X. Whatever next? Y? laughlaughlaugh!â„¢

I am going to apply this unique (and trademarked, note) comedy formula to the news of today, in my second news round-up! I’m going to gorge myself on facts during the plentiful summer months, storing some choice data as a nutritious milky paste in a flap of skin in my neck. Then, when you’re about to die from cold and starvation, I’ll let you out from between my legs, and let you gulk it out of my neck.

Oh, who am I kidding? As much as it pains me to say this, I’m not a penguin, and neither are you. So let’s stop living in a stupid fucking fantasy world for ten minutes and address the issues of the day, using my new comedy idea, outlined above.

I see from ananova that the Italian prime minister has promised not to have sex until after the election. I think they may have misheard him, assuming that the italian for “erection” and “election” are as phonetically close as the English words are!!!! (They’re not so this joke essentially needs to be removed) BUT SERIOUSLY, WHATEVER NEXT? Whoopi Goldberg sailing that weird helicopter/boat from Gentle Ben into a cow-shed?

But you know, if Whoopi Goldberg DID sail that boat into a cowshed, I think it’d look something like this!

Did you notice the “If X Did Y, I Think It’d Look/Sound Something Like This + Puns” joke, then? I learned that from Punt and Dennis. I went on some hella gruelling Kung-Fu course up a mountain during which I had to imagine what puns might arise if Victor Meldrew and Larry Grayson hosted an Indian cookery programme. It was like this.

Q1. Imagine what puns might arise should Victor Meldrew and Larry Grayson somehow end up opening an Indian Restaurant. Show your working.

That was brilliant, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But I’m not one to rest on my laurels, so I’m going to develop my formula by introducing a “thematic similarity” between x and y. This link, which I have called the funbilical cord, will shroud the original formula in a thick fug of hilarity. Hold on to your anusses! (If you’re too fat to hold onto your anus, sit in the bath)

I also see from the internet news sources that the 100th UK soldier has been killed in Iraq. This is a terrible waste of hot sexy soldiers, who should rightly be performing in movies called “Rookie Fucky Five Dorrar”. Way to ruin the porn industry, Tony B-Liar. SERIOUSLY, THOUGH - WHATEVER NEXT? (note the use of the keyphrase “whatever next” - this is absolutely fundamental to the joke).

More dead soldiers, Tony? MORE DEAD SOLDIERS? 101 dead soldiers all DEAD?

(This is a political joke, so you don’t have to worry about being funny. People will clap politely and say “I may not agree with you but thank God for democracy and I’m so glad we don’t live somewhere horrid like Iraq”)

Here’s a quick ready-reckoner of some of the most common situations that arise “in today’s Britain”, and “what’ll happen next if things carry on the way they are and no mistake”.

Well, that’s everything that’s happened in the last 60 years covered. Have you spotted an absurd trend, that has a hilarious logical conclusion? If so, use my amazing new comedy formula in the comments. Next time in Beyond Laughter, I’ll be studying shock humour in four chapters; old ladies pissing, old ladies swearing, old ladies vomiting, and old ladies laughing and jeering while a woman gets raped on the pinball table.

THE STORY SO FAR : He Grunted : I Laughed

A very quick entry out of pure, rabid emergency. Forgive the first-draft-feel (my writing is usually so fucking polished), but I’ve just been listening to a man have a wank.

It really was the most basic mistake of the toilet wanker; assuming that every slam of the door means one person has entered or left. This time, I had entered with a colleague who’d opted to piss rampant; I had gone into a cubicle, for a nice sit-down wee, and to try and complete Castlevania on Hard Mode.

So when the standy-wee man washed his hands and left, our hidden friend assumed he was alone, and that’s when the fapping began. (I had the volume on the DS turned down - the idea of a man having a toilet wank to a tinny-speakered rendition of “Dracula’s Tears” is pretty cool, but unlikely)

I know I couldn’t see it, but there is no other possible explanation for the duration and regularity of a sound that genuinely went “fap fap fap fap fap”. I put my head to the ground, and saw shoes. No porn spread around on the floor, just shoes.

I sat agog for a while, before scrambling for my phone or dictaphone. In my idiot contentment with the idea of playing the DS, though, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t have either on me. So I ran out of the toilet, as silently as possible, to get them. I needed a sly photo of those shoes, too, so I could do a Cinderella on him, the cheeky bogfapper.

Immediately outside, I ran into a woman who was looking around in that lost, stupid way that can only make a sane human feel rage. “I wonder if you can help me,” she whimpered, and I stifled a snarl and asked her what she wanted. Then I ignored her answer, preferring to stare at the door. After several attempts to listen to this lump of lady, it turned out that she had an expenses form that needed to be handed in. And what she had done was to staple her receipts to the expenses form, and not filled it in. Like the form had a fucking notice at the top reading “just staple your fucking receipts to the top, we’ll guess the rest love”.

I told her to fill it in, and that I’d be back in a moment. I ran through the office to get my shit. No-one runs in our office. Breaking out of a sullen slump is considered ostentatious. But he could finish at any moment, and this was important to me. I’ve had too many (two) funny times in those toilets, and I need a dramatic development, something to keep me going in this place.

Running past the girl, who was still writing her dumb fucking name, I went towards the toilets. And found myself staring at the shoes, now full of man. It’s the guy from the office opposite me. He’s the guy who grunts, wanks, says “Oh God” while shitting, and now he’s smiling at me. “Hi Jon,” he says. “Haha!” I laugh in reply, before turning to help my new best friend with her form.

So where do I go now? I’ve got no mystery. I’ve lost the whole sense of adventure, and worst of all I don’t have any photos of shoes or wanking sound clips to put on the internet. Sure I could make my own up, but that’d feel cheap, and I simply can’t bring myself to lie to you beautiful tykes like that.

So what do I do? Where can you go after looking into the smiling eyes of a man whose shoes you have watched, as he noisily milked himself?

Hi. I’m Log! I’ve been writing in this blog for about six months now, and I don’t feel like we know each other. Let me tell you about my day!

The first thing I do, every morning, is fling my legs gaily from the bedclothes, tap my foot on the floor - rat-a-tat-tat - and hurl myself into the rampant position. I open the window, and catch the bread that I slung into the sky on the previous night (I am a really good thrower). It’s toasted golden by re-entry, and covered in a thick layer of salty butter that I choose not to question.

I stride into my work, where I am the boss. I go into the kitchen, and say saying something amazing, like “Somebody make me a coffee, before I die from MONDAY”. By eleven o’ clock I’m bored of work, so I wink at someone, shout “Haha! Daventry won’t streamline itself!” before putting my hands on my hips and thrusting my groin at the door. In response, the door swings opens, and the force of my thrust carries me through.

Then, I walk around town for a bit. Thanks to a muscular deformity (by which I mean superpower) in my ankles, I’ve got this awesome skill - I can do a somersault without even bending my knees. I spend a lot of time standing outside restaurants, staring at couples eating their meals. They ignore me for a while, but eventually the woman gets upset, the man starts to get angry, and just as he stands up, I do this insane backflip, without even bending my knees. There’s a brief moment of indecision on his face, before I put a lady’s wig on, kiss him, and run off.

By 4pm I’m hungry, so I go into Greggs the Bakers and eat pretty much everything, by which I mean two sausage rolls. They’re best when they’re fresh, but sometimes they’re too hot, so I put the end to my mouth and blow, to cool the meat. Only thing is, my lungs are totally bionic and I often blow the meat into a pram, and the mother’s all like “Oh God there’s steaming pork on my baby” and I look unimpressed and say “if that was Scooby Doo it would have eaten it by now” and the woman says “it’s not Scooby Doo it’s a baby”, and I say “well if you’re just going to state the obvious I’m going home”.

When I get home, they’ll have delivered my new carpet. I get these amazing carpets imported every day. They’re like totally turbo-soft, and if you get really close you can see it’s made of fuckin’ dogs, which is totally amazing.

Awoo

It’s comfy as hell, like, but you have to get a new one every day as their little skulls break. After an evening of dancing around to The Spin Doctors and REM, you’re wading around in crushed jawbones, vitreous humour and adorable little puppy paws. I’ll tell you something for nothing, though - for microscopic puppies, they bleed like your fucking mother used to.

It’s nearly bedtime now, so I rinse the blood and pork off my face, and set about saying my prayers. I believe in Jesus who died on the cross, although I really don’t get what God was up, only having one Jesus.

If I was God I would have had around ten thousand Jesus, like one every 200 miles or something, so people would say “did you see that guy who rode around Bethlehem on a donkey?” and someone would say “no way there was some dude on a donkey in Nazareth or something like ON THE SAME DAY” and they would say “either that donkey is a fast as Log or he is a fucking miracle worker”.

And when boats were invented and people found other countries, they’d say “we worship this guy on a really fast donkey who you can’t kill” and they’d say “What, the bloke with the beard? We’ve got him too, fuckin a!” I mean all respect due to God, but I think he really fucked up the whole Jesus thing. I could definitely have done it better, especially sincewatching Bruce Almighty, which outlines most of the common “human with God’s power” pitfalls.

That’s the prayer I say every night, before chucking some bread into the sky and going to bed. I totally feel l like I know you all better, now I’ve told you all about myself. If you want to share anything of your own daily routine with me, feel free. I’m utterly, utterly going to give a shit.

Through some mix-up, I find myself briefly employed writing scripts for the adorable scamps. Children, as any advert for teaching will tell you, are honest, unprejudiced, and open-minded. When they’re not sitting on buckets and contemplating a day of well-meaning misadventure, they’re getting murdered in quarries by trusted grown-ups.

I went to school as a “young fucker”, and I was taking notes. So I know there’s three different kinds of child.

1. COOL KIDS : Can do bunny hops, but can’t unlock high-security doors with a laptop.
2. CLEVER KIDS : Can do sums without sticking their tongue out, can’t smoke without eyes watering.
3. FAT KIDS : First to get stuck in wet concrete, as their legs weigh so much it’s nearly impossible to lift them anyway. Good sacrificial friend in quicksand scenarios - use head as stepping stone.

Using this knowledge, I wrote a script that teaches children about the importance of voting.

(This is for boys, by the way. I’ve never really been a girl and didn’t spend my childhood asking them what it was like.)

CLEVER KID : What do you think is the difference between government and Parliament?
COOL KID : Hot Patootie. One is gnarly, and the other is barely tubular. Jah wobble!
CLEVER KID : This is important, Jazzy.
COOL KID : Learning is for crabs! Let’s play footbag!

TEN MINUTES LATER

COOL KID : You are the gayest at footbag. Jesters are gay.
CLEVER KID : I’m trying to teach you about parliamentary process!
COOL KID : Awww…. just dicking wit’ ya.
CLEVER KID : Are you ready to learn about Tony Blairs or not?
COOL KID : Yes, I’ve learned a valuable lesson. Voter apathy is like a big fat bum.
FAT KID : What’s happening, guys? *pant pant* Oh dear, a huge food has fallen out of my pocket. *eats it*

This is totally the easiest job in the world. Roald Dahl wasn’t so cool. And JK Rowling is some kind of piss-addled twat-fright. Because it’s so transparent that I’m utterly down with all manner of kids, I’ve decided to write more… and give them away for free! To you! (the kids)

HISTORY : HAROLD AND THE TIME MACHINE
(the idea of using a time machine as a theatrical aid to studying history is genius and 100% mine)
*FFFZZZTTT*
HAROLD : Wow, is this really Egyptian England?
MUMMY : You bet! We’re having a feast, grab a toffee apple and join the conga!
HAROLD : Where are we going?
MUMMY : You don’t know?? We’re going to see Anubis! He’s the god of the desert and death and that.
HAROLD : I’ll put that into my edu-puter!
MUMMY : Look, a cat! Lets worship it.
HAROLD : No thanks I believe in Lord Jesus Christ who died for my sins.
MUMMY : Is Jesus a cat?
HAROLD : *turning to camera* He’s certainly a cool cat to me.

MATHS IN 10,000,000AD
RHOMBUS : Wow, I just evolved legs! I’m going to walk to the shops.
FAT KID : Cool! I have similarly evolved into a sweet shop owner. I wonder who my first customer will be?
RHOMBUS : Hi! This is my first time in a sweet-shop, so what should I have?
FAT KID : Do you want anything with acute angles?
RHOMBUS : Ptui! No thanks! Acute angles are less than ninety degrees!
FAT KID : Pardon?
RHOMBUS : I said, acute angles are less than ninety degrees.
FAT KID : I’m sorry if I appear distant, it’s just that there’s an emormous food behind you. Excuse me, Food, but will you marry me?
FOOD : It’s very sudden but yes.
FAT KID : This is the happiest day of my life. *howling* Dinner!

GEOGRAPHY : HAROLD IN THE BAFFIN ISLANDS
(modes of physical transport to aid the study of geography is genius and totally 110% my idea forever IDST)
HAROLD : I wish I’d never brought you with me now!
COOL KID : Chillbo, Jah Rule. I’m just super-tweaking the c0-ordinates.
HAROLD : Oh no! We’re headed towards the icy wastelands of Baffin Island!
COOL KID : Jah Kong! Mega mega white thing on toast!
*crash*
HAROLD : Groo! My head. Well, I suppose you’re very “cool” now! Now that we’re stranded in the Arctic wastes of Canada’s Baffin Island, the fifth largest island in the world!
COOL KID : Snork. On the contrary. The crash landing knocked my cool out, and now that polar bear is running away with it! Duh-huhr! Goink!
HAROLD : Stop that Polar Bear!
POLAR BEAR : Wassamadda Hot-Lips? Chillax, etc! Ag ag ag ag, Olive!
COOL KID : Oh, no! :P I’ve bitten my tongue. Theh theh theh.

Now you’re full to the ass with education, try these comprehension exercises.

1. On the left is a picture of Anubis. If you met Anubis on the street, and he said “I’m a god, guess what I’m god of”, what would you say? He says he doesn’t mind if you get it wrong.
2. Can you foresee any complications in the marriage between a fat boy and a pile of food? Can you come up with a suitable analogy, like “a perfect vacuum marrying a plenum”, or “that German guy who advertised for people who wanted to be killed and eaten”?
3. Do you think that Jesus is a cool cat? If not, explain why not, imagining that he is there, listening to you, and is going to go and tell God straight after.
4. Can you think of any valid reason why a six-sided shape is not called a sexagon?
5. How would you end the Baffin Island story?
   1. The cool kid finds his cool, resumes being cool, then realise that it wasn’t his cool at all - proving that cool comes from inside?
   2. The Polar Bear feeds the cool to his cubs, who immediately start breakdancing. Choked by his first fatherly instincts, Jazzy the Cool Kid stays on the Baffin Island to teach the cubs Ultimate Frisbee until they are eighteen.
   3. Harold gets cross at a penguin that shouldn’t be there.

There you fuckin’ go. There’s some red-hot education, bitches.

The reason I’ve not been updating recently is because StumbleUpon has eaten my every computing hour. If you use it too, add disappointment as a friend, it feels terribly lonely Stumbling around on your own.

Getting the last tube home is great. First, you have the sense of satisfaction of thinking “I stayed out the latest, I win at London”. Sure, you can stay out later, but night buses are like guessing too high on The Price Is Right. You were too excitable, you went too far, and you lose. I suppose you could get a taxi, but Ken Livingstone says they rape you. Don’t get me wrong, I find the idea of being overpowered as erotic as the next man. I’m just not convinced (yet) that being raped is as much fun as it sounds.

So last night, I was in a commanding postition. I’d watched a bit of comedy, been out with nice people, drank from a smuggled-in wine bottle, and got the last tube home. I was happy as a pig in a wig and/or blanket. Here are the last six stops of my journey.

Shepherd’s Bush : Self-Congratulation
Not only am I doing really well on this Kakuro, I was introduced to the guy who compered the evening, and I didn’t say anything crass or embarrassing. Meeting comedians, for me, is as bad as porn directors. Usually, I simply don’t allow myself to say anything that I think anyone else could have said to them, ever. But, as we stand, facing each other, the pressure to say something builds. And when I finally do say something, I realise that people don’t say certain things for a reason.

But no, I was nervous but capable, and I ended up coming out of the brief exchange entirely without cringe. It’s hard to believe that some people have such comportment and control that they must feel like this every day.

White City : Meandering Racism
Ah, White City! The first stop to be out of doors. Until I lived on the Central Line, I always got White City and Chalk Farm confused. I assumed - on an unconscious level, I think - that they were next to each other. White City, populated by 1970s racists, and Chalk Falm hosting swathes of watermelon-sucking caricatures. The mayors didn’t get on, and White City would frequently complain of voodoo smells coming from their neighbours’ houses.

The residents of Chalk Farm, meanwhile, were building an underground laboratory in order to do coloured liquid experiments. The fact that I found lots of black men in lab coats funny (look, they know science!) just goes to show how institutionally racist I was, and I apologise by using the past tense to artificially distance myself from these awful thoughts.

Anyway, the fresh air made me realise that I needed to go to the toilet. That was the point of this stop, as far as narrative is concerned. It’s just a very slim story, so I’m padding it out with crap.

East Acton : Desperation
I’m in the Actons, now. East, North, West, then home. As the pressure in my bladder builds with terrifying speed, I assess the situation. I’m on the last tube home, so I can’t get out, piss, and take the next one. There is one man, sitting opposite me, who looks asleep. A way down the carriage, there is a discarded McDonald’s cup, rolling around the floor.

> get cup
You wake the sleeping man. He grinds your bones to dust.

I can’t piss into the cup while he’s there - the idea of him waking up, and seeing me point my drink-schrivelled cock into a cardboard cup is too vivid. So I have to get rid of the man. And by “get rid”, I mean “pray to any god that’ll listen that he gets off before me”.

North Acton : Relief
Snorting awake, the man looks startled and jumps off at North Acton, so I’m alone. I pick up the McDonalds cup and gently, precisely, fill it with piss. To the flimsy sodden brim. There’s still some piss left in me, but I use all my unfocussed, drunken strength to stem the flow. Having let my Kegel regime lapse, this doesn’t quite work, and I squirt a fair amount down my leg.

Trying to put the lid on the cup, I realise it’s impossible - the paper is too soggy from the previous drink. Any pressure simply bends the cup, and pours piss onto my hands. Now, I’m not particularly bothered by piss, but having a leg and palm covered in cooling piss, and holding a cup full of the hot stuff, I do feel like there’s something wrong. It feels right at this stage to remind everyone that I am 32 years old.

West Acton : Awkwardness
I sling the piss off the train at this stop, that’s the plan. Obviously I don’t litter, I just tip my piss out and resume feeling pleased with myself. There was a point tonight where I felt good about myself, and I’m keen to recapture it.

Sadly, the one person… hang on, let me rephrase that. Sadly, the one fucking person waiting to get on the train at West Acton is waiting at my door. I am appalled. There are 30 sets of doors on this train, and this cunt is slowly drawing up to mine.

He seems to be a nice man. He’s certainly keen to follow the polite rule that you let people get off the train before you get on. So he pauses, then looks a bit confused when I don’t get off. I pull a drunken face that is the closest I can get to innocently whistling. It’s kind of like a smiling “who, me?” with too many teeth showing. He gets on. My hot cup of piss? Still in my hand.

Ealing Broadway : Home
There’re no bins at Ealing Broadway. They have clear plastic bags, which show things like electronic devices, bombs, and piss. So I’m not dropping my cargo into those, it’d look too much like what it was. My sense of drama would require a posh woman in a fur stole to say “darling, that man just emptied some tiddles into a bin bag”. Her companion, a gruff major with a bushy moustache would harumph, and tell her to stop fussing.

My one shred of luck is that the barriers are open. As drunk and unstable as I am, it’s a relief to not have to rummage around for my travelcard whilst slinging yellows over my chest. Those barriers have never seemed more like a Finish line, the bin outside Budgen’s has never felt more like a goal. I drop the piss, with a last big slosh over my wrist as I’m forced to tilt it enough to get into the hole, and walk home like a spy who’s just done a really hard mission.

It’s not the best end to a story in the world - could have used more ninjas - but hey, I’m sorry if my life doesn’t have enough punchlines. Wow, tough crowd.

Stuck for somewhere to drink beer with your grandfather? Try these discrete venues - all bar-staff are trained not to stare in disbelief as you rest your balls in the ashtray.

Golden Tudor Woof * * ** ** *
An old-fashioned pub, which reflects the personality of its owner, a golden labrador. It’s immensely difficult to get served, but she will let you comb her hair once she’s got used to you.

Kismet Wine Lounge *_*
Who was the best female lead in Cheers? Shelley Long and Kirstie Alley wrestle over this accolade on every table - in Lego form! On kidney-shaped table 14, Shelley has legged up Ms Alley and is sitting on her neck - move to lagoon-themed table 9, and Kirstie has given Ms Long a nasty Chinese Burn. As you might expect, the customers usually end up arguing, too - which is why purple knockout gas sprays regularly from the brass vents.

Crimshaw’s Island **
Its exotic location - a tiny shard of rock 120 km west of the coast of Cornwall - belies its very dreary interior. Hewn from cliché, a fat man stares, his squat dog dozing by the fire, and a brusque middle-aged barmaid with a gnarled face wordlessly clonked our pints on the counter. The beer garden, however, was terrific - our screams were torn from our throats by the full, merciless fury of the grey Atlantic, choking us with its bitter salt spray, roaring like the devil unbound, seemingly trying to puncture a hole in the featurelessly bleak, steel sky above, to welcome in whatever cold apocalypse we all truly deserve . Quiz on Tuesdays.

The Goat Anne Project ***1/2
Anne is not a goat - yet - but follow her amazing journey in this delightful cabaret-bistro where everything is a pound what everything yes everything. Every Thursday, she gets her hooves put on - every Saturday, she kicks them off doing the Can-Can. If the idea of a goat-women not learning from her mistakes doesn’t make you angry, it’s a must. A tip for under-18s wanting to get ripped and knife-crazy… the bouncer adores Kit-Kats.

Torn Assholl ******~
Confrontational new bar in Vulmdon. The toilets are mostly shaped like wailing ladies’ mouths. The ones that are wincing with their mouths shut have a hollow skull-top, so just piss into the wig and it’ll soak through with time.

Teeny-Weeny Lambda Kappa Mu
Ever wondered what it’d be like if you stumbled across a miniaturised frat party? The kegs of beer that they bought with a fake ID barely wetting your lips? Until now, stuffy old Englishmen would have harumphed and said it wasn’t possible - but advances in Nerd technology have shown them! Watch out - the draught caused by you removing your coat might blow off the bras of the poolside revellers!

The Turning Of The Screw ***
Interactive art pub in the heart of Glossopston. Experience first to third hand Tracey Emin’s attempt to reconstruct famous murders using only her own ear-splitting screams, while a coal-faced clown under the table paws at your legs with a shrivelled sow. All the drinks are foul.

The Fangolier *** **
Featuring sumptuous terrains, convincing water and smoke effects, this pub gets as close as I’ve seen to a truly free-roaming experience. Customers are faced with a myriad of decisions - all of which affect the final outcome of the night. The attention to detail is superb - shoot a man in the right leg, and he reacts immediately to the damaged area, even shouting “fuck, my right leg”. If I had any complaints, it would be the lack of power-ups and shit-filled toilets.

Fanny By Gaslight * * *
Adorable gothic pillars and exquisite candelabras are dwarfed by a fire-breathing vagina that takes up the entire ceiling. Drinks are oily, and the chairs, although tiny, seat up to fifteen.

Barald’s ( * )
As you make your way across the astroturf to the revolving central bar - shaped like a golden clam crying out in delight - a beautiful, complex pseudomantra plays on a Hammond organ. It’s only when you get to the bar that you realise the grinning barman who you have been cheerfully waving to on your journey is actually a wax simulcram of a man, the facial features melted in with a cigarette. The pseudomantra reaches a curious, tumbling phase, like increased gravity, and you become aware of the movement at your feet. You crouch down; hens. Thousands and thousands of tiny, brightly coloured hens - every hue of the rainbow - from the size of a pinhead up to roughly a fingernail, wandering and scratching amongst the miniature forest of astroturf. And as you bounded merrily over here, you must have crushed… hundreds. As you feel the gorge rise in your throat, the pseudomantra suddenly reaches a screeching, piercing peak - as a man-sized wasp drops onto you from the ceiling, its every surface - your scrabbling hands discover, just before you black out - covered in humming, motile hair.

WARNING: Due to its proximity to the station, Barald’s can get very crowded with tourists on Friday and Saturday nights.

This half-baked page was extracted from a volley of emails between Raz and myself. We were both trying to avoid being the one to make the decision about which pub to drink in.

Here’s Irene. She’s a bit of a cunt, is Irene. Her allotted, and happily embraced, duty in life is to sit at the end of the bar being this bit of a cunt. The ends of her mouth have never really been asked to curl upwards, so she’s stuck with a soggy bit of gob-flap and chin that looks a bit hinged. Also, she can just about wipe her arse with her tits.

Here is how she got borned.

Don’t be sucked in by the gormless face. She’s alive in there, somewhere. Don’t give her sympathy because she looks, and in all likelihood is, utterly retarded. She isn’t one of the giggling, lovely dumbers that you don’t mind giving up a Saturday to play with.

My dealings with Irene started when I was running the family pub, so they could go on holiday. I was happily serving the regular punters, when this malevolent flesh-sac hauled her spongy bulk to the serving hatch.

“So why are you here then?” she asked.
“They’ve gone on holiday,” I replied, with a joyful smile and a slinky flick of my hips.
“Who, Liz and Jeff?”

There was a relish in her voice, and I knew what was happening. Allow me to explain. I’ll be as brief as possible.

My dad opened the pub with my brother. My mum and my sister-in-law help out, as do I when I’m in Nottingham. This means that a successful older gentleman is seen working with a rather beautiful woman much his junior; the only conclusion can be that they’re stinking up their gender-specifics every chance the dirty sex-rats get. So I’m suddenly, absolutely sure that Irene is going to tell me my father is fucking my sister-in-law.

“No, the whole family.”
A short pause - for effect. She knows exactly what she’s going to say next. It’s in her blood.
“Well, it’s your brother I feel sorry for.”

Oh, you stylish bitch. That lordly tactic of the experienced and shameless gossip; say nothing, say everything, just colour yourself as a concerned observer. I have to be very careful. I have to be as good as she is. I’m going to be sly, give nothing away. I am a panther, I wear slippers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Irene.”

Excellent. But Irene was expecting this; her cardigan bristled with static charge from her impending attack.

“You know.” She was pressing down the fire button and holding in down, charging her main weapon. In the seconds it took me to think of any response, she audibly sucked the inside of her head, repositioned her arms, and slurped;

“Of course, it’s your brother as I feel sorry fer.”

My weapon flies from my hand. I have nothing to say in reply to this. I cycle through traditional Coronation Street replies; “you want to look closer to home, our Reeny”- “save your pity, it’s not welcome here” - etc. But I can see how it’d all pan out. She’d come back with “if you can’t see what’s under your nose, it’s no lookout of mine”, sling a tit over her shoulder and huff out.

Irene is one of those people who’re impenetrable with routine and a complete inability to suffer self-doubt. As a person, she’s so visibly hideous and transparently fuelled by spite that it must take an awesome amount of delusional self-justification simply to survive. So I decide to ignore her, and pretend there’s something in the kitchen that needs doing.

As it turns out, there is all the ingredients for a cheese and ham salad roll, so that cheers me up no end.

When I come out again, she doesn’t waste a second. She chooses her weapon - repetition;

“As I say, it’s your brother as I feel sorry for.”

But me, I’m the player of the game, I’m the dancer of the dance. I’ve got something up my sleeve.

“Oh, fuck off, you nasty-minded bitch.”

She replies with something about seeing what’s under her nose, I went on to say something about looking closer to home and keeping her beak out of what doesn’t concern her. So much, I wanted to bend down, pick up one of her tits, and shout “HOW CAN SOMETHING SO EMPTY TAKE UP SO MUCH SPACE?”

Well, at least I’d drawn her attention away from my family - now she saw me as the enemy. As much dirt in the world as there is, it turned out that the only muck she had on me was… well, that there’s a TV show coming out this year based on the Law of the Playground.

“Well, at least I don’t need Channel 4,” she spat.

I felt quite put out that she didn’t know about my gayness. I would have hoped for “well, we all know about you”, with a snarling nod at my groin. But “I don’t need Channel 4″ seemed like a bit of a confusing anti-climax. To be on the safe side, I carried on swearing at her.

And then she left.

> wait
TIME PASSES…

I met her again, when I went back home for Christmas. And when she confronted me about the fact that she’d been barred from the pub, I faffed to get my voice recorder working - so we join the conversation half-way through.

Listen to her, listen to her voice… 300k. wma.

Having the voice recorder made me think we needed a punchline to the conversation, so that explains my final comment. Other than that…

“The others ain’t got the bottle to say it to his face”
Irene, you didn’t say it to his face. You waited until he went on holiday, then said it to me. I can’t think of anything less like saying it to his face, than saying it while he’s in another fucking country.

“I didn’t say nowt derogative I just said to him a certain thing, but he must have said sommat to his dad. So I’m barred.”
Why are you saying “him”, Irene? I’m here. You said it to me. I told my dad. I got you barred. Are you temporarily blaming this thing on a mystical third party, so you can bitch without causing direct friction with me? God, you’re good!

“Coloured Melvin”
I loved saying “Coloured Melvin” back to Irene, it felt so naughty in my mouth. Especially as there’s only one Melvin, coloured or otherwise, in the area.

So, it’s with this life-affirming exchange behind me, and a new love of saying “fuck” and “cunt” in the same sentence… I bring you the serialisation of YOUNG IRENE IN THE SPACE CORPS!

SCENE 1. RECRUITMENT ROOM
IRENE APPROACHES THE RECRUITMENT OFFICER’S TABLE
Irene : I want to be a space soldier. I want to fight the spider menace.
Officer : I’m sorry, our army is full at the moment. Could you come back tomorrow when a few have died?
Irene : Oh, aye. It’s not the only thing that’s full around here, is it?
Officer : Excuse me?
Irene : You know.
Officer : No, I don’t. It makes no sense. Even if something to do with me was full - and I presume you mean my testicles, because you looked at them when you said it - I still don’t know what you’re trying to say.
Irene : Of course, it’s your poor wife I feel sorry for. She so wanted children.
[The Recruitment Officer moves into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, and tries to remember if he's cheating on his wife or is gay]

SCENE 2. ON THE PLANET OF THE SPIDER MENACE
Irene : Well, it’s just so fucking childish. I didn’t even say nothing.
Phyllis : So fucking childish.
Irene : I didn’t say nothing. And it’s only because I said it to his face. People don’t like honesty, our Phyllis.
Phyllis : Well, if they can’t see as what’s under their noses, that’s their lookout.
Irene : Never a truer word, Phyllis. Of course you know the spider queen’s carrying his seed.
Phyllis : [tuts] It’s the fate of the human race I feel sorry for.

SCENE 3 . IN THE QUEEN’S CAVERN
Irene : Nice place, this.
Queen : RARCK
Irene : Of course it was nicer before. Doesn’t feel like a home anymore, does it?
Queen : GRARRCK
Irene : You know.
Queen : ACK ACK ACK
Irene : At the end of the day, you’re the Queen, you’ve got to expect people to talk. But you should just let it wash over your head, like a duck. But Melvin the Many-Coloured saw you coming out of the hospital. And the wig’s not fooling anyone.
Queen : MOUURRGGGG
Irene : Of course, it’s the billions of eggs in your sac I feel sorry for. They shouldn’t have to lose a mother so young.
[The Queen scuttles off to make a Quazlo and Xerxes sandwich. Some time later she returns. The two sit in silence for twenty minutes.]

THE END