Unfinished Monkey Business

I was deprived of the pleasure of witnessing the piratical 'Johnny 3: Revenge Of The Bum Numb-ers' earlier in the week, so in my hysterically bent state I set sail for Winton's hallowed Wimborne Road, which is, in fact, the main road through Winton. That's right, you heard me correctly, the main road through Winton is called Wimborne Road. I'm sorry? You'd like me to repeat that? You don't know where Wimborne Road is? Well, it's the main road through Winton. What is the main road through Winton called, you say? Funny you should ask. It actually carries the name of Wimborne Road. And don't you forget it. Oh. You forgot it? Don't worry, I haven't. Wimborne Road is the main road...etc. Ad nauseam (literally).

The course was plotted, but proved to be useless, so we threw it away and followed our twitching tails all the way to the Hop & Kilderkin in search of booty (the valuable kind, not sexualised arses) & bounty (the monetary reward, not synthesised coconut covered in substandard chocolate). We arrived just in time to get pissed for two hours with the Abbots before the monkey-based pub quiz began. We warmed up for the main event via the medium of Enrique Iglesias's blue plastic box & pizza. Of the six exciting prizes on offer at this most cercopithecan of quiz nights, we sailed away with four, snatching them straight from the gaping holes of the confused apes. It's a poor workman who blames his monkey.


Currently listening: Aman Iman by Tinariwen

How's Work? Answer Me!

Oh fair & fleshy Pussycat Dolls, why in Sir Donald Sinden's name did you not see fit to include me in your forever gyrating number? I mercilessly hunted down my inner doll and impaled it on a special matryoshka harpoon & everything. Apparently, there is a Pussycat Doll squatting inside every woman's nasal cavities. There’s so many different types of ‘Pussycat Dolls’ in the world, and that’s what is so inspiring to women, so they say. The message is just finding your can of hairspray and suffocating your bastard inner doll with it. Why, Donald, Why?

This weekend, as I plucked the crispy hairs from the ageing skin of my roasted pig, I heard the dreaded double clap, summoning me to take my place under the smug pole of his Lordship's sedan furniture. The weak & woolly amongst our number mewed like broken sheep about the cold, even though it was a gloriously snoodling, winter evening. But all was not lost, the pub had provided us with a spread of crispy hog, pressed rat, warthog, the may bee & funky monkeys with which to celebrate the double whammy of inconsiderate birthday expense. Scrubs-aping duo, BoBoBoBoBoBoBoBoBoBoBoBo & his Brown Bo just had to decide to be born on very similar dates. Though obviously separated by many decades they both enjoy an uncanny lackadaisical attitude to the charms of professional pressie ripping. Their birthdays do not deserve to be in such close proximity to the evillest genius of them all, Dame Kylie. Brrrrrrrrrr.


Currently listening: 23 by Blonde Redhead

My Lederhosen Are A Gay Man's Treasure Trove

So says Rufus Wainwright, and I have no reason to doubt it.

Meanwhile across town, a motley collection of reprobates gathered around the flickering light of the tellybox to dip overripe strawberries into finest as-seen-on-tv chocolate. "Jolly jumping jaffa cakes Si-Man, you'll get salt in the chocolate!" said the one known as Deter-Mann, and instantly all thoughts turned to vile & disgusting things. Images of the final exploits of their heroic chums faded from the screen as the gathered few vowed to use their newly acquired powers of super-aching bellies, mild disappointment & creeping nausia only for evil.

Later... once the strange, shakey hand man had been dispatched from Furlong HQ; Crabb-Man, Mighty-Meesh & your humble narrator journeyed to Rufus's Portsmouth pad in the Micramobile and donned their Angela Merkel drag gear to gain entrance to the hideously smoke-free, but gerbil-friendly Guildhall hall. They overcame the twin obstacles of the rampant toilet kerfuffle & the Miss Piggly t-shirt. They fought through the hordes of booze-confiscating ticket inspectors and took their seats to witness the second gayest thing that their eyes had yet seen. Spangly things, stripes, hats, stilettos & so-bad-it's-fabulous dance routines whirled in front of their honking faces until, sweaty & panting, they ran for home so Mighty-Meesh could continue her nocturnal, life-saving crusade in new, fabulous style.


Currently listening: Adjágas by Adjágas

Fragrant Popery

Away with you, your Holiness the Pope, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God. I had enough of you in January. And sod you too Mr Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople. This is the sacred week of the supreme & divine Matriarch.

Yes, another bloody birthday. But we're in the home straight now, we've reaches the apex of the season and it's all downhill from here on in. So, the programme of events : 'twas m'mum's actual birthday on the Saturday, the official pressie opening on the Monday & the traditional ceremonial outing on the Wednesday. We set off from the royal residence at should-be-still-in-bed O'clock, passing through the forests of Lothlorien & Moria, stopping for a bite to eat at the Minas Tirith Roadchef, and arriving at our destination, The Vale of Arundel, just in time for tea with the Earl. We had a mooch round his little castle, admired his phallic weaponry & mannequin-filled dungeon. Then boredom & cheekiness set in, so we smeared his Fabergé icon with greasy words, tweaked at the nipples of his ancestors' paintings and played ping pong on Queen Victoria's musty & deliberately stained bed.

Once we were released on bail by the head dwarf it was time for a dollop of mind enhancing cuwchah. Thusly we headed towards the snaking queue of luvies, darlings & luvvy-darlings, following their unearthly, posh gabble all the way to the Chichester & Fangorn Festival Theatre. Pointing & sniggering ensued, as Lord Des Lynham & ageing floozy downed their overpriced fizzy grog in a fit of ordinariness. And then Pope Poirot took the stage & frightened everyone with his last confession & his huge, dangling, arsonistical tendencies.

Booze. Bog. Burger. Bed. Bye.


Currently listening: Get Used To It by The Brand New Heavies

More Muscular Mayhem

It was time for Clare Patricia Grogan to unpack her high-pitched voice again for a weekend of birthday seasonal bellyache. It was the soon-to-be-ex Chef's turn to be serenaded by the traditional supersonic squeak, audible only to microscopic chinchillas.

Pub & prezzies were unleashed on t'Friday, whilst the riff-raff free, official, royal soiree was hosted on the Saturday. The guests arrived one by one in their spangly afternoon gowns, and were announced (in my mind) by Frank "elderly men in their 40s who think they're athletes just cos they've got a fake tan & tiny, tiny shorts" Bough & Selina "boobly" Scott. She was in charge of the fashion commentary, obviously, whereas Franky handled his areas of expertise: current affairs, who's who & sexual perversions. Hectares of food (Barbecue, huge & chilli) were shovelled down our expanding mouths, gallons of booze (an array of ale, cider & the unknown) followed but was duly consumed by the hungry food, thus preventing the welcome & expected drunkiness.

But of course, thanks to the BBC & Dame Lloyd-Webber, Jason Donovan (and his sodding tasteless dreamcoat) was on hand to interpret our fevered imaginings:

And it came to pass at the end of eight full hours, that Kev dreamed: and, behold, he stood by the barbecue. And, behold, there came up out of the barbecue seven well favoured cowburgers and fatfleshed; and they fed in a meadow. And, behold, seven other cowburgers came up after them out of the river, ill favoured and leanfleshed; and stood by the other cowburgers upon the brink of the flaming barbie. And the ill favoured and leanfleshed cowburgers did eat up the seven well favoured and fat cowburgers. So Kev awoke. And he slept and dreamed the second time: and, behold, seven snakes came up upon one mousey, rank and good. And, behold, seven thin snakes and blasted with the east wind sprung up after them. And the seven thin snakes devoured the seven rank and full mouslets. And Kev awoke, and, behold, it was a dream. And it came to pass in the morning that his spirit was troubled (from booze); and he sent and called for all the magicians of Ringwood, and all the wise men thereof: and Kev told them his dream; but there was none that could tame his hangover, or remove the magic words from his belly. Honk!


Currently listening: Release The Stars by Rufus Wainwright

The Faded Hotpants Of Indecision

The 100% beastly fairy of sleep deprivation has visited my pillow, plucked the restfulness from the monobrow of my being and left behind a wheezed-out, drowsy husk & a small pot of honey, for that is her traditional parting gift. Let me tell you for why.

Taking their cue from the capricious Kylie herself, the impulsive inhabitants of Stephen eloped on a Chinese donkey to the wilds of London's Hammersmith to whimsically enjoy the greasy things of legend and partake in London lunges. They flightily climbed the social stepladder to London's South Ken-Darling (or London's Off-Brompton, as I like to haphazardly dub it) to mercurially enjoy the fickle delights of London's Kylie Minogue (incorporating Victoria & Albert) Museum. It was now time to do art. Oh how they danced amongst the tatty, but spangly dresses of their youth as an unnaturally humongous Aussie midget loomed approvingly over their gyrating navels. The paucity of footwear was a disappointment at first, but was more than made up for by the chance to smell the unscented aroma of the fabled, tarnished hotpants of cheapest gold through a perspex box.

Panic set in early as our protagonists took to the narrow boulevards of London's Covent Garden. They leapt from one calamity to another as they dodged the encroaching diabetic army & Mr Krishna by darting into a hideous wine bar, cleverly disguised as a pub. Our heroes were trapped by its web of lies & indecision for a good pints worth of time, thereupon the heavens opened and they spilled out onto the soggy street for a spot of Terrance Hasselhoff shopping. They fortuitously bumped into Rufus Wainwright & his pet piano, who appeared to be wearing most of Miss Minogue's stolen, spangly wardrobe. He entertained them with song & breath until they could take no more and left them to plan their next move.

Mopatop Shop was that move, to see a kaleidoscope of skinny ties & the handiwork of "designer" Katie Melua-Moss, whip in hand, stitching her evil garments together using her own bare slaves. They took a short detour to the establishment of Messrs Hennes & Mauritz in search of Kylie cossies, but could only find insipid pink hats, and so retired to pub to enjoy Madonna's Jump and London's wrong toad in the hole.

Our infelicitous characters were presently overcome by waves of tiredness, swells of idiocy and inexplicably frightened by burlesque on stilts, so they settled on a cheap, dodgy night of live bebop at The Purple Turtle in London's Mornington Crescent. They were subjected to various substandard musical treats in the genres of 'Confused Rock' & 'Prepubescent World Psycho Pap' as they struggled to hold on to sanity (and their hearing). Ultimately it proved to be a waste of time as they were slowly, but inexorably pulled back to imbalanced normality on a cloud of lunacy, via Winchester (bastards).


Currently listening: Volta by Björk

Spunky Monkey Magic

Bank Holiday Mon(key)days are for dancing and playing in the dirt with worms. So decrees King Monkey-Doo. We did obey, and thus the morning was spent erotically gyrating around the ceremonial May Pole in the furious drizzle. I did me back in a smidge and was left with an owie in my spine for a good few minutes.

The evening was dedicated to the work of Monkey-Meesh, her tailless minions & their Ecuadorian cousins. We made our way to Westbournemouth's Centre Stage in our matching Pigglyfish unifoms, but had no time for stressed cheese rolls, only warm Ringwood booze. We could do no more but wait for Alphino to take the stage. Or drink. So we drank. Between drinks we enjoyed the brand new stylings of the Ba-Ba-Da song & watched as the colourful fish swam through the space in front of our brains. Jennie-Dee-Bo-Dip-Dip-Dee-Bo-Bo drunkenly shrieked the geeky phrase "Save the monkey save the world!" As she is wont to do. This resulted in an instant Afrobeat classic from a random, sleep-deprived Vic.

There were many other bands, including Tinderbox and Lou somebody, but I was of course too drunk to remember the infinitesimal details of the evening's patterned carpet. All I know is I was hot, baby, apparently, & bore a striking resemblance to the handsome & svelte Mr Jack Black. As I danced, my bladder grew looser as my back grew stiffer, but I couldn't stop, for soon it was time for the undramatic entrance of Jazzy Jon & The Fresh Crabb for our dangerously quiet DJ set. Despite the addition of the traditional Gwen Stefani march & salute, the plug was pulled by the blinking red-eyed noise monster, he was less than appeased. So to bed, with just a slight taxi cock-up to negotiate as we fell into a fitful sleep, safe in the knowledge that the monkeys were alive and well (like the Swiss vampires), yeah baby.


Currently listening: Send Away The Tigers by Manic Street Preachers

Spider-Plant, Spider-Plant, Does Whatever A Spider Can't

Friday night was Spidey (Spiday?) night. Yes, a rare trip to the cinema to enjoy the smell of chicken bones, the brightly coloured, moving pictures & the laugh-out-loud funniest film I've seen in an age. It was a revelation. Spider-man dances like John Travolta (sort of)! I don't remember Peter Parker getting piggly with it, Daddio, in my old weekly Super Spider-man TV Comics, but maybe my memories betray me and he really was boogieing on down with Sinitta and her greasy words all those years ago, Tiger.

Inspired by the evening's superheroic antics we thwipped our way back to the skips of Sue Ryder. Our spidey-sense was piqued by Shirley Bassey's gleaming helmet, so using all our superweedy strength & substandard spider wits, we hauled away a most glorious booty of unnervingly sticky records & stained furniture in our webbed hands. Dig it.


Currently listening: American Doll Posse by Tori Amos

The Pleasure Of Faux Leather

I've become a little lax at attending to documenting the nooks and crannies of my waning existence of late, partly from a lack of anything interesting happening in my immediate face (not that that's stopped me before), but mostly from a sun-enhanced carn't be arsedness. So, in an effort to make my toenails seem a touch more exciting, and my philtrum more excited I will litter the following tales with vague inaccuracies and colourful, mythical beasts of yore. Feel free to guess which bits are less than truthful, answers on a postcard or stuck-down envelope to my psychiatrist.

Last Friday, pressie-giving season continued apace with Queen-like Charlie-bo's official birthday. We started off the celebrations by sexing ducks with Andy's bespoke, spangly duck sexer and for pudding we enjoyed the squishy delights of the Swedish krisproll. The nectar of the Gods flowed down our lush, rolling green throats, while we gaily gagged as our gullets swelled to gargantuan proportions (I had ordered the smooth nectar, but the Gods saw fit to deliver the one with bits of bee sting left in it, they work in mysterious ways).

It wasn't long before Mayday reared it's snotty visage, straining at it's shackles to join in the fun. The maybugs were whizzing round and round its mishapen head, making its eyes go all cross and driving our ears to distraction with their hideous clacking. It brought with it many exotic ailments to befuddle our senses, including pungent asparagus wee, sweaty elbows and a strange affliction apparently called 'The Hey-Feebers'. It seems to be some sort of parasitic insect that buzzes incessantly from deep within your nasal cavities causing waves of warm sneezes and runny everything. The only cure is a lukewarm poultice of leeches & cream, or death.

And, for shame, Thursday was local election voting day. Now, I take a very strong view on not voting, I think you should at least turn up to spoil your ballot paper. BUT, for the first time since I was of legal age to satisfy the political urges emanating from my loins, I declined to sup from the bittersweet teat of democracy that many suffered and died for, in order to give me the right to vote. See, it was all due to an enormous dragon that blocked my path with a stream of flaming effluence. Or maybe it was the hey-feebers that crawled out of my nose and began gnawing at my feet, leaving me unable to control the power of my knees. Oh come on, it was sunny, and I couldn't be arsed. Slap me, slap me now. Harder!


Currently listening: The Magic Position by Patrick Wolf