Anna Soubry MP
Neneh’s Brother, Eagle Eye Cherry
This pain au chocolat
I heard you wanted me to type up all the scripts for every Doctor Who episode ever, so I did. Cheers
DOCTOR ONE: THE GRUMPY ONE
Here we are at last! In the year 12 million BC
Doctor! It’s a dinosaur
Yes, you stupid girl. It is a dinosaur. Here, have a little medal. It’s a medal for having no filters between your eyes and fucking mouth. Like I can’t see it’s a fucking dinosaur. Anything else you’d like to point out? There’s a rock over there. And a few trees. Why don’t you just point at, and name, everything around us? Because THAT WOULDN’T BE BORING OR SHIT
Doctor, what would happen if I encouraged those two Triceratops to fall in love
I wouldn’t recommend that! Stop matchmaking those Triceratops you wee shitey bastard
DOCTOR TWO: THE WHIMSICAL ONE
THE HIGH COUNCIL OF ZANZIBAR
Doctor Who, you stand accused of fannying about in the time streams. How do you plead to this
Would you like some candy floss? It tastes delicious, and you can stuff it into your ears while I play the piccolo if you like
THE HIGH COUNCIL OF ZANZIBAR
This is a very serious charge, The Doctor Who. Please stop pulling the flags of the world out of that top hat
Ohoho! What what. How are you saying that with a mouth full of ostrich feathers?
THE HIGH COUNCIL OF ZANZIBAR
[spitting out the feathers in huffy outrage]
Wh-wh-what! This case is dismissed due to levels of wackiness that are out of our jurisdiction. Doctor Who you can go on your next adventure now.
Oh no I’ve trod on a Jelly Baby
DOCTOR THREE: THE FIGHTY ONE
Doctor! I have studied the aliens and it looks like they have a weak spot: they are weak to a punch in the dick
Excellent, Sandy. I’m going to pummel the shit out of these pricks
But wait! Don’t you need to reverse the polarities of the neutron flow to their nutbags?
No, I reckon this and the next seven adventures will probably be OK with loads of punching. I’m gonna punch you too.
DOCTOR WHO TURNS TO THE CAMERA
And you. Oh yes, I’m going to enjoy punching you most of all, James Lovatt of Ramsay Drive, Arnold, Nottingham, England, Planet Earth
DOCTORS FOUR AND FIVE: THE CONJOINED ONES
I don’t remember this era of Doctor Who
No, I think it’s mainly a way of doing two doctors at once, after realising writing eleven scripts was a bit much
It certainly seems that way. He’s even foregone including a plot, opting for the easy “breaking the fourth wall” path of knowing half-apology
Yeah, talk about having your lazy cake and eating it, while sat on your fat creative arse. And this flagellating self-reference is all a bit Jimmy Corrigan for my liking
So, right. I suppose we’re going to do something gay now. Like make out.
It wouldn’t fucking surprise me. It’s just the kind of shit he’d think he could get away with. What a moribund fuck
Oh no I’m regenerating help
Me too shit bye bye everyone
DOCTOR SIX: THE SEXY ONE
What’s up Doctor? I hear there’s a topless Cyberlady on the loose in Leicester
Yes. I sense a colossal disturbance in the fabric of the universe.
We should definitely go and check that out.
No, Clara. I think you misunderstood. I was referring to the colossal disturbance in the fabric of the universe in my trousers, created by my Timedick
Doctor not again
Hahahahahaa! YES! AGAIN
I’ll fetch K-9
Yes you will! I’m two thousand years old and I fuck tin dogs
IT IS IN MY NATURE TO OBEY
DOCTOR SEVEN: THE ONE WITH CELERY
HELLO ACE! DO YOU WANT SOME CELERY
No Doctor! We’ve already eaten so much celery
WELL JUST HOLD ONTO THIS BIT UNTIL YOU’RE PECKISH DEAR
Doctor I don’t even like celery
DOCTOR [MAD SERIOUS ABOUT THIS]
Get out of my TARDIS you horrible shitbag
You never even asked if I liked celery. You just made me eat it again and again, to the exclusion of foods with essential nutrients
I can’t hear you Ace. Perhaps if you had some celery in your mouth I’d be able to listen, and eventually address, your concerns
EATING CELERY SOUNDS
You’re so pretty with celery leaves coming out of your mouth. Never stop eating celery Ace, even when I’m not there. I’ll know if you’ve ever stopped Ace. I’m a Timelord Ace
DOCTOR EIGHT: THE SHORT-LIVED ONE
Hello I am a nurse
Hello I am the doctor
I find your anatomy quite appealing
Hey cool let’s actually fall in love because that’s what I do now
Whoa it’s the Master
What what in the butt
I said what what in the butt
What is he saying darling
He’s saying what what in the butt doctor. It’s a viral song from 2007 by Samwell
You wanna do it in my butt? In my butt? OK!
THEY ALL DANCE AS A NEW MILLENNIUM DAWNS
DOCTOR NINE: THE ANGRY ONE
Woof! I am the Big Bad Wolf
What’s going on Rose
Bad Wolf Bad Wolf Bad Wolf
Give it a rest love
THIS ISN’T WHAT I WANTED AFTER KILLING ALL THE TIMELORDS IN THE MOST UPSETTING CHAPTER OF MY LIFE TO DATE
Rose I Love you
WOOF WOOF I RUV ROO TOO
DOCTOR TEN: THE UPBEAT LOVELY ONE
Hello Donna Noble! You’re brilliant. You know what else is brilliant? Milk! I love milk. But not as much as I love cookies! Don’t you love cookies? Of course you do. Who doesn’t love cookies? I had a cookie once that was made out of dog shit. It wasn’t the best cookie in the world if I’m being honest. Still though, it WAS a cookie, and that’s got to count for something, hasn’t it?
Fuckin’ ell, it’s a dalek
No! Daleks! I hate Daleks. They’re not very nice you see. Now I’m ever so angry. Really I am. Those Daleks have got me hopping mad Donna. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry Donna, I’m a proper grouchypuss
Doctor, they’ve really fucked up the universe this time. I can’t see any way back from this one.
Don’t worry! The episodes like that, when there is no legitimately foreseeable way to restore the universe, always have the MOST satisfying conclusions!
DOCTOR ELEVEN: THE PARADOXICAL ONE
Let’s listen to some music Amy Pond
But you’ve only got two CDs! One by an Irish girl band, and another by a multinational Korean Pop Group! And you can never decide which one to play!
That’s true! The Corrs and f(x) are totally interchangeable as far as I’m concerned
Next week on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, Goldie Hawn will dance in a bikini for your delight!
Doctor Twelve is sub judice and cannot legally be involved in a stupid script by a fucking idiot at this stage
If you want to listen to an unfinished version of this blog post read out by three chuckling fucks, why not listen to Regular Features?
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I was thrilled to hear about a book called Bear.
Not so thrilled that I bought it, you understand. And nowhere near thrilled enough to consider reading it. I was, however, thrilled enough to read a punchy synopsis on a Reddit thread. It is a book where a woman whops them out for a literal bear.
It was written by an adult woman, too, which means the phrase “I whopped em out guys it was so awesome” never appears in the book. Probably. Like I say, I haven’t read it.
My understanding of the book is this: a librarian goes on holiday to meet up with a Bear. Through a series of misunderstandings, clerical errors, and missed memos, they end up having sex. Whatever actually happened, the book popped so many eyes in literary circles that it was given an award, in the hope that the book would eat the award and go away.
The book did not go away, and is still about a woman and a bear having it off in Canada. There have been a number of covers:
Here, Bear and Librarian are enjoying their brief period of notoriety, and trying out for Dancing With The Stars.
Bear has now let himself go, but Librarian doesn’t care.
This book aims to surprise the reader. Page One reads “haha! you bought this book, and it is about a woman and a bear DOING IT. What are you sick in the head or something. Ew you pervy shit”
To save you the cost and effort of reading this book, I have written what I imagine it is like.
1: JENNIFER HAS A WANK ON A RUG
(SHIT THAT IS A SPOILER SORRY)
Jennifer ran her fingers through the bear pelt. The hair felt so soft, so enveloping. She buried her face in it, poking her tongue out a couple of millimetres then chuckling to herself. If only those fuddy-duddies in the local abstinence group could see her now! It made her wish that she was having sex with a real bear, and not just having a big holiday wank on a rug in a log cabin in Canada.
(I totally ruined that pull-back-to-reveal with the title of the chapter, sorry)
Sighing, Jennifer innocently emptied another ladleful of honey into her bra, and naively slid a third picnic basket into her fanny, unaware that this is precisely the kind of behaviour that attracts randy bears. As far as she was concerned, it was just something she liked to do.
2: A BEAR APPROACHETHES
“Oh boy,” said a nearby bear. “I can smell de peekneed baskits! If I don’t gets me a hamper or suchlike before I have to hibernate like a bear do, I gonna go wild in the aisles!”
Suddenly an aromatic vapour trail shot up his nose, causing him to hover six inches in the air, and blast around the forest like a Light Cycle. “Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” he said, taking a sheer ninety degree corner between a maple tree and a different Canadian tree. “Oh baby that’s a what I like!”
But there was another smell, apart from the picnic basket. A smell that that bear didn’t understand at all. The smell of a nice lady’s fanny.
3: BEAR OBTAINS ENTHUSIASTIC CONSENT
The bear, whose name in English is Mr Wendell, crashed through the window of Jennifer’s hideaway forest. She had been fingering herself for some time now, but a combination of high altitude and low inspiration had got her no closer to producing her usual babbling brook of effluvia.
“Hello!” said Jennifer. “You seem nice!”
“Hello!” said Mr Wendell, deflating slightly. “I came here for the peekneed baskids. But you appear to be rolling around on the pelt of my mum.”
“Am I?” said Jennifer, saddened by the bears reaction, but secretly aroused by the realisation that she might be bisexual for bears. She felt a wall of eyes inside her open up inside her. This process was equally enlightening and alarming, as each eye swivelled wildly, seeing that it was part of a wall of similar eyes. A wave of angst rippled along the wall of eyes like electricity, as each pondered it’s position in the wall, and the existence of whatever brain it was that powered their thought.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve actually been convinced for years that my mum had been killed and replaced with a robot bear mum, so if anything it’s a relief to find out that I was right, and I wasn’t suffering from a classic Capgras delusion.”
“Let’s have sex maybe!”
“That sounds nice! Wait a minute, you said maybe. Mr Wendall ain’t down with begrudging, obliged, reluctant or awkward consent. Dat shit be balls. Give us some enthusiastic consent plz” Having delivered his important moral message about consent, Mr Wendell stopped doing his cool voice.
“Oh hell yeah,” said Jennifer. “Fuck me daft, I bloody loves it.” With that, her legs sprang open into a wide-on so impossibly wide and fierce that it blasted Mr Wendell’s hair into a radical new style. He could see all three picnic baskets, like a winner’s podium up a fanny. He winked to himself in the mirror.
4: A TWIST!
On the other side of that mirror, a robot bear mum said “BEEP BOOP DOOP”, as Jennifer cupped Mr Wendell’s balls and worked the shaft, like she had read to do in the magazines. Her eyes flashed red once, which is how robot bear mums convey the conflicting emotions of pride and resentment when their adopted flesh-child is getting his balls cupped for the first time. Then her eyes flashed blue twice, which is robot bear mum for “maybe I have been missing out on the pleasures of the flesh”, so she slathered itself in bacon and sausages, microwaved herself for a couple of minutes until she was sizzling, then rolled through the wall on her tank tracks.
“BEEP BOOP DOOP” said the robot bear mum, pulling a pastry brush out of a drawer in her chest and glazing Jennifer’s tits with egg. “That’s not very sexy,” protestedJennifer, just as Mr Wendell went into hibernation and landed on both of them.
5: A HAPPY ENDING
For however long it is bears sleep for, Jennifer and the robot bear mother fingered, scissored and did strap-ons, and when Jennifer got hungry she simply popped a sausage from Mrs Robo-Wendall’s makeshift body into her mouth. When Mr Wendell woke up they all agreed to get married and live happily ever after, which they proceeded to do forever and ever amen. BEARS
AND THAT IS THE STORY OF A BEAR SEX
This story was written for Regular Features Episode 98, and you can listen to that here
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Following is a list of the first 100 Police Academy films, as they appear in Halliwell’s Film Guide.
The first movie to focus entirely on the antics of the gay men in the Blue Oyster Bar, PA10 was ninety solid minutes of non-consensual dancing with a procession of increasingly straight men who unwittingly walk through the doors of their gay enforcement zone.
*The Hitched To A Herb spin-off series were not the celebrated cinematic releases that the Police Academy movies remain to this day. Hard Thyme, Jack and Dill, and Cumin My Anise all went straight to DVD.
This movie featured two Micro-Precinct spin-offs. “A Girl Gets A Job In The Micro-Precinct, Ruining It For The Men Who Just Wanted To Have Sexy Posters On The Walls While They Did Their Paperwork After A Hard Day Being Heroes”, and “Although She Did Turn Out To Be A Lesbian Who Shared Their Enjoyment Of The Posters, There’s Still Something The Boys Aren’t Happy About, And They Decline To Analyse Their Discomfort”
Police Academy 71 had an illegal title, and was never released.
(The Police Academy ownership of the lucrative Weekend At Bernies franchise was short-lived, and Bernie went on to feature instead in a number of Nightmare On Elm Street films. Tip! When the hell-hound resurrects Freddie Krueger by pissing a fireball onto his junkyard grave in Nightmare on Elm Street 4, check out the Bernie-led conga-line in the background!)
The Crow movies went on to have their own rich history, which you can read here.
A version of this list was read out for the 100th episode of the Regular Features podcast. With thanks to Simon Swatman.
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I recently performed, or “read out”, a piece I’d written for Reads Like A Seven, at the kind request of One Life Left‘s Ste Curran. What I wrote was a mixture of sincerity, confession and juvenile scatology, and because it’s 2,500 words, I’m not going to blather on here. TL:DR; I shit on my balls in Austria, I’m sorry, and am going to run a pub in Nottingham.
Because this Reads Like A Seven was part of the Stoke Newington Literary Festival, I will be using fancy dividing graphics. And there’s footnotes, because I’m Terry Pratchett now and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I recently resigned from my role as Associate Editor on the Official Xbox Magazine.
I had no idea what an Associate Editor was, until I was made one. One who associates freely with editors, perhaps. One with access to the editor’s restroom, where one is spritzed with editorial fragrances by a team of beautiful publisher-funded swans, who time their honking to conceal your editorly farts.
It was only when my duties and salary didn’t change, that I realised that Associate Editor, in my case at least, is what happens when your boss thinks that having a forty year old staff writer on the team is beginning to make the whole magazine look tragic ((This is unfair to the boss I’m talking about, and I suppose, myself. The role was offered honestly, and taken thankfully. I’m basically conjuring self-deprecation.)).
I’m leaving the games industry to run a pub in Nottingham, but before I leave, I wanted to get my affairs in order. And the only appropriate way to do that is with a list of apologies.
I’m sorry to anyone who missed my gently coded warnings. When I said “we can’t wait to find out more,” at the end of a passionless regurgitation of a feature list, that was the closest thing I could professionally say to “I don’t even know what this game is”. The first time I heard someone say “we’ve really listened to our community”, I was impressed, and reported keenly on this consumer-orientated and responsive attitude. By the end of my career, all I wanted was one developer to say “we’ve ignored our community, as they are plainly fucking idiots”.
And when I said “this game isn’t going to change the world” in the last paragraph, I meant “I’m sorry I waited this long to try and tell you that this game looks utterly shit”.
I didn’t mean to generate unwarranted hype, and I’m sorry if you feel like your life is burdened with a hype surplus. But from inside my cell, I was trying to warn you.
I will apologise, for one last time ((My Spore review has been an ongoing joke between me and a few PC Zone readers for a long time, and I worry that the joke of “owning it” has run its course)), to anyone who bought Spore as a direct result of me scoring it 95.
In my defence, it wasn’t a terrible game. It was good, even. But when magazines score out of 100, the 90 percent zone works like Star Trek’s warp speeds, the exact science of which was refined in The Next Generation. Every percentage point above 91 is an exponential leap, tending to infinity at Warp Factor 10. If PC Gamer ever scored a game 100 per cent, time space and human thought would almost certainly collapse.
In this environment, a score of 95 was scientifically reckless, and I’m sorry for using percentages that I clearly didn’t understand.
I’d like to apologise to you, for making an over-long and 27-year-old Star Trek reference. But that’s how I’ve survived these last eight years. Drop one grenade of relatively niche information, then wade through the rubble of assumed competence.
There have been many times when that assumption has slipped.
A time that’s lodged in my brain was at the Codemasters office in Guildford. I was previewing a racing game for a prestigious magazine. It was, I dunno – DiRT or something – and they offered me a go on their sit-down driving machine toy with the wobbly chair. You have never seen an assumption of competence slip so quickly and so far. I shunted, careened, and failed to steer at crucial steering-appropriate moments, such as “corners” and “the entire fucking game”.
In the reflection of the screen, I could see the developers glancing at each other, and I tried to laugh, but the noises I made was shrill and strangled. It was a howl of anguish.
I gave that game a psychotically enthusiastic write-up, knowing that I had lost any right to criticise an entire genre for the rest of my career. Racing games: I am sorry.
I’m sorry to every non-straight, non-conforming person who read my writing. I was given a voice, and I’m not sure I used it effectively.
I’m gay, for what it’s worth. I’ve come out so many times now that it’s easy to assume everyone knows. I’ve had the pleasure of watching women’s and gay issues become more discussed in this industry, and I’ve been excited to see transgender topics getting more and more sunlight. The writing of righteous, belittled and angry people has humbled and enlightened me.
But I rarely added my own voice. Even something as pitiful as gendered pronouns felt like a bold political choice. For a while, I basically did what Nintendo did with Tamodachi Life: made gay people – more specifically, a gay person, hello – a little more invisible.
Not in my day to day life, of course: I was out and perfectly happy amongst the open-minded folk of games journalism. But it’s too easy to forget that audience of straight young adults who might have benefited from having to think “Oh. So he’s… OK.” And more importantly, it’s too easy to forget the non-straight children who might have clutched desperately at any reassurance I could have offered.
It’s too easy to forget, with a brain tamed by age, what a fragile wreck I used to be. How at 10 years old, I realised I was thinking too much about the wrong people, and made the conscious, rational decision to hide those feelings until there was something sexy I could do about it. And how the daily ratcheting tension of pretence, would make me intense, erratic, and frequently hateful.
Video game magazines were a genuine release for me in those years. I formed imaginary relationships with the outline drawings of Julian Rignall and Gary Penn. Before that, I engaged in one-way correspondence with the actually imaginary Lloyd Mangram. I looked up the home of my favourite magazines in our family’s AA Road Atlas.
The nonsense words were a lullaby to me, a reassuring whisper that there was something else. I will never visit Ludlow, Shropshire, because I suspect it won’t be the crystal city of sexual fantasy that I still really want it to be.
I gave bigotry a rough time, sure, but I never flew any flags. I’ve abused the privilege of passing for straight too often, and for every struggling child who didn’t get from me what I could have offered, I’m genuinely sorry.
During a demo of a profoundly average game, a PR who used to be a journalist told me that the game wasn’t going to change the world. Recognising the words from my own previews, I barked a sharp little laugh, and it dawned on me that the generous language of the preview wasn’t something I’d invented. It was something I’d absorbed, that had sunk into me like a vapid ghost. Like the time I noticed 72 was the “out of hundred” equivalent of the famously non-committal “seven out of ten”, calibrated from 70 to seem extra scienctific.
I was pointed to an issue of Sega Power ((According to a One Life Left listener and letter writer, it was in fact Amiga Power. In this exciting off-shoot apology, I will confess to making a serious mis-step in this period of my life – I bought an Atari ST. I’m still prone to overstating the benefits of in-built MIDI ports.)), where this observation had been made years previously. Only their number was 73. I spent my career playing catch-up with what everyone else knew. I’m sorry that I briefly had the audacity to think I’d done or noticed something original ((Oh, the humility! Give it up, Log, you think you’re great and everyone knows it)).
I’m sorry to the young, passionate, and politically alive writers. The young men and women who watched as an absurd bloke throttled the last coins out of his hobby, occupying a position that they could have used for good.
I’ve always tried my hardest to avoid responsibility. That’s not a juvenile humblebrag: Peter Pan isn’t a role model, he’s a smug immortal prick. It’s not cool to be as childish as I am. It keeps you happy, but…
Let me elaborate: some people tell me that they cry at movies when they’re on a plane – that a combination of air pressure, and the idea that they could be being observed in the peripheral vision of a stranger, judged by a man who’s watching Family Guy, just makes them weep uncontrollably.
I have a similar thing, but instead of crying, it’s laughing. And instead of watching movies on a plane, it’s doing a fart in a public toilet. You may have noticed this is the second time I’ve mentioned farting in public toilets in a talk that’s ostensibly about video games. It’s a real go-to, for me.
You can’t really giggle ironically. So farting in public toilets must be really funny, or I wouldn’t be giggling. There’s only one thing funnier. Allow me to elaborate again:
My first trip in the games industry was to Austria, to see the reveal of a European role-playing game called Gothic 3. Something honestly wonderful happened in Austria. You see, Austrian toilets are different. There’s a little dry shelf, presumably to allow for a good medical rummage before your doings get irretreivably slooshed away.
I wasn’t anticipating – nobody could have anticipated – that my body would weave, in that Austrian toilet, a long solid that perched on that shelf, before actually leaving my, for want of a better word, anus.
And so, connected briefly to the porcelain by a bumbilical cord, I thought “what next? Do I stand up and carry on?” A reflex spasm stole that decision from me, and the treacherously snipped cord toppled forward, and found a new resting place, propped against my balls. I shrieked, laughed at my shriek, and spent a full minute muffling my own mouth as joyful tears shot out of my face. Then I waited another full five minutes to be sure that no-one who heard me would see me leave the cubicle.
You’re probably thinking, why is he telling us this story? Well, it’s an apology to my editor at the time, Jamie Sefton, who I put in the position of having to ask me to remove this story from my preview of Gothic 3. Apparently, 300-word shitball asides weren’t “house style” or “relevant”.
The legendary magazine that is PC Zone would go on to close, four years later. I’m not saying that story would have saved it. I’m saying we can never truly know.
I’d like to sneak in a quick indulgent apology to 25 year old me. My video games career started with PC Zone in 2006, but my first opportunity to write for that magazine actually came seven years earlier. Thanks to websites I’d written and contributed to, I was invited to send in a sample review, by a man who would go on to become Charlie Brooker.
This was ridiculous. I’d never been paid for my words before. And what descended on me in those following weeks of opportunity was a chill. Not a “reduce speed by 60%” Cone of Cold, but a full paralysing Frost Nova.
The chill of failure by another man’s hand. Oh, I’m happy failing over here, through my own laziness and inertia. But failing after actually trying? Failure that exists outside your own flagellating tumble-drier of a skull? That kind of heroic failure is for a different, highly successful group of people.
I never sent that review.
From what I can tell from the stories I’ve heard since, told by men who look like they’ve lost something wonderful, I missed true glory. I’ve not seen a truly decadent press event ((Not true. I spent the best part of a week in Monte Carlo for Capcom’s annual showcase event, Captivate. Weirdly, the only game I remember from that event is Dark Void)). None of my colleagues have succumbed to drug-driven nudity in a Monte Carlo ballroom ((Facts deliberately obscured, and Monte Carlo inserted as a subliminal confession to the lie of the previous sentence)). My Spore review didn’t retrospectively earn me the services of a sex worker. My career has remained entirely free of strip clubs. And yeah, press events in strip clubs are a repulsive sexist symbol of what a reprehensible dick-sodden boys club this industry can be, but… it’s nice to be invited.
This regret mostly explains why I’m here tonight. When I was asked, I felt that same nervous morbid fist of ice clutch at my gut. I’m feeling it now, and I’ll feel it until this talk is over. But at least I’ve eventually learned, through an even greater fear of missing out, to tell that chill to go fuck itself.
If this was a Doctor Who episode, and I was Donna Noble, doing this talk would right that old wrong, and former me would send that review. At the end of this reading I should get catapulted back to my true timeline, where I do join PC Zone in 1999, *I* invent New Games Journalism, and rip apart the atoms of the universe by scoring System Shock 2 103 per cent.
Well, I’ve made my apologies, and I choose to believe that I’ve secured your forgiveness.
I like to think I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’ll try to put them all to good use in my new career as a publican.
It’s a real ale pub, so I’ve got to convince my punters I know about ale. That’s easy – I’m an established charlatan, as we’ve seen from that Codemasters fiasco. And I survived for years on the Official Xbox Magazine, and never once spoke my true feelings about Halo ((A cheap shot, for which I’m retrospectively ashamed. Two reasons: first, I was never pressured to say “Halo is great”, so I’m inventing a fake tension that backs up the false perception that OXM is somehow built on lies. It isn’t. Secondly, while I get nothing from the Halo franchise, there are many people far better than me who disagree. Kieron Gillen gave Halo 3 a bleeding 10, for Christ’s sake.)).
All that endless chat about listening to your community: suddenly I’ve got a real, physical community that I can’t not listen to, because they’re drunk and in my house. I’ve got the chance to set the moderation policy. I can do my best to make that pub a welcoming place for everyone.
I can use my new position of privilege to help other people, instead of occupying their seat. Let them use whatever facilities I can offer. Room, equipment, whatever I can reasonably offer. It might not be profitable, but I didn’t get into games journalism to make money. I’m not an idiot. I got into games journalism to make strangers like me. Now I get to meet those strangers.
I know my pub isn’t going to change the world. But changing the world is more responsibility than a man with an ice fist in his gut could ever handle.
I will, however, look into having Austrian toilets installed. Because I want my customers to enjoy themselves as much as I did, that wonderful day.
I hope one day to hear you shrieking in horrified delight from my cubicles ((This is pure esprit d’escalier. I didn’t say that line at the end of the talk. It was more like “I hope to see you there”, or something shit like that. I’d gone wobbly, and wanted off the stage.)).
Howay jugalugs, I bet my tits are bigger than your arse
No way you fancy Nancy, I gots them juicy Windsor boo-tarks.
Charles slaps his ass and juggles his buttocks in a wild infinity loop
Fuck off Wales, I’m gonna lay down a monkey on my tits sizing off amply against your muddy pussy*. Drop your kecks and let’s compare
ZIP SOUND EFFECT. SOUND EFFECT OF COLLIDING MEATS.
I win! Now I get one wish
Diana closes her eyes and makes a wish
Phwoar. Let’s get to Buckingham Palace, where I will put tiaras on your lovely tits what are bigger’n my bum
Hooray! That was my wish
SCENE TWO: THE RELATIONSHIP GOES SOUR
Stop crying or I won’t let you wear any more crowns
It’s not fair Charles I’m so sad. I just want to be queen, right now
Why don’t you go and make friends with Kenny Everett or something. You were friends with him, weren’t you?
I think so. Either him or Freddie Mercury. Let’s just say I was friends with Kenny Everett for the sake of this movie
No wait I think Kenny Everett was friends with Cleo Rocos
FUCK OFF CHARLES
SCENE THREE: AT BBC TELEVISION CENTRE
It’s not fair Kenny Everett I just want to be the queen of England at any cost. I mean I will kill everyone I have to, seriously
Oh Di you wee dinky bagpuss! Come and watch me having sex on a ghost train
Kenny! Aren’t you worried about any killer sex diseases?
Don’t be silly, you freaky blonde piss! All sex diseases are curable. That’s the point!
GHOST TRAIN SOUND EFFECTS
Well Kenny if there ever is a killer sex disease you can be sure that I will visit the hospitals and go around touching everyone
That’s because you’re the kind woman who likes human people. Maybe you are too kind!
Ken, I couldn’t begin to tell you how many dicks I’ve got bouncing off my forehead in this place
You might as well wank a couple off. It’s pitch black in here, no-one’ll know
SCENE FOUR: DIANA MEETS DODI
I do love Harrods. It’s really expensi… OW YOU FUCKIN TROD ON MY FOOT YOU RUDE MAN
Soz babes I was just buying Harrods and the contract is so big I didn’t see you there
Well that’s as may be, I’m going to be queen one day so get off my fuckin’ hooves
DIANA STORMS OFF
She is absolutely beautiful and so pure. Send her a ten quid Harrod’s voucher
SCENE FIVE: CAMILLA MEETS DIANA AT A PARTY
Ow my fucking foot! Again! What is it with pricks stepping on my feet today, have I got cunt painted on my face?
Hello, Diana. I’m Camilla Parker Bowles, and I did it on purpose. I’m going to steal your man and be the queen.
ARE YOU FUCK AS LIKE
I FUCKIN AM
I’LL KILL THE SHIT OUT OF YOU
HERE HAVE AN APPLE
SCENE FIVE: THINGS GET WORSE WITH CHARLES
I am leaving you Charles to go on a car ride with my new boyfriend who sent me a ten quid voucher which is more than you ever gave me
That’s fine, I’ll just keep twiddlin’ Camilla’s nips
Whatever like I even care
Before you go, Diana.
I’m on my way out I can’t just turn around loads of times I’ll fall over
Give me your royal badge and royal gun
Fuck off it man I’m two days from becoming the queen
Your badge and gun, Diana. Don’t make me use the human-corgi hybrids
Diana hands over that stuff Charles asked for
This is bullshit
SCENE SIX: IN A CAR IN PARIS
How the fuck did we end up in Paris man
We are going so fast babes so fast in this car like my exotic love for you
Dodi, your balls are rock hard. Is that normal?
Yes. In foreign men the balls go hard not the penis. I am going to stuff them in you like some exotic unheard-of figs
OK! but first let’s eat this apple that my nemesis Camilla Parker Bowles gave me
Enemy apples are the most delicious apples of all where I come from in my country from abroad
THEY EAT THE APPLE. NO-ONE DIES
Well that apple was delicious, and not poisoned at all
In my country where I am from it is customary after an enemy apple to tickle the driver of the car you are in
Don’t do tickle the driver Dodi that’s dangerous
But it is tradition and you said don’t do tickle the driver so that’s really mixed messages
Tickle tickle tickle!
LAUGHING SOUNDS. CAR CRASH SOUNDS. NATION MOURNING SOUNDS
SCENE SEVEN: CAMILLA IS CROWNED QUEEN OF ENGLAND
Thanks for making me Queen of England Charles
No probs lady. Sad that Diana carked it but to be honest I like you more anyway.
Yes! In fact you might say I’m more apple-ealing
CHARLES LOOKS, SHOCKED, TO THE CAMERA AND REALISES WHAT HE HAS DONE
I am going to kill everyone in England
If you’d like to hear this script performed by four revolting men, subscribe to the Regular Features podcast.
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Now that More Magazine has been closed, it falls to enthusiastic amateurs to give teenage ladies their sexy tips.
1/ Cover a part of your body with a serviette. Roughly 75% of the way through your steamy sesh, whip off the serviette and say “there’s another bit for ya“.
2/ Tug at his balls with your teeth, growling. If he asks you to stop, bark enthusiastically like you think it’s a game.
3/ During your horny romp, hold a cup filled with coloured water – and try not to spill a drop!
4/ Initiate an impromptu ding-dong on the conveyor belt at the supermarket checkout. If you’re feeling super naughty, tattoo the barcode for Kellogg’s Honey Nut Crunch onto your buttock. When (if) CRUNCHY NUT FLAKES appears on the display, act like the till has said it out loud, and reply “You can get a cream for that!” then wink at the camera.
5/ Size does matter! If you discover that your fella packs less than fourteen inches, fall into a sullen melancholy, and finish yourself off with a wine bottle.
6/ Pop a clarinet reed into his dickpipe, and play him to completion!
7/ Create a sense of mysterious allure by closing your eyes! Double the compelling mystique by demanding “WHO THE HELL IS THIS?”
8/ Grab a balloon from the family-friendly world cuisine restaurant Giraffe, and allow it deflate into your sodden mum-hoop. Let your lover know you’re ready for sex by allowing the stagnant air to barrel out of your goop in a prolonged, fusty queef!
9/ Introduce a new bit of sexy clothing into the bedroom. Three words: crotchless oilskin sou’westers.
10/ Get retro! Hurl a palmful of centimetre cubes into his face mid-climax, and say “Mister! You’re spunking big pixels into my bidoof”
11/ Lie flat on your back, and let him use your body as the location for an exciting Warhammer tabletop skirmish. Don’t ruin it by bouncing your tummy up and down and saying it’s an Earthquake – it’s not funny it’s stupid stop it.
12/ Involve yourself in his fantasies! When he’s having a wank, run in with a bone-chilling battlecry and try to land on his dick!
13/ Learn his intimate secrets by rooting around in his internet history and saying you’ll tell the police if he doesn’t see a psychologist!
14/ Add a little exotic spice into your love life by slapping your hand over your open mouth to make a popping sound, and whispering “Ooga Booga” into his ear when he leans in for a kiss.
15/ Don’t be afraid to laugh in the bedroom – pop a “Family Guy In Your Pocket” key-ring into your vajongloid and generate chuckle convulsions on every thrust of his pee-wee!
16/ Break some taboos! Finger a strip of raw veal into his arsehole.
17/ Indulge in some kinky power-play by sporting a 10 inch strap-on, and drafting legislation that restricts his free speech in a state of national emergency.
18/ Bored of the bedroom? Add a little archaic flavour to your repertoire by cramming half a dozen wangs into your plap in the scullery. Don’t get your Labi Siffre snagged in the mangle!
19/ No condoms? Slide an empty can of beans into your mouth for a imperfect but effective dental dam.
20/ Why not leave the beans in the tin? It’ll be like he’s tooting some breakfasty guts.
21/ Tired? Let plate tectonics do all the hard work! Lie across your favourite fault line, and wait millenia for the earth’s shifting crust to contort your naked bodies into every sex position known to geography.
22/ Get closer to nature by placing a beetle in your hair.
23/ Try out one of our Positions of the Fortnight! We call this one “A Wanking Pink Guy”
24/ They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. This couldn’t be more wrong! The way to a man’s heart is out of his winkle and onto a tea towel.
25/ A well-placed skateboard can create the sexy illusion that you are floating, gliding, and accelerating down a hill.
26/ Before foreplay, warm a boob on the radiator.
27/ As Fleetwood Mac said: tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies, tell me lies (tell me tell me lies). They would have been alarmed to hear Charles and Eddie sing Would I lie to you baby?, as the implication from the way the question was put was that it was a rhetorical question, and the pre-ordained answer was an emphatic “no!”
Now imagine Fleetwood Mac’s relief when Meatloaf walks in, singing I Would Lie For You! And then the relief gives way to confusion when he adds (And That’s A Fact). And a couple of seconds later, Fleetwood Mac realised that it wasn’t a paradox at all, and the two statements are very easily reconciled. The moral of the story is: Fleetwood Mac and Meatloaf immediately went on to do it (sex).
28/ Kiss him on the shins, and keep going until he suggests you do something else, or asks you to stop.
29/ Add a bit of European flavour to your lovemaking by whacking snails across a work surface with a boiled sausage.
We can’t let the vital sex tips industry die. Have you got any sizzling sex attacks that you employ on the genitals of your partner?
TELL ME SIR DO YOU LOVE AMERICA
Yes I love America
I MEAN LIKE REALLY LOVE IT. LIKE, CAN YOU FEEL IT IN YOUR TORSO LIKE AN UNCEASING STORM
I feel it in my heart, I love America
LET ME PUT IT ANOTHER WAY SIR. TELL ME HAVE YOU EVER / EVER REALLY REALLY LOVED / A MERICA
I love America
MOVING ON TO THE NATURE OF YOUR LOVE SIR. IS YOUR LOVE PROUD LIKE A FIERCE AMERICAN EAGLE OR DOES YOUR LOVE MOVE LIKE A TREACHEROUS BALLOON LET SLIP FROM AN AMERICAN CHILD’S HAND
It is my home, I love it.
JUST TO CLARIFY: THIS LOVE YOU FEEL – IT’S FOR AMERICA, RIGHT? NOT FOR IRAQ. WE HAVE TO BE CLEAR ON THIS
Yes. It is for America.
IF YOU HAD TO BETRAY ONE STATE WHICH STATE WOULD IT BE?
COME ON GUY THERE ARE LIKE FIFTY STATES YOU COULD BETRAY OR BLOW UP ONE ENTIRE STATE AND STILL LOVE 98% OF AMERICA jeff cut this bit out
WOULD YOUR WIFE BETRAY A STATE?
COULD YOU SAY “I’LL ASK HER” REALLY QUICKLY PLEASE, JUST FOR THE CAMERAS, IT’D REALLY HELP
HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT AMERICA
I love it.
SIR, YOU ARE EXTREMELY GOOD AT THIS.
Good at what?
ONE LAST THING, CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT YOUR FAVOURITE AMERICA IS
I love all of America!
EW THAT TECHNICALLY INCLUDES MEXICO
No wait I meant North
YOU LOVE MEXICO OH GOD POO I FEEL SICK WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING GO AND LIVE THERE YOU TURBAN-DICKED COMMUNIST
This is one of the Ricky Gervais horses I was talking about in the title. I have “photoshopped” Ricky into the picture for comparison. Notice the similarity of the mouths.
If you can measure a man’s happiness and success by how wide fucking open his mouth is, Ricky Gervais is as happy and successful as he is constantly reminding us he is, ostensibly as a joke.
An alternative explanation is that his mouth has achieved independent sentience, and is in open rebellion against the things it is routinely forced to say.
Two hooting Gervais horses have seen a horse in another field, and are telling him he is jealous.
Ricky Gervais Camel with two successful American camels who not only tolerate his presence, but actively seek it out.
“Your anus is bleeding! Haha! I’m Ricky Gervais”
Next time! Pool balls with Simon Pegg’s hair, or something like that. Jesus Christ