21 Dates In 7 Days: Day 1
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)
ANYWAY
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
TweetThere’s A Perfectly Reasonable Explanation
GUESS THE PERFECTLY REASONABLE EXPLANATION
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
answer: 4
no wait i mean 5
Wooftard Rendezvous
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:
THE ROMANTIC MANOEUVRES OF FAT MEN
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.
JEFF
Woof
STEVE [looking around]
Woof?
Steve spins around on his stool really fast. When he stops he is facing Jeff.
STEVE
WOOF
JEFF
Grrrr
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.
JEFF
Woof. Woof woof. Woof. Woof...
There is a knock at the door.
STEVE
Wu! Wuwuwu!
Jeff rolls his eyes and answers the door. It is Damien.
DAMIEN
Woof! Woof!
JEFF
Wooof!
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.
STEVE
Why did you woof with three o's at Damien?
JEFF
I... I didn't. I... was doing a French woof. You know, like wurf. Stretches the vowel sound out.
STEVE
Oh. Well, why were you woofing in French?
JEFF
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
STEVE
Oh, that's interesting. Because it's not what this sworn affidavit says.
JEFF
Have you been issuing subpoenas to my friends?
STEVE
You didn't leave me any choice. I had to subpoena something
JEFF
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.
STEVE
Well, I'm sorry. I didn't realise I was such a chore.
JEFF
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
STEVE
I'm going to eat Damien. Perhaps then you'll love me again.
PASSING JOURNALIST
I didn't know fat gay men could talk. Or that they ate each other. What a scoop!
JEFF
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.
END
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.
TweetHappy Birthday Steve
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!
Boxing Helena & Eating Raoul
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.
PAUL: Dirtboxing?
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.
TweetHanky Code: July 2009 Update
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 |
| Embroidered Egg | Virgin | Clumsy |
| 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 |
Twitter, And The Poetry Of Arsepuke
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.
THIS LINK WILL TAKE YOU TO A POEM YOU WILL LIKE
TweetBack-Dated Michael Jackson Blog Shows Staggering Empathy, Foresight
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
TweetLook At What I Overheard
I'm always hearing amazing conversations. Other people say they don't overhear any great conversations at all, so the only logical explanation is that my threatening presence makes everyone put in a bit of extra effort. It's certainly true that spikes of conversational excellence occur at that precise time I shake my fist, drop my trousers, and make huge snarling whoops. Take this conversation, that I overheard on the bus, this very morning.
Son: I hope this bus does a loop the loop
Mother: If it does, I'll park a tit on your leg
Bouyed by this warm cross-generational interchange, I disembarked and entered my regular morning newsagent. It is here, that I always cast my eye over the Pork Farms pasties. I imagine them in my mouth, and try to work out whether that would be a thing I'd be happy paying £1.79 for.
This is my benchmark of acceptability: every day that I decide not to buy and eat a Pork Farms pasty at 8:30am, is another day I have passed the human test. Imagine my surprise when I overheard this!
Customer: My hand's stuck in this bag of Monster Munch.
Shopkeeper: Have you tried taking it out?
Customer: Tried for a while, but now I quite like it. It's like a crunchy mitten.
Shopkeeper: A mitten... of monsters!
Customer: Yes!
Cheered immeasurably by this stolen banter, I wandered out of the shop, where I overheard a homeless gentleman trading bon mots with his carrier bag.
Man: Did I tell you about my time at the Danish Embassy?
The carrier bag billows out an unearthly gasp, and paisley swirls envelop the man.
Man: It was the grooviest year of my life.
The bag catches a gust of wind, and rockets into the stratosphere, where it is struck by lightning
Man: And I haven't stopped dancing yet!
The man snakes himself around a lamp-post, where he remains perfectly still, but for the wild muddling of a lazy, prehensile erection.
Even at work, the people around me have incredible conversations, which I overhear with overstated reaction shots. Cupping my hand to my ear, blinking six times and saying "whu-uuu?", or simply hooting like a maniac: everyone knows when I've overheard something, because I'm standing up, and repeating it word for word. This is a conversation that I'm overhearing right now. I'm piping directly from my ears to my fingers. It's coursing through me like cake batter, and you are my ovens.
Gelatinous Cube: Man, HR are being such dicks about this tribunal hearing.
Halfling: Dude, I heard about that. You shat out a skeleton soldier in the atrium lift?
Gelatinous Cube: Fuck, when you put it like that, of course it sounds bad. He came out as he went in. Undead.
Halfling: He says you shat the helmet into his face. He says you did it with such deft comic timing that it could only have been deliberate.
Gelatinous Cube: Haha! I totally did that. I thought "he's just done a double take and collected his thoughts, long enough has passed for everyone to think it's over, now's the time for a strong visual punchline". The Beholder cracked up, it was awesome.
Halfling: Don't come out with this shit at the tribunal, man.
Gelatinous Cube: You worry too much.
Halfling: You know what, I've always wondered why skeleton soldiers carry gold around. Why do the undead need money?
Gelatinous Cube: You still working on that open mic set?
Halfling: Fuck you.
That's all I've overheard today. If I hear anyone saying anything else, I promise you, you'll be the joint second to know.
TweetWhat Burglars Don’t Steal
It's been long enough since the burglary - and the tear-jerkingly generous response of friends and colleagues - for this post to not to seem like a begging message. So, here's what I wrote the day after burglars nicked everything I own, and one of Stuart's Dr Who DVDs that was in my XBox. I haven't heard the last of that, I can tell you! "Why don't you put things back in their boxes; that was part of a box set; I'm not really saying any of this, you just love the idea of being henpecked".
When you're burgled, by people who you've come to suspect are French, there are six things that pass through your mind. I've distilled these six thoughts as the universal human stages of dealing with home invasion, possession theft, and a lack of sexual assault that's bordering on remiss.
Thought 1. Oh hey, I've been burgled pretty hard
Thought 2. I've got so much more space to do handstands now
Thought 3. This has the familiar whiff of France about it
Thought 4. Look at all the awesome stuff they left behind
Thought 5. I wonder if they came into the bedroom and watched me sleeping before deciding against the sexual assault
Thought 6. This could be the opportunity I've been waiting for to use that Windsor font from The Good Life titles
Today, I'll be focussing on point four. Here's what they left behind. I was going to Twitter it, then I thought "hey Log, why don't you write a fucking paragraph"
A glass of pink wine. It was like we'd laid the room out for Santa Claus. Whenever I'm stressed, my mouth becomes dry and uncomfortable. I'd hate for anyone burgling me to become irritable and lose focus because they're involuntarily smacking their lips and wincing, so I left a glass of murky pink wine out. Clearly - not fucking good enough for them.
If I'd known we had dignitaries visiting, I'd have put out a tube of Prawn Primula and some Tia Maria. Next time, give us a bit of fucking notice, OK? I'll leave a Tuc biscuit wedged into a little pink cushion shaped like Prince Philip's bumcrack. I can be classy when I need to be.
A Carnival Of Monsters Dr Who Adventure. This means one of two things. Either they thought that it actually was a carnival of miniaturised monsters, that would expand to full size when the box was opened - or they've already watched it, and know what incoherent shit it is. Take that, Terance Dicks! In your well-respected face!
A pouffe. I can understand this one, actually. It's perfectly rational to imagine that this is a sophisticated Al Murray-summoning burglar alarm. The first burglar to say "do we want that pouffe?" would trigger a seventeen minute sketch with Al Murray's gay Nazi. And I think, it'd sound, something, like, this!
Al Murray: "DID SOMEVON SAY POOUUUUUFFFE"
Henri-Luc: "He honh he honh"
Jacques: "I could use a pouffe in my downstairs room"
Al Murray: "MEE TOO IF BY DOWNSTAIRS ROOM YOU MEAN ANUS"
Jacques: "Well, I probably did. The phrase 'downstairs room' isn't really a common one, I was using it mainly to set you up for that exact response. I was being a dutiful straight man "
Al Murray: "I'M A RIGHT COMMON ONE, I'LL DO ANYTHING FOR A CHOCO LIEBNIZ"
James Corden: "I just think it's brave of me to make so many jokes about my weight, when it must be genuinely horrible looking like I do"
Al Murray: HANG ON I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING ABOUT STRAIGHT MAN YET
Henri-Paul: "Il y a onze oignons dans le poubelle, je veux les baiser"
[Al Murray re-enacts every conversation of the entire second World War in a hysterical gay voice, while Corden removes his top and starts pushing socks into his belly button]
Hot Naga Chilli. I'd like to think that the burglars were spice cowards, and my taste in nature's thumpier condiments took them aback. However, I suspect the reality is one of them saw the bottle, got everyone to look at it, and said "Naga, Please!"
Everyone would have laughed for around twenty minutes, and then their stupid mate would have come through our window, and ruined the skirting-around-the-word fun for everyone by saying "Nigger, please" and expecting everyone to laugh in the same way. Breaking the joke in this way just sped up the theft of my stuff, so you can imagine how annoyed at him I am. Even Al Murray would have to black up before saying the nigger word, and he's very much the barometer of what is and isn't brilliant.
Guitar Hero World Tour: Actually, I'm bored now. I'd just put the words on the image, and felt like I had to mention it in the body copy. Look at me, saying phrases like body copy, like it's normal. I'll be saying "page furniture" next. PRESS B TO STOP EVOLVING INTO A PRICK
Anyway, here's a quick summary for you:
| WHAT THEY DON'T STEAL | WHY THEY DON'T STEAL IT |
|---|---|
| Carnival of Monsters DVD | "Monsters are fantastical, and have no place in a world driven by short-term economic gain." |
| Pouffe | "Cubes are physically demanding shapes to hoik through a sash window" |
| Glass of Off Wine | "No thanks, we're burgling a house atm" |
| Hot Naga Chilli | "The security dimple in the metal cap isn't depressed" |
| Guitar Hero World Tour | "I stole my son a real guitar last week, and I'm not sure the skills are transferable" |