but a comedic cash cow? An opportunity for those bullied at school, perhaps suffering from atrophied genitals, or a name like Colin, to buy their way to a bigger dick?
Or maybe I’ve just made all this bloody shit up and wasted five minutes of your life, five minutes that you could’ve spent having the wank of your life.
Maybe so. But then, what the hell are all those black helicopters doing hovering above my flat? After all, I haven't even published this yet.