I worked, indirectly, for 3 Mobile Phones. Myself and Simon Swatman spent two years writing animation scripts and making video stuff for the early adopters of 3G. We produced hours of this stuff. And some of it was quite good. Obviously whole reams of it were shit designed to please early adopting idiots, but we managed to slip some stuff through that wasn’t awful.

The problem was, nobody was really there to watch it. Those people who’d bought the phone found that simply turning it on drained the battery so quickly, that actually using it to make calls or download videos seemed like recklessness. So nobody saw our clips. Sad face.

Well… here’s three of them - they’ve been on display at Mediapill for a while, so basically this is blatant laziness on my part, but I’m going to sort through my archive at home and get a few more down to web size. In the meantime, let your gaze wearily flicker over this bunch of crap.

[1.8Mb, .wmv : Instant Arousal, Starring My Hand]



[1.0Mb, .wmv : Accident Man, starring Lorcan Finnegan]



[1.9Mb, .wmv : In The Garden With Dennis. That's Me, Is That]

A long time ago, I went on a coach journey. It was a living episode of any Sitcom - no detail was unimportant in life’s conspiracy to make me look like an insane tramp. Well, this story isn’t quite the same; it was more like life, instead of taking three days to plan something intricate, just decided to fire off a few bolts of piss in my direction, to see what happened.

It was a Saturday morning, and my flatmates were out, so I was walking around the house naked. The curtains were open, so when I walked past a window I dropped to a haunch and shuffled. If there was a tea-towel to hand, I would briefly hold it over my crotch, like a matador, whipping it around me as I turned, to alternately cover my balls and assss as required. However, when I realised we’d run out of milk, I resigned myself to getting dressed and facing the day, in as minimal a fashion as possible.

I fished the basic level of clothes out of the tumble dryer - too-baggy trousers and a T-shirt - and slipped my sockless feet into some tattered trainers. Get some milk, make some coffee, then get back to the safety of showing my balls to top-deck bus passengers.

It was three hours before I had to meet my friends in the pub. Three hours is a lifetime, if you’re really unlucky, and your mum sits on you.

So I wheeled my bike out of the house, and slowly clicked the front door to.

I pulled the door slowly enough so that - at first - the bump of the Yale stopped the door locking. You know that feeling? As your slow pressure moves the curve of the Yale lock, the resistance from the lock lessens, until the door almost closes itself? And you’re doing a routine mind-check of everything you need to go to the shops, but you’re not actually thinking properly, you’re just saying “wallet, keys, phone” to youself like a stupid song in your mother’s voice, over and over?

And the abrupt snack of the lock suddenly brings you around, and you think “Oh! I’ve just locked myself out of the house!”

Feeling a little bit panicked, I texted my flatmates. The replies came - Jim was in York, showing his Japanese girlfriend a walled city. Chris was in France. France was a nice touch, I thought. You couldn’t just be a little more needlessly far away, could you? Maybe a nice French-speaking nation like Morocco. Couldn’t you have tucked yourself away in fucking Marrakech, you stupid, gallivanting prick? And YORK? If both of you thought that spending a weekend in YORK seemed like an exciting escape from the rat race, then frankly I don’t want your keys.

I walked over to the café opposite. Coffee would calm me down. I was half-way across the zebra crossing when I remembered I’d left my bike outside the house. Clopping back to the house, I was amazed to be suddenly facing sideways, and running with a wobbly Pac-Man ghost-face into our rosemary bush. My wallet, which I had remembered, leapt out of my pocket, I pushed the bush away whilst making a “ffft! ffft!” gesture with my wrists, and my trousers fell down.

My wallet chain, which I had bought after leaving my wallet on one too many tables, had snaked around my gatepost, and ripped the button off my trousers. Go back a few paragraphs, and you’ll see that I’m not wearing underwear. Any unchecked movement will now reveal my everything to everyone, without the safety of windows. The bicycle is now worse than useless to me - I can’t ride it, as I would be effectively nude within seconds. I can’t lock it up, as my keys are on the same keyring inside the house. So I have no alternative but to walk, one hand guiding my bike, and one hand holding up my trousers in that bunching grip that the cooler, old-fashioned-tramps-who’re-really-millionaires-you-know use.

I walk to our Letting Agency, and held the door open with the side of my head, trying my best to explain the situation. But it was hopeless. The landlady had given the key to the builder, who was out of town, the Letting Agency didn’t have a key, and neither of my flatmates were back for two days. By now, though, I was laughing helplessly, and had to stop every five minutes to ‘phone everyone I could think who’d find it funny. When I’d locked myself out, I was pissed off. But now I’d locked myself out and ripped my trousers off, I couldn’t have been happier.

And at this stage, I like to think - for the sake of dramatic Hollywoodness, rather than any belief in God or fates - that life saw that it had lost, and couldn’t throw anything else at me without giving away that it existed, and was a cunt. I went back to the café, because by now I really wanted to see what a coffee would do to me. Hearing my story, the owner lent me the belt he was wearing, and said he’d look after my bike. Then I went to meet my friends in the pub, and when I told my story, one of them remembered that I’d given him our spare key while he was sleeping on our sofa. And suddenly, as quickly as everything had turned to amazing shit, it was all fixed.

This left me with a urgent and good-natured impulse to get really fucking pissed, which I did without delay.

When you find someone sexually attractive, it’s only right that you imagine having sex with them. You mentally undress them, you look at their trousers and imagine an eighteen thousand inch penis with a ghostly beckoning finger at the tip. You’ll most likely imagine a gymnastic flexibility, allowing them to do a simultaneous handstand and splits. This position offers you a tidily swollen set of balls, plus a dampish place to bury your face.

These thoughts happen, in a series of stills separated by the flash of a 1950s camera bulb, during the “Heh” of “Hello”. By the time you’ve got the reply - probably the jarringly confident “Hi”, above - you’ll already have traced the blossoming relationship into a much later stage. You’ll have assumed from his confidence that he’s a public speaker - a teacher, perhaps - and you’ll have developed the crackling-log-fired scene where you’re helping him with his marking, and laughing at the stupid kid’s answers.

“Joe just can’t get the hang of vulgar fractions,” he’d laugh. And I’d look over his shoulder at the workbook, and say “he’s certainly got the hang of vulgar handwriting, though!” Both of our mouths would crinkle like old Kit-Kat wrappers into a lazy smile. But inside, we’re both remembering a time when laughter came more easily. We both know the relationship died months ago.

Interview With A Geography Teacher Q : How did you get into Geography? A : I fuckin’ love it, man. You can’t explain that shit. I just fuckin’ love it. Q : Do you have a favourite kind of geography? A : Hills - I can’t get me enough hills. If you put a hill on top of another hill, I’d be like "MORE FUCKING HILLS, BITCH". Q : If you had to characterise the Earth as a human, what would it be? A : It’d be a fuckin’ whore, playin’ with my balls. Like Bowie in Labyrinth. Juggling my balls like a fuckin’ pro. That’s Planet Earth.

By the next time we meet, I’ve had a thousand imagined futures with him, all leading to a thousand imagined failures. I’ve worked faster than the computer in War Games to find the way this nuclear war could have a winner. So when he introduces me to his boyfriend, it doesn’t quite sink in. How could anyone go out with him? He’s a nightmare! He leaves hair in the sink, which is cute to begin with, but that soon wears off. And he leaves Marmite-covered knives in the Utterly Butterly!

But, the nightclub is quite noisy, so you may have misheard.

“This is your… ex-boyfriend?”

That would make sense. He must have a million exes, littering the countryside. But no, he replies - it’s his current boyfriend. Living the one path you haven’t yet found. The one path that, at the end of the Lawnmower Man, let the retard out to ring the telephones.

The Lawnmower Man’s Song Hello Madam, how do you do? I’m the Lawnmower Man, and so are you. Makes you think, huh?

So, what can I say now? I’ve just inserted the harsh, choking sound of “ECKS” into the middle of an otherwise bouncy and likeable sentence. It must be obvious to them both that that ECKS contained my most earnest hopes, and nothing would make me happier than to have one of them say “you know, this isn’t working. Perhaps Log’s right - we should be exes, and take it in turns to have sex with him.” I decide it’s worth waiting a moment to see if one of them says this; they don’t.

Thinking about it, let’s look a little closer at those bouncy, likeable words, “This is my boyfriend”…

So I get it. This is your boyfriend. Why don’t you just get his dick out and see if I measure up? See if my piss eats through steel like I’m so fucking sure his does?

Anyway, what this boils down to, the sticky residue left in my saucepan, is my response; a eyes-raised that’s-interesting “oh!”, that stops people dead on the dancefloor with its awkward and hopelessly unjustifiable disappointment.

And then, two seconds of silence - one second for each nut that I want to rip off and jam into my eye-holes. “No,” I wanted to say. “That wasn’t a disappointed oh! It was nonchalant!” But the conversation is now hopelessly clogged. My immediate instinct is to apologise, but even with the slim chance they hadn’t noticed that I’ve just died twenty times, an apology would confirm everything. They’d say “Sorry for what?”, just to make me say it out loud. God, they’re even touching each other! Go on, kiss his fucking neck! You know I want to watch!

Looking around for inspiration, I see people dancing, and an escape route presents itself - I could dance. “Ah! This is one of my favourite songs!” I say, and walk backwards onto into the dancefloor. But I want to leave everything on a positive note, and to let them know that I harbour no resentment. So I say, immediately before widening my eyes in absolute horror at how crass my brain is making me - “hope you’re happy together!”

The song ends three seconds later, exposing my exit as a fake, so I spend the next ten minutes in the toilets, trying to scratch the words off my tongue. In the end, I decide that it’s safer and less insane to wash the words off with beer, so I set about getting pissed instead.

There’s so many things I’m willing to do in the name of sex. That’s not to say I’m an innovator, far from it. I’m more of a “whatever you say” participant, who pulls away from a grubby clinch to frown at an imaginary audience. That audience knows what I’m going through, poking and nudging every square inch just to squeeze out an appreciative “oooh”. That audience smiles sympathetically, like a thousand suffering mothers.

Following the lead has largely worked for me, so far. Sometimes you get someone who also follows the lead, and that tends to lead to a night of ball-tickling and kissing the neck. More often, no-one makes the first move at all, so you end up with a night on their sofa with your heart in your neck, wondering if they’re going to come back into the living room and say “Come on, silly! Let’s make smells.”

Of course, following the lead isn’t always the best way. In my younger days, I took an agonising shitsex, just because I hadn’t done it before, and I’d heard that it was quite normal for it to hurt, if you were new to the experience. So I gritted my teeth, and waited for the pain to subside, and my trusty prostate to start gushing up wave after wave of sensual ecstasy. (For more erotic fiction, see below)

The thing is - what the well-meaning gay youth workshop fuckers didn’t tell me that taking it from an overhung jackhammer with no sense of rhythm and a WHATEVER attitude to which way it’s pointing hinders the pleasure of anal sex. And that’s a fact!

So, I have demostrated that I can put up with the sexual equivalent of slamming your thumb in a car door a hundred times, so long as the other person is going “oooh” and pulling funny faces. I’m trying to prove to you that I don’t complain easily.

So why does my neck close and my sick-water rise when the gentlest, most butterfly-like pressure is applied by a pair of considerate, loving lips onto my closed eyelid?

This is the closest I could find to a picture of eye kissing. What does his expression say? It says dear GOD you’re hot and I’m willing to put up with this shit for now, but I would be a million times happier if you took your fucking nose out of my eye.

Kissing eyes. Is it widespread? One woman seems to like it - this story is from the Clitical website - helping you hit the right spot well into the new millennium.

The next thing I know, I’m completely buried in your arms, your lips on mine, ever gently. I feel your hand touching me down there. I hear your breath intake as you discover and whisper how hot and wet my puss is, and how much you like it. You rip off my blindfold and kiss my eyes… (Read the whole story)

At which point she goes for his dick. The other eye doesn’t flick open in horror and try to see what’s going on with its poor, suckled brother - she doesn’t look aghast and say “ex-cuse me… what was that?” She lunges for his damned dick.

Your mum, after getting her eye kissed by a thousand bitey madmen. It’s not pretty, is it? Your mum, that is! Ha. I is raggin’ on yo ma, bitch.

Perhaps I need to put the kiss into context. It isn’t during the sexy parts of the sex act. It isn’t part of some bondage scenario where I’m tied up, and he can do whatever he likes to me. It’s in the cuddly bit after the spoo. His head tilted downward - and I knew he was looking, and smiling - and the cunt planted a smacker on my eyeball.

I told my friend about this. And he said “oh, I get that. All that dried spit in the morning? Just lick your fingers and wipe your eyes”. If I’d had the presence of mind to reply, and not just stare in dumb horror, my reply would have come in two parts.

One. Jesus fucking Christ, you do it too? Am I going to have to put up with this shit for the rest of my life? And why did the answer come to you so quickly? Is it such a part of your daily life that you have an instant Top Tip answer to the perennial problem of crusty spit-sodden eyelids?

Just one of the millions of sex tips you can read in "The Fact That I Am Not Arrested For What I Do In Private Is Making A Mockery Of Freedom" magazine.

Two. I hadn’t even THOUGHT about waking up with sticky dried saliva on my eyelids, but thanks for adding that sickening nuance. Another reason I don’t want anyone kissing my damn eyes while I’m trying to sleep off a shag. What kind of nightmares would I have now, when my subconscious mind knows my eyes are slowly sealing over with another man’s flob?

So, it comes to a terrible stage in my life, when I have to actually take the lead in a sexual situation. Only I have to think of an excuse. I couldn’t ever let slip with a personal preference, in case they think I’m a prude. “What, don’t you like eye-kissing, you big baby?” they’d laugh. “Heavens no!” I’d be forced to reply. “I love it. Can’t get enough puckers on me peepers, fella!” To prove my point, I’d have throw my eyes at his lips and press down, laughing “see? SEE?”

So I’m going to carry a bag of cat hair with me. I’m allergic, see. And just before I go to sleep, I’ll grab a fistful of fur and shove it up my tear ducts. See if they want to kiss a swollen, streaming mess. See if that appeals. Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it? How do you like kissing them apples, freak?

Incidentally, the front page of Clitical (check the extra-helpful search tips) - in its opening paragraph - tells men about women’s two main sexual organs - the clitoris, and… wait for it… the MIND! It tells us “Men can learn how to use these two important organs to pleasure a women“. Hmm. With a women’s minds showing that level of linguistic competence, I shouldn’t wonder if their clits are all fucked up, too. Haha. WOMIN R STOPUD.

My porn ownership runs to two well loved mpgs and a DVD. I haven’t managed to get past the first five minutes of the DVD, because I really like the opening scene, and it seems a shame to skip it. So I watch it, just for old time’s sake. And five minutes later, with a soggy palm and a wilted parpus, it suddenly seems more important to waddle upstairs before my flatmates wake up.

So porn is still a semi-mystery to me. I know they get up to all sorts, and I know they’re capable of enjoying it twice as fast and five times more hammery than myself. Which is why, when I was introduced to a porn director at a birthday party, my eyebrows raised, my mouth opened slightly, and my brain went absolutely dead.

All I could think was… for Christ’s sake, don’t say the obvious thing. I’ve had those kind of jobs myself…

Barman…
“I’ll come in for a free drink then, shall I? Laugh!”
Comedy Writer…
“Go on then, tell us a joke. Aggressive Laugh!”
Computer Programmer…
“Let’s have hot Viking sex! Scowl!”

So, what were the obvious things for Porn Directors? I cycled through the first few things I wanted to say, knowing that I shouldn’t say them;

• Porn, eh? And they pay you for that, do they? Laughs!
• Hey, porn! Porn, eh? Phwoar! PORN!
• What’s the biggest fanny you’ve ever seen? Was it like… you know… a folding chair?
• So, everyone’s wanking on set, right? I mean, everyone’d have to be wanking on set.
• CAN I STAR IN EVERY FILM YOU’VE EVER MADE PLEASE
• Why don’t you make cloud porn? I’d watch cloud porn.
• You know those remakes? Like Ghostbreasters? Why don’t you do Boxing Helena? You could call it… er… Dirtboxing… Bellenders!
• Hubba! Hubba! WHOOP! Gnnnrrrr. Gnnnnrrr. Snibba snibba!
• Pornography. That’s nice. Did you nail Jesus’ palms into the cross yourself? I’m just asking. I mean he did fucking die for people like you. I just wondered if you wanted a more hands-on approach than most other people.
• Have you seen Animal Farm?

My internal inspiration was exhausted - I glanced desperately to the buffet table.

“Nice hoummous,” I said. It was nice hoummous. I’d eaten quite a bit of it. “Do you think it’s home-made?”

Having just arrived, he looked a little helplessly at the table. “I… I’m not sure,” he replied, and I smiled. And every word tearing jigsaw pieces of my skull away, I went on - “Well, with hoummous this nice, who cares who made it?”

He moved into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. I went for a shit.

Walking… one of the things that we have, as cool and scientific humans, eradicated. Why walk when we can drive, ski, and grab onto the legs of genetically supersized eagles?

One of the internet’s foremost authorities on walking is Wendy Bumgardner, and that’s the fearsome truth, sister. Go on, google it. With Wendy Bumgardner at the helm, I had to get me a piece of the hot walking action. So do you know what we did? We took our asses to Haslemere, damn! I’m talking South of Gibbet Hill!

I slept on the drive to Haslemere, stirring from my hangover only to shout “fucking hell”, and “stop turning left so much”.

The first thing that happened when we arrived was a hailstorm. So we sat in the car for a while, figuring that the car would be getting hailed on in any event, and there was no point us getting out. I mean, us getting hailed on wouldn’t help the car, and it was warm, too. So we listened to music for a bit. And almost - for a beautiful minute - forgot the reason we were there.

But the hail ended, like all dreams must.

PURE NATURE. Note in particular the book that dictated our every footstep, which is made from the trees that are nowhere to be seen in the background.

Following the directions of the Time Out Guide To Fucking Walks let us know, immediately, what hopeless city boys we were. One of the directions told us that we would need to “turn right by a prominent beech tree, then walk in the direction we were previously walking”.

So, what the fuck does a beech tree look like? Trees are just trunks and branches. Rob suggested that beeches were probably a bit more golden than other trees, which - in the absence of any golden fucking trees - helped us about fuck all much.

Plus, what’s walking in the direction we were previously walking? How FAR previously? Does that mean go the same way, or double back on yourself? Walk INTO the direction we were previously walking? Does it mean that? In a compromise manoeuvre, we walked around in a circle, to see if any of us had an arboreal epiphany and thought - “oh yeah, that’s a beech, I knew that, I just forgot thanks to all the USEFUL information I’ve been picking up throughout my life”.

These are the guys I went with, by the way. From the left, Dan, Rob and Darren. What the fuck they’re all smiling about is beyond me. Perhaps they were on a different walk.

I have, however, discovered how camp I can actually be. I’ve always known I’ve had a touch of the theatrical in me, but when I’m running down a muddy 1 in 1 incline (and I swear to you that I am not exaggerating when I say that this slope did a fucking LOOP THE LOOP) then I am a screaming, gay-ended faggot. This is the sound I made;

“Oooooh omigod jesus christ fucking hell ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah wooooooooooo FUCK STOP STOP NOW PLEASE SHIT FUCK GODDAMN PISS CUNT oh shitshit wheeeee”

Plus, trees kept hitting me in the face, and that’s not cool, no matter how many supermodels it happens to. Oh, here’s a picture of some nature. Awesome, huh?

Half-way around the walk, the book scheduled a break in a pub. Yeah. That happened. The book said “cross the road, walk 400 metres up a hill”. And I was trying to do that. Like the book said. But my friends thought that the book was somehow mistaken, so we decided to walk along the A287 for a mile in the wrong direction. Then walk back. Then walk past the hill again - the hill we were supposed to be walking up, and the hill that those other thirsty-looking walkers had just gone up - and instead of going up that hill, we walked down the A287 in the other direction. They should have called this book…

“Time Out’s Guide To Walking Along Major Roads With No Adequate Footpaths Or Even Any Horses To Entice To The Fence By Pretending You Have A Sugar Lump In Your Hand, Because The Only English Words Horses Understand Are Horsey And Sugar Lump”

We eventually hit Haslemere, and went to a Wetherspoons. I won £10 on a fruit machine, which made me do a little victory dance, and buy some celebratory flapjack. Perhaps, I thought, today was going to go my way after all!

On the way back, I played Bunyip and the irritating noise game with Dan. This was the most fun I’ve ever had, even though Dan won the irritating noise game by holding a gurgle for about three minutes.

WALKING IN THE COUNTRYSIDE IS THE BEST. I GIVE IT NINE OUT OF TEN.

This is me. In the hail. Hail doesn’t really show up in the photo, so you’re probably thinking I’m being a big puff, but it was there. And each hailstone was bigger than a church. (You can see some of it on my shoulder, though. It only looks normal because I’m so huge.)