I think this is a goer, all we have to do is share all the old writers on Google Docs, and away you go
I reckon I should get paid £200 or something for this
I think this is a goer, all we have to do is share all the old writers on Google Docs, and away you go
I reckon I should get paid £200 or something for this
Pizza Express have just introduced Pizzas with holes in the middle. It’s a thrilling time for pizza lovers everywhere – and I know I’m a pizza lover, because Pizza Hut keep sending me these.
When you or I first see one of these Leggera pizzas, we think one of these two things:
1) I wonder what they do with the bits in the middle? Like polos, and records! I wonder what they do with all the middles of all these things?
Stupid question. They’re made into little skull caps, and worn by a Jewish man. On hot days these “jew-dough” caps react with the natural oils and sweat of the beautiful Jewish scalp to create a delicious Bruschetta. The wearer can then eat it directly off his own head, or allow it to slide onto a chopping board and present it to someone he is intending to marry.
2) How does this affect my overall ratio of crust to topping?
This, on the other hand, is a good question, and requires the use of scientific words to properly answer. The Leggera pizza effectively creates a new CrustZone. This innovative inner crustmantle leads to a significant increase in crust:topping ratio. Say the diameter of the inner hoop (or “Neocrust”) is just one third of that of the entire pizza’s traditional, and backwards compatible Legacy Crust – that’s still a 33% crust increase, or “incrust”, in the crust circumference, or “circumfcrust”. I also did a few doodles about surface area but it just looked like a Pokéball and I’m not sure the numbers I wrote on it were right.
Anyway, the worry is that this is the first step towards a hypothetical fractal crust, which will have an infinitely long crust, eliminating not only pepperoni, but all toppings, both real and imaginary. And forever.
These are the concerns of us, the mundane. But other people are more spectacular and worthy than we (are). These people, after a good meal, write a letter of enthusiastic congratulations to the holding group, or venture capital company who ultimately owns the franchised outlet they visited. And sometimes – just sometimes – that restaurant prints out their letters in a promotional pamphlet.
It’s been a while since I wrote for a publication with the circulation and demographic reach of Pizza Express’s in-house promotional pamphlets, so I’ve written them a few letters myself.
Dear Gondola Holdings,
My retarded son has great difficulty saying the phrase “let’s get a pizza”. I, however, believe in the value of clear communication, and will not respond to any demands that are not properly pronounced. So, thank you for your “Leggera” range of pizzas, which are phonetically similar enough to my son’s semi-coherent burbling that he has had his first meal in three months. Sadly, he was infuriated by the absence of a middle, and has since had to be put down.
I’m a long-term fan of your leveraged buyouts and Italian cuisine. Until recently, I thought I was completely happy with your range of pizzas and international healthcare portfolio. However, it wasn’t until you “imagin-reated” the Leggera range of pizzas that I realised that I have NEVER been happy. In fact, last evening’s meal threw my entire life so far into shocking relief: 36 years consuming the “dead calories” of pizza middles! I intend to live the rest of my life the Leggera way – in fact, doubly so, that my life might average out to be, on balance, Leggera. PS I never wrote to say at the time, but congratulations on your 2007 buyout of Gondola Holdings. Those guys were cunts.
Dear Pizza Express,
My friend and I have differing interpretations of the phrase “The Italians certainly know how to enjoy life“. My friend thinks that you’re trying to imply that they fill their spare hours with productive hobbies. However, I’m convinced you’re saying “they’ll dry hump anything that’s concave”. Could you settle our argument?
Live Leggera, folks
Hi again! I’m Jennifer Tolstoy and I’m a qualified plumber working mainly for Magnet Kitchens! Not really, but you’d be AMAZED how many people let you look in their kitchen drawers when you say that, and you’d be even MORE amazed at the kind of things I find!
It’s not always genuine Damien Hirsts – although you’d be surprised how often it is! – more often than not it’s just a scab that fell off onto a teaspoon, or a bit of soup that got flicked out of the pan when they did a sneeze.
Do you turn around when you’re cooking, and you have to sneeze? I don’t. It’s like I always say: the cooking process will kill the germs, and since I started my non-stop risotto diet, I don’t have the time to stop stirring. (Besides, the last time I turned around while sneezing, I whipped a trail of snot into a bridesmaid’s face, and she didn’t see the funny side for six years)
I read this article in ladybible Cosmopolitan about a girl who went on 21 dates in 7 days. Talk about sisters are doing it (with 21 men) for themselves! So I’ve set myself a mission. I am going to go on 21 real dates with men and write about them, like a big slutty journalist with both tits out.
DATE 1: JULIAN SANDS
The first thing you need to know about Julian Sands is that he’s NOTHING TO DO with the pre-legalisation homosexuals, Julian and Sandy. This was my icebreaker, and it went down worse than a bra bomb in a synagogue. I’d even made up this story about the first time I masturbated, where I called my fingers Julian and Sandy, and I’d written a sketch to make it seem more fun (fun is very important to me)
Well, I’d learned the story by heart, so I told it to him anyway, just to get it out of my head. I also had to get Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance out of my head, because I’d heard it on the radio that morning, so after I’d sang that I went into my Julian & Sandy masturbating fingers sketch:
“Hello, I’m Julian, and this is my friend Sandy”
“Bona to vada your dolly old eek”
“Do you want to join me inside this meaty old mess?”
“I don’t know, it’s pretty crispy in there”
“How many different coloured fluids do you think the human body can produce?”
“I don’t know, but that swirl of translucent pink-tinged lime mucus, looped around what I hope for her sake is a labia majora, is almost hypnotic”
I love telling a story, I really get into it. But, you know when you’re telling a story, and you do the mimes? Well… I’d only hopped onto my back and started fingering myself! Julian was nowhere to be seen. YOUR LOSS, JOR-EL. Or should I say BORE-SMELL
DATING RATING: SIX SNOOZES OUT OF TEDIUM
DATE 2: DANNY WALLACE
The most excellent thing about Danny Wallace is his ability to pretend to live his life according to a set of arbitrary rules, and write a bestselling book about it.
Before I started kicking him under the table to let him know I was in a sexy mood, we got talking about some of the rules he had pretended to live by, until it looked like he might not get a book out of it. It was such an exciting insight into the Dannysphere that I forgot to eat my bagel! I’ve still got it in my pocket as a memento of that night. I’m not sure where the salmon’s gone, but who wants salmon in their mementos? NOT ME
2004 – Danny communicated entirely through Post-It notes left on the fridge
2005 – Danny shat in a hot air balloon and encouraged millions of housewives to do the same
2007 – Danny promised to accept and fulfil every sexual offer made to him, in a legally dubious mutual contract which he insisted meant that no-one could legitimately withhold consent from him, either
2008 – Danny speared one of his nuts with a fork, and tried to pitch it to a hen party as a brand new game show
2009 – Danny mentally embellished every mundane experience with shocked and disapproving reactions from imagined onlookers, and wrote about it in Shortlist
So, what does 2010 hold for Danny Wallace, I asked, my big hands forcibly milking the tips of my tits. His face lit up when I mentioned his name! “I’m pretending to go on loads of dates with fat bitches, to show how deep I am and learn a lesson about inner beauty. Fat bitches like you will lap it up, I reckon”
I’m well ahead of you, Danny Wallace! LAP LAP LAP
DATING RATING: TEN DANNIES OUT OF WALLACE
DATE 3: JENNIFER ANISTON
This was more of a dinner date, because neither Jennifer Aniston nor Jennifer Tolstoy (me!) are gay. But as famous Jennifers, we both have terrible luck with men, so we met up to swap tips. Needless to say we both learned a lot, so this is a powerful personal journey as well as a bunch of purposeless lies (AM I DOING IT RIGHT DANNY? PVT ME)
So, here’s some tips you can live your life by if you want to be famous and totally sex
JENNIFER ANISTON’S TOP THREE LOVE TIPS
1) Have secret late night phone calls that only a close friend who talks to women’s magazines knows about
2) Refer to your womb as a “biological timebomb” and draw families standing in front of a house during sex
3) Learn how to use the walls of your vagina to remove a condom
JENNIFER TOLSTOY’S TOP THREE LOVE TIPS
1) Smile though your heart is aching
2) Smile even though it’s breaking
3) Slash his coats up and put posters around saying he touches kids
DATING RATING: You can’t rate girl friendships, they are priceless and can even endure death if you are vampires
So, that’s three dates down! Who’s next? Will it be Laurence Olivier? The Archbishop of Canterbury? Maybe it’ll be you. Look at the reflection in your monitor. I’m standing behind you. WE’RE ALREADY ON OUR DATE
1) We are undercover in a honey-trap sting operation, or something else to do with bees and paedophiles.
2) We are looking for our adopted son in a thrilling multi-part episode of Two And A Half Dads
3) We were trying to recapture a lost sense of youth (an experiment that failed, because our understanding of water has developed in thirty-plus years to the point where we no longer see it as thrilling per se)
4) Simple masturbation has long become a jaded and mechanical process, and I now require a sense of danger to feel anything at all
5) We were taking part in a treasure hunt, this photo was one of the treasures, and the kids all ran in after us. That’s actually how it happened, if you’d just stop chasing us and listen
no wait i mean 5
I’ve just been to Burger King.
I ordered the Cheezy Bites, because I’m something of an explorer. There was something about the Mini-Angus Burger from the kids menu that stank of pedestrianism, and I fancied something a little more… recherché.
My hopes have rarely been higher, so you can imagine my disgust when I unfolded my greasy paper pouch to uncover these hopeless fingertips. “I can’t bite these,” I wailed internally. “I could pop them in my mouth, but that’s chewing, not biting”
“Oh, I’ll eat them,” I thought defiantly, popping the last two in at the same time, “but I’m not happy.”
I glared at the backlit poster of the Three Cheese Double Angus, while the young lady behind the counter looked at me like I was pretending to act out an internal monologue.
“Yes, I’m aware that bite can correctly be used to mean small amount of food,” I continued to think. “But I maintain that these would be better called Chew-Chooz, Cheesy Pop-ins, or Masticatory Curd Baubles.”
It was at that point that I saw, out of the corner of my eye, another fat man staring sadly at a tiny golden ball of fried cheese, and silently mouthing angry words at it. I woofed at him, and he woofed back at the same time, so I jumped onto his back (see, it wasn’t a mirror) and steered him home using his ears. We’ve now been married for six years. Which brings me onto:
From Maximum Awesome’s indispensible bear FAQ
Q: How does one bear greet another bear?
A: Easy! One just says “woof”, and/or growls.
This is true, but not terribly refined. You woof first, and if they woof back, you may growl. Growling without an answering woof could be seen as aggression, and if you are on the fat man’s home territory he might attempt to devour you. This operates on the same scoring system as conkers – if an eighteen stone man eats a superior 21-stone man, he becomes a truly awesome thirty-nine stone bear, and is entitled to some sweet disability benefits.
Once you are both growling, you should retire to the nearest pub’s toilets, and spoon in a cubicle until Spring. In an attempt to spread understanding of fat gay bears, I have written Wooftard Rendezvous. It is a short play about fat gay bears.
INT. NIGHT. A BEAR BAR.
STEVE [looking around]
Steve spins around on his stool really fast. When he stops he is facing Jeff.
They rub their hands all over each others shirts, their heads tilted backwards and their mouths open.
INT. DAY. KITCHEN, THREE YEARS LATER
Jeff is looking pleased. He is holding a jar of mayonnaise and parading up and down the kitchen. Steve is rummaging in the bacon drawer.
Woof. Woof woof. Woof. Woof…
There is a knock at the door.
Jeff rolls his eyes and answers the door. It is Damien.
Steve looks down at the heart he has made from strips of crispy bacon, and slams a pawful of angry mayo onto it. Instantly regretting what he has done, he eats it all and goes to sleep, standing up.
INT. EVENING. BEDROOM.
Steve checks all the windows, locks the door.
Why did you woof with three o’s at Damien?
I… I didn’t. I… was doing a French woof. You know, like wurf. Stretches the vowel sound out.
Oh. Well, why were you woofing in French?
He’s just come back from a trip to Paris.
He holds up an official document with the word WOOF and a paw print at the bottom
Oh, that’s interesting. Because it’s not what this sworn affidavit says.
Have you been issuing subpoenas to my friends?
You didn’t leave me any choice. I had to subpoena something
Look Steve, what do you want me to say? That I’ve been spooning Damien in toilet cubicles until Spring? Because for the last three years it’s always been you. Just you, Steve.
Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was such a chore.
This is pointless. I’m opening this door and we’re going to go out there, and we’re going to woof at each other like this never happened.
Jeff opens the door
I’m going to eat Damien. Perhaps then you’ll love me again.
I didn’t know fat gay men could talk. Or that they ate each other. What a scoop!
Oh nice one, Steve. Way to give us away to the Muggles. We’re going to be in shit with Dumbledore now. And it’s double potions tomorrow.
That’s pretty much all I know about how fat men do it. If the gay bear lifestyle appeals to you, you can become fat simply by eating more food than your body needs, and you can simulate hair by asking a doctor to implant a powerful magnet in your guts, and rolling around in iron filings. This will have the side benefit of aligning your chakras, which should allow you to fly.
Steve: do you think cockatiels enjoy singing like we enjoy singing
Log: I wonder if they’re trying to impress us into having sex with them. I thought that’s what birdsong was all about. Or territory. Perhaps they’re telling us to get out
Steve: well, when we sing we are trying to impress people on to our cocks/into our vaginas
Log: I suppose. Singing in the shower, we might as well be saying “i am naked, i couldn’t be more ready for sex”
Steve: nobody sings during sex as it is redundant
Log: Unless the other person begins to look bored
Steve: then you might hum something
Log: Personally, I’d bring out the big guns. Belt out a couple of verses of nessun dorma, right up em
Out of interest, it is Steve‘s 23rd birthday today, and he’s having it at a karaoke bar. Girls – if his eyes land on you when he sings “and it’s as big as a whale!” from Love Shack, cross your legs immediately.
Happy Birthday, Steve!
To some people, the 80s were all about the rivalry between Duran Duran and Wham!
People talk of the playground being divided by a huge tennis net, and long lunch hours spent with their faces pressed against the mesh, their snarling maws hungry for the flesh of the enemy. Geography lessons dominated by the constant slinging of sharpened 45 records, like saw-wheel shuriken. Midnight atrocities committed on the all-weather pitch, atrocities that still replay themselves in the dreams of the victims.
Well, here’s what you can do with your old pop rivalry. You can take it, and you can fold in into a paper aeroplane. Then you can hop onto your back, thrust your legs into the air, and stabilising yourself with your left elbow, launch the paper aeroplane directly upwards. Then – quickly, you don’t have much time – put your hands on your hips, and manouevre your bumhole into the path of the plane, so it goes right in (hint! You can tear little rudders into the rear of the wings, and it’ll make it look like you have a superior understanding of aerodynamics).
Fuck ’em. The real battle for the hearts and minds of British schoolchildren (by which I primarily mean me) was between Jennifer Lynch’s tale of amputation beyond the call of medical duty, Boxing Helena, and the moral comedy Eating Raoul, in which a pair of “straights” invite dogfucking dwarves into their home and kill them.
To say I’ve never seen the films until this week, they’ve had a lifelong disproportionate hold on me. It’s the titles. Even though Eating Raoul is a bit of a spoiler, what with the killing and eating of Raoul being the punchline of the entire fucking film, and even if Helena spends close to no time in a box (and even spends the first forty, long minutes of the film with all four arms and legs), that didn’t stop those two titles sitting in the spit on the tip of my tongue.
PAUL: What do you want to do tonight
ME: Well at 7 we’ll be Eating Raoul, but after that I’m free if you want to pop around Helena’s, she needs boxing.
ME: Don’t be childish.
ANYWAY RIGHT, I’ve just watched both films, and this is what I’ve learned:
1) I have rewritten my life to believe that Boxing Helena came out when I was in school. In fact, it came out in 1994. So that conversation wasn’t me being a charmingly precocious twelve year old, it was me being a subnormal twenty-something. Then again, I just did this in Tesco, and the most remarkable thing about this is the fact I’m 36.
Also, what the fuck is Tarragon? It sounds like a robot from the seventies. Who buys this shit?
2) Because I’d been told the shock summary about Boxing Helena – “it’s about a man who cuts off a woman’s arms and legs, and keeps her in a box,” I’d imagined a very different movie. The other line that people always said, to demonstrate a profounder understanding of human behaviour, was “but the thing is, she’s always in control“. Naturally, I imagined Helena riding her surgeon around the house, guiding him with the reins in her mouth, and being snippy with him.
3) Speaking of people pretending to have a deep insight into movies, my childhood friend John once told me that “Star Wars isn’t a story of good and evil – it’s cleverer than that. They let you make your own mind up”. I see on Facebook he’s joined the group “ENGLAND IS FULL – NO MORE IMMIGRANTS”. I guess I should have seen that coming. This doesn’t have much to do with Helena or Raoul, I’m a bit bored with the format though
4) It’s OK to keep a woman hostage as long as a) she eventually likes it, b) any sex scenes have the limbs momentarily restored, and c) it was all a dream anyway so like what the fuck.
5) It’s OK to kill and eat Hispanics as long as they’re taken with a decent wine
Now to put my life lessons into practice – if I’m not back in three hours, split my possessions amongst yourselves.
So we all know about the basic Hanky Code, right? It’s the failsafe method that gay men use to find a husband. If you’re straight, here’s is how it works:
1. Choose the colour that represents the thing you like.
2. If you like doing it, but the hanky in your back left pocket. If you like having it done to you, put it in your back right pocket.
3. Go to a gay bar. Press your bum against the bum of a man you find superficially appealing. If two similarly-coloured hankies meet, a small klaxon will sound. Stay perfectly still and a pride march will begin to happen.
It was invented in the 1920s, when web design looked like this, and we’ve invented loads of sex since then: so here’s the July 2009 update, which you can print out and insert into your gay manuals immediately.
|Colour||Left Pocket||Right Pocket|
|Steaming Ash||Doesn’t Like People Who Get Too Close||Is Trapped In A Cellar|
|Windows 3.1 Basic 16 Colour Palette||Despises the hanky code||Enjoys unsophisticated irony|
|Bunsen Flame||Enjoys comparing non-sexual violations to rape because it feels edgy||Recent victim of armed robbery but not rape|
|Rusty Battleship||Loves it when you do that thing||Will do that thing without getting embarrassed and saying “I can’t do it on demand, stop it”|
|#E248FA||Violent sociopath seeking the appearance of a normal life while the killings continue||When the evidence mounts, would rather confront his partner directly and in private than go to the police.|
|Conchineal & Mustard||Is who he is and people better deal with that, because he says how he sees it, and doesn’t see any reason to apologise for that||Has none of the five human senses|
|Underwater Level||Has a torso shaped like a vase||Enjoys tesselating his own and a friend’s face against a torso|
|Fox’s Glacier Mint||Smells powerfully of aniseed||Doesn’t get jealous when dogs pay more attention to partner|
|Pinot Blush||Really enjoys having sex with men||Goes convincingly through the motions|
Before I get into the Bum Vomit Poetry that inspired this post, here’s why Twitter is awesome. I dont know if anyone’s blogged about Twitter yet, or their feelings about it, so if this is too groundbreaking / pioneering, please take a few minutes to prepare yourself.
To best illustrate my changing relationship with Twitter, here is a conversation between 2009 me and 2008 me.
2008 Log: Twitter, I dont get it
2009 Log: That’s because youre a fucking dick
Two weeks later
2008 Log: No hang on, I’ve thought of a reason now, it’s a symptom of the pervasive whittling of thinks, the stupidification of humanity, the unstable egotism of anyone who can’t keep a fucking thought to themselves
2009 Log: Oh yeah, I noticed they weren’t making books any more, and every other communication channel has been legally limited to 140 characters, you fucking dick. And who’s the cunt who thought it was worth telling the world that a he shit on his own dad?
2008 Log: That wasnt me, it was him
2007 Log: Dont bring me into this, I’ve never even heard of Twitter
With Twitter, I have watched my friends casually interact with celebrities, with my mouth right-angle agape. Like a dog who’s watching some cats being naughty and wants to join in – but is too nervous about the possibility of human disapproval – I looked from the cats (my friends) to the humans (celebrities), and waited for the rolled-up newspapers to come out.
Then, when I saw the humans reach out and stroke (reply to) the playful kittens, I lost control and thundered in, sending ropes of drool flying up the walls. “IS ARDAL O’HANLON NICE, I BET HE’S A CUNT REALLY” I shrieked at Graham Linehan, in response to his link to a harrowing article about the Iranian Election. “WAS THAT MAN REALLY A PEEDO” I bellowed at Armando Iannuci, as he disclosed news of an arthritic toe.
So now, I’m fully in with the hip bunch, and it’s all thanks to Twitter. And now, to my point.
Following back anyone who seems like they’re a human, it’s also introduced me to the poetry of a man called Mike. On Twitter, he’s mikeisbrill, and when he used the phrase Carry On Wearing My Anus Like A Balaclava, I had to take ten minutes out of the day to imagine how the eyeholes in an anal balaclava would work.
Gouging out holes in the tract of a man wouldnt, obviously, help you see. Instead, it would allow the mans guts to press more directly against your eyes. If, gods spare us all, your eyes were open, the constricting pressure would prevent you closing them – your pupils swivelling helplessly against the liver of your host.
And then, theres the mouth-slot. A full anal balaclava, I’m fairly sure, would drive even a robust man to vomit. But that brought up its own set of logistical problems. Crafting a human anus into a gut balaclava, as desirable as that immediately sounds, is beginning to look like more trouble that its worth.
Sensing that there was unexplored beauty in this situation, I immediately demanded a poem – and that’s exactly what I got. So, basically this is the longest link to a poem youll ever read.
I’m a staggeringly sensitive person. I’m perfectly attuned to humanity, and the energy that human emotions transmit along the fibres of the universe. When someone is sad, their sadness consumes me – unless someone is standing between us laughing, in which case I’m struck by a serene sense of balance, and can resume shopping.
But when a force as powerful as Michael Jackson is suffering, it’s like a spear landing in my chakra, and my response is an unearthly spiritual howl, a reality-shearing scream that cuts directly into the higher dimensions. You might have missed it: it’s easy, when your mind is full of the nothing mush of the physical world, to not notice someone screaming in the sixth dimension.
This is why I stood outside, screaming. People need to know what is coming. I am the only one that knows Michael Jackson is going to die.
This is my vision: a shadow spreading over the Kingdom of Pop. A child’s face in the sun, her tears extinguishing the flames. A suddenly-visible moon, presiding over the baronies and feifdoms of pop’s subgenres, basked the peasants tending the paedofields in a ghastly unlight.
The world is coming apart, Pop is ending, and there’s nothing we can do. It’s already happened in my head, and you cannot change what has already happened (in my head).
I give him two days. And that Farah Fawcett looks like she’s got a dicky tit, too