Another Little Disappointment

OK so let’s just take it as read that I am the new Doctor Who. Here’s the title card, which will show on the telly while a posh bloke says “And coming up next, Dr Who will kick the cocks off of some Go-Bots or something”. My mate who is a real Dr Who nerd says I have spelled Dr Who wrong. I couldn’t think of what to say back until three days later, so I phoned him up and said it was only concept art so fuck off.

I have written a new opening sequence. K-9 is flying around in space. There is a close-up on his ears, which spin around, and he says “DOCTOR, I HAVE DETECTED AN EPISODE IN THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM” and then I jump through a paper hoop and say “Let’s get ON IT!” I kick K-9 into the sun, then it’s the usual opening sequence only with me waving my arms around like I’m going dead fast. 

The music is Bob Marley’s Jammin’, but the last line of the chorus changed to “We hope you like Doctor Who”. My assistant, a sarcastic parrot with a monocle and the voice of Brian Sewell, squawks “Sure do!”, lands on my shoulder, and we jump into the Tardis.

(On the Dalek episode, the Daleks have a verse, too. They come in, singing “We are the Daleks, we love the disco sound” and I wag my finger at them and they say sorry)

So the action starts, and I’m on a NEVER BEFORE SEEN BEFORE new planet, where time is BACKWARDS. I shoot a monster in the face and a doctor (not me) appears and issues it a birth certificate. I actually say the word “WHURGH?” and the doctor says “I don’t know what planet you are from Mr Who but on this planet we issue birth certificates when people die and everyone smokes cigars”. He hands us both a party popper. My parrot shrugs and makes a “doi-yoi-yoing-g-g” sound that it learned off the telly. I decide to investigate.

Before long Ted Danson arrives, and tells me I have to get off his planet. I wrestle with him in a void dimension for twelve episodes, and everyone is astonished when it turns out he is full of Daleks and it was them all along, not Ted Danson. But THIS TIME, the Daleks have all got human noses because they thought perhaps it was the fact we could smell them coming that made us keep winning.

The Daleks say “I smelled YOU coming Dr Who, how do you like them apples” and I raise my eyebrows so far that they fly off, and tickle the Dalek’s noses. They all sneeze their plungers off, except for the supreme dalek, who I have to wrestle in a void dimension for a couple of episodes. Eventually I throw him into a wheelybin, rip his plunger off and stick it up my shirt like I have got a tit.

Then I regenerate SIX TIMES, which is a record for Most Regenerations In A Single Episode Of Doctor Who, and everyone is really pumped up. Then my parrot says “I’ve got cancer” and pretty much bums everyone out for the season finale. “Shit man, I just killed all the Daleks, why are you bumming everyone out,” I say, and the Parrot just dies. I spend two more episodes wrestling its dead body in a void dimension, then Kylie Minogue walks in and we make out, forgetting that in my latest incarnation I am a woman, which causes 30,001 complaints and the removal of BBC1 from the space-time airwaves.

THE END

(HEY RUSSELL T DAVIES IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE AN EPISODE OF SARAH JANE ADVENTURES I’VE GOT AN AWESOME IDEA WHERE LUKE IS OLD ENOUGH TO DO GAY STUFF)

What is going on in the world where this kind of thing is made, and sold to children. How dare anyone do this. It is a disgrace. Also how is it that this photograph is clickable in six different places. I simply want no part in a world where this is allowed to happen. Even if it does take ages to load so that people just think it’s a big white space.

Please complain about this fucking thing to someone, thanks.

Hi, Jennifans! Jennifer Tolstoy here – Log’s ex-girlfriend, and the inventor of such words as FRAZY (fun and crazy), CRABULOUS (crazy and fabulous), and HUHNNNNGGGG (a sound I make when someone in the queue in front of me is taking too long, and won’t let me look over their shoulder).

I hold the world record for the number of times anyone has repeated the word “GO” in a military operation, when I tipped a bucket of worms into the sink on a drainpipe reconnaissance mission and shouted “GO GO GO” three hundred times. Beat that, Andy McNabb! BE MY FRIEND ON FACEBOOK

I’ve been in hiding since that fat Australian cunt bitch cow-tipping slut got my touching memorial video taken off the entire internet. I really appreciated your efforts to convince her I was in the right – which a few of you did by finding pictures of her, and putting fake willies flying into her massive, food-swollen piss Chunnel. This really helped me through the difficult times. :’)

Here is that video, for being such funtabulous Jennifans!

During my life time-out, my best friends phoned me every day. They thought I’d get bored, sitting still and moving as little as possible for a whole year. But only boring people get bored! Here is my top favourite five things to do when you refuse to leave the house because the world is a horrible place!

1. Try out innovative new sexy poses like the one you can see here (don’t look at it I’m so embarrassed haha)
2. Wait outside Log’s door in the morning with a wakey-wakey biscuit
3. Sometimes I get hungry and eat the biscuit
4. Which leaves me with no reason to stand outside his door, so I just burst in and start punching him through the duvet, saying “wakey-wakey” then saying “biscuit” because i’d been thinking it over and over again outside his door and now I can’t say “wakey-wakey” without saying “biscuit”
5. Living with Log is so much fun even though we’re not going out any more, we’re just like the best friends ever

This is me and my friends! Sandy is using a fake hand to touch my boobs. It’s lucky Sandy is my mega-best friend on toast, otherwise I would have span around with my arms out like a starfish.

This is OFFICIALLY how to respond to a sexual attack, and has been since 1986. After the Fonz told children to honk when they were getting their bodies touched by grown-ups, paedophiles quickly evolved to home in on groups of honking children. So then Cagney & Lacey had to do a video giving advice about what to do if you were cornered by a honk-proof nonce. I chose the starfish, but there were other things you could do!

1. Move your head up and down so they can’t work out where to kiss you.
2. Teleport to a location above your assailant, land on his head and guide him to a police station.
3. Form a sexless relationship with your abuser until you are old enough to consent to kissing with your mouth open.

Sandy says it’s not her real arm anyway, so it’s basically like that thing where you lie on your arm so it feels like someone else is touching your tits. I have to admit, it did feel like someone else was touching my tits.

These two guys are so gay. I am trying to look nonchalant, like I don’t care about it, but I’m also letting my silky hair land on the taller gay man’s arm. Let him know what he’s missing! I love gay men, they are so uninhibited! But then, I suppose you’d have to be inhibited to go near a big shitty bumhole. I don’t have a penis, but if I did, I would want to put it in something lovely, like a vase.

Log is gay, too – I was amazed when I found out, he never mentions it – and I think this is why we’re such great friends. Last night, I waited until he was really, really, asleep, and I crept into his bedroom, and tried to find bit that were sticking out of the duvet, that I could put into my mouth. When he woke, he just hid under the covers. He is so lame, sometimes, he doesn’t know how to have fun at all. But it’s all part of what makes our relationship so special – I’m the crazy one, he’s the one that keeps trying to put locks on his bedroom door, and stop me keeping my shoes in the fridge.

JENNIFER FOR PRESIDENT!

Tune in next week for part two of my creepy Halloween adventures – I meet Kelly off the Porky Beans video, get my eyeballs licked out, and meet the happiest Frankingstein in the world!

You might be wondering, if you’re one of the 500,000 people who come here every day, why I haven’t written anything for over three months. The despair must be corrosive for you all – here’s one email I’ve had from a lady in Scotland.

Dear Log,

On the 106th consecutive day without an update to your blog – which as far as I’m aware is the only blog on the internet – I let out a bellowing sigh. Normally this wouldn’t matter, but I was frenching my husband at the time, and he became inflated with my unhappiness. I don’t think my fragile relationship can survive this metaphor.

It isnae braw,
Belinda Getty

That’s terrible, Belinda, and I can only offer you an uplifting metaphor in response. Put on a billowing, elegant dress, and go to a Wetherspoon’s. Holding out the hemline of your dress, ask a passer-by to fill the fabric trough with as many condiment sachets as he can. Quick as you can – and you might find in-line skates or a friendly Roc will help you here – dash to the nearest church, and empty all the sachets into the baptismal font. Now, push your face, really hard, into the minty brown puddle of taste. Really hard. Break your nose, if you have to. Keeping your face firmly in place, hold your breath, and dance as energetically as you can, using both your arms and legs. Eventually, you will collapse from a lack of oxygen, and the inhalation of liquids.

If you come to, you will have every flavour there is in your mouth and lungs. That flavour, Belinda, is me. Lick your lips. That’s more me. Wipe your face with a towel. In 200 years, that pattern will be the flag of the United States of America.

I have no excuses for my three months away, nor do I have any right to expect anyone but this strange bastard to be reading this post. There’s one empty promise, though. I’m freelance now – and if my desirability as a writer for hire is anywhere near what I think it is, you’re going to be getting a lot of posts about what’s outside the window of this room.

This is my new life. I stare at it.

If you want me to write anything for you or your company, I’ve got a lot of experience, writing passable rubbish for people who don’t really know what they want. It’s my unique blend of uninspired adequacy that leaves everyone unsatisfied, but without actionable cause for complaint. 10p/word , no timewasters.

Thanks to Jammus for starting the excellent Near-Miss Heroes and Villains list over at Listopia, a list which reassured me that it doesn’t all have to be about famous people who sound like cheese. Also check out Can I Get A Widnes?, the latest list to be imported from Idiotica’s wealth of excellence.

Meanwhile, let’s celebrate the fact that I’m about to play Strongbad’s Cool Game for Attractive People with a cartoon I just made. I used the creator at Homestar Runner, so if you’ve got the tiniest inclination, make one yourself, send it to me, and I’ll include it here. Otherwise I’ll just do it myself, to create an aura of popularity.

Until then, prepare yourself to see how I’ve capitalised on the ambiguity of language for humourous effect, and put a bum on a man’s face!

I have watched this video about fifty times. I don’t know how to stop watching it. I think posting it here will probably help.

Fucking hell. I can’t wait to post this, so I can watch it again in my own website. It’ll be like I wrote it.

(Better quality sound on the version in my Muxtape)

Everyone loves a list. If a list could hit someone in the balls, they’d be the funniest thing in the world. If only someone would compile a “most traumatic nutsack impact videos” list, perhaps I could truly laugh again.

To that end, allow me to point you towards Listopia – a site that looks set to monopolise list related humour well into the next decade. I wrote it, which along with playing games for a bloody living and questioning my own audacity in writing opinion columns in The Guardian, explains a bit why I haven’t been updating the blog.

Listopia is slowly being populated with the pun-based lists of “Maxim’s Third Best Comedy Website of 2002″, Idiotica. But don’t go there – go to Listopia. It’s in a kind of beta, which means it’s buggy, probably prone to SQL injections, and the lists aren’t funny. But go there anyway! And if you think of any good ideas for lists, I promise not to nick them and make a comedy book that will sell in overwhelmingly moderate numbers.

Nutsack Impact is either a great Van Damme movie, or Yitzhak Smear’s less cervical brother. But… which?

If anyone here reads the Guardian, then hello! You’re probably aware of Charlie Brooker. And his column, Screen Burn. And how good it nearly always is.

So you’ll probably be fucking appalled to see this image, across which I have brushed the word “Wahey”.

It’s only for a week, but still, I’m pretty chuffed. I’ve spent so long writing about games now that it seems a little uncomfortable having opinions about anything else, at least without referring to games in some way.

“That homeopathy! It’s like… does anyone remember Robotron?”

“The US government should be nerfed in the next patch”

“Marcus Brigstocke’s Pac-Man joke”

So, if anyone who comes here could just nip to the comments section at The Guardian website and tell me how (or if) they’re reacting to it, I’m afraid I’ve bricked my knicks in a disappointingly comprehensive fashion.

Right, I’m off to St James’ Park to make a pyramid out of fat gay men.

I have just been up an attic. There were cobwebs, translucent red insects, and boxes. Some of the boxes contained old games, which I’ll probably post soon as part of the “wasn’t 80s box-art awesome” shit you’d expect of a fucking games journalist.

I found old issues of “The Zine”, a short-lived magazine from the early 90s, which was made up of voluntary contributions from readers. I’d got a piece in there myself: some navel-gazing paragraph about having a low libido, and how I didn’t actually want sex so quit cupping my nuts. This article was so over-written and earnest, it stank of a young bender in denial. Fair enough – I really thought, back then, that if I distanced myself as much as possible from the vile act of gay sex, I’d be acceptable to heterosexuals. I suppose I was a tiny Graham Norton.

The Zine staff were kind enough to forward me the responses to this article. There were quite a few – and the people who responded to the article were, in many cases, kind enough to touch my penis. It was here that I learned my most valuable sexy tip. Always have a reason for being shit at sex, apart from the fact you’re clumsy, lazy, and would rather be eating. What I’d written about having a low libido was frustrated and dishonest. But it gave me an excellent reason to fall off the bed, sneeze in his eyes, and spend 90% of the whole event fully-clothed and facing the wrong way. “Of course I’m rubbish,” I could validly say. “I don’t technically want to do any of this.”

Regressing further, another box from 1985 spat out my first erotic wankybook. It was the 17th Fighting Fantasy book, in which you – the reader! – played a superhero called the Silver Crusader. This was the time of my life when reading a description of a dwarf as “barrel-chested” started a randy slideshow in my head that made my immediate priorities change. Having badly drawn pictures was tantamount to hardcore. For months of my pre-teen life, this is the picture that would make me all excited and sad that life wasn’t the video for Take On Me. Seeing him again, over 20 years later, is a bit of a let-down. He just seems like a show-off.

There he is: The Creature of Carnage. The Creature had only one line, which he spoke in all caps. “PUNY HUMAN!” he bellowed, and both nuts came flying out of my gut cavity and started filling my body with spunk. “WHAT CAN YOUR PITIFUL EFFORTS HOPE TO ACHIEVE AGAINST THE CREATURE OF CARNAGE?” Very true, I thought. You’ve got Skill 12, Stamina 14, I’d be a loveless idiot to fight you. “MANY MUST DIE BEFORE I WILL BE STILL.”

It’s worth mentioning that I never really liked his curly hair. But it wasn’t insurmountable, for someone as deep as me. I just held the book in a way that my thumb covered his hair.

You might notice that I’ve coloured him in. That’s how much I loved The Creature of Carnage. I’d begun to worry that people would notice I was staring at the same page. I would get Appointment With F.E.A.R. out, just to look at this picture, and after a while this began to feel odd. So I got a bunch of crayons, and slowly coloured him in. I laboriously coloured in his skin. I painstakingly filled in the girders. And I coloured in his loincloth. I don’t think anyone will ever know how much I coloured in his loincloth. Whenever I looked at CoC, I developed arthritis of the heart.

My obsession with F.E.A.R. paid dividends, too. To this day, it remains the only Final Fantasy book I have ever completed. I was so proud of myself, that I wrote the word “completed” in the inside cover. This prevented me from reading through the book again, mistakenly believing that I was about to masturbate over a book I hadn’t finished.

This post is dedicated to The Creature of Carnage, and Vince Bunn.

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