ON MY MATE DAVE'S LETTER
I got a letter the other day from my old mate Dave. Nice to hear from him really because we lost touch after school and although he's a friend on Facebook I never seem to get round to holding a real conversation with him. You know how it is. Anyway, Dave's applied for a new job and was writing to ask me for a favour. He thinks I might be able to help him with his application or something. Here, have a read of his letter if you like. It's a little bit boring so I'd be surprised if you read it all...
Click to expand!
He starts of by calling me 'Dear Elector' which made me laugh because he's using my old nick name from school. There were four of us that always used to hang around together. I was The Elector and Simon was The Occupier, Adam was To Whom It May Concern and Dave was Fuckface. Those were the days. It's nice to see he's not lost his personal touch. He's obviously looked me up on the electoral register to get my address and he's used my name on the address so I'm pleased to see he remembered the personal tocuh by calling me Elector, the daft old fuck-monkey.
Anyway, I left my lovely letter from Davey boy on the side in the kitchen as I was in a bit of a rush getting ready to go out with Simon and Adam for a quick pint. Not a big night out as it was work the next day after all. I don't entirely remember getting home that evening, and I certainly don't remember stealing a garden gnome, but I had one the next day when I woke up on the kitchen floor in a pile of cornflakes. I must have dozed off while eating them from the box. I swear I'm narcoleptic after 15 pints.
At that moment my blurry eyes fell upon dear old Fuckface's letter, and it took a moment to comprehend the horror that I was witnessing. It appears that during the night some evil minded bastard had sneaked into my kitchen was I was dozing peacefully on the tiles and scrawled horrible remarks all over it! Some people deserve to be fired into a was with a giant cannon. What is the world coming to.
Look what they did...
Click again...
Some people are just childish. Best of luck Dave. Say hello to your mum for me.
ON LESLEY ASH
So... while we're here, let's have a brief chat about Lesley Ash. Dear Lesley Ash. Fucking dear fucking Lesley fucking Ash. Did you know she first graced our screens at the age of 4 when she asked the immortal question 'why are your hands so soft mommy?' in a fairy liquid advert? Her mommy didn't reply with 'because they are filled to bursting point with collagen darling, like your face will be in about 40 years time.'
Lesley friggin Ash cost me 5 million quid, which I could have done with to be honest. She cost you five million quid as well (not you Ken Dodd, just the people who pay taxes). How? She took the NHS to court for giving her a bug while she was in hospital. They settled out of court with the rubber faced freak for an extortionate amount of money. Money that could have financed that dialysis machine, amongst other things. Money that you or I would not have got had we taken the NHS to court for the same thing.
Let's look at this in more detail. Firstly, if you were going to sue the medical profession Lesley, why the fuck didn't you pick on the plastic surgeon who made you look like an extra from Planet of the Apes?! Surely he's done more to what we must laughingly refer to as your career than the bloody NHS did. Anyway, since you hinted in your attack on the NHS that you'd never be able to work again (which would have been worth 5 million quid) I think you have a lot of face joining the Holby City cast. Although you do have a lot of face of course; you're the only person in history to look like your own Spitting Image doll.
And why was she in hospital in the first place? Anyone know the answer? Well done little Billy. Because Lesley was having athletic sex with her ex footballer husband that got so rowdy she smacked into a table and broke two ribs! That was the most expensive shag in history! 5 million quid later, and we still have to listen to you bleat on about keeping our hospitals clean. Ok Lesley, we'll do it just for you, although I think you can probably afford Bupa now, if you can fit your massive face through the door of their clinic of course.
For those of you who like an injection of irony with your collagen, Lesley joined the cast of Holby City in October 2009. Holby City is of course a fictional NHS hospital. The woman is without shame. She must spend hours in makeup.
And if you think I'm being a bit evil about Lesley then you have to realise it's nothing personal, and anyway the press have already said it all a thousand times. Lesley responded to their cruelty by saying "If I'd lost a leg in a car crash, people wouldn't have felt able to take the mickey out of me so mercilessly... People don't laugh at Heather Mills because she lost a leg." Even if she wasn't completely wrong about this - which she most definitely is - I think it's a bit rich comparing the two.
Heather Mills did not have a cosmetic leg reduction. And Lesely Ash wasn't hit in the face by a motorcycle - although that would explain the swelling.
ON JANUARY
Christmas is about birth, and New Year about re-birth. So let’s start the New Year – Nay, the new decade – as we mean to go on. A fresh, new beginning. A bright new future unfolding.
Fuck Mars Celebrations.
We had a tub of them at Christmas, and while I have no problem with the contents, or any particular fondness for them for that matter, they pissed me off. On the side of the plastic tub is emblazoned the message; ‘NEW! RE-USE ME!’
Re-use the empty tub?! Wow! Thanks Mars! What a fucking brilliant idea! No one has EVER thought of re-using an old sweet or biscuit tin! Your mother fucking geniuses! Sweet baby Jesus, how do you think of these things?! You big brained bastards! Nobel prize for saving the planet coming right up! So simple, and yet so God damn effective!
Back to your miserable old self then, I hear you all say. Yes I fucking am. And why? Because January is shit.
It’s the Monday morning month - like that horrible moment when you wake up after the weekend and realise you have to go back to work again, but for 31 cocking days (all right, except for the weekends).
The run up to Christmas (which seems to start some time in frigging June) is full of yuletide preparation… Choose the presents, buy the presents, write the cards, put up decorations, buy the food, organise the day, go to the parties, blah blah blah. And then it’s all done in a day. Don’t get me wrong, in many ways it’s something of a relief after all the stress and tension leading up to it, but couple it with New Year’s celebrations and you’re left with an emotional hangover in January. It’s like reading the last page of a really good book and thinking; ‘That was lovely. What do I do now?’
The answer is, like Scrooge, you look to the past, present and future. Reflect on the year gone and the year to come. It’s a time of putting things behind you and making fresh starts.
So, how does this apply to Stinky Ponky? Well, 2009 saw the birth of a fabulous new website that many people realised they had been yearning for and never even knew it. That was woolworths.co.uk, but it also saw the birth of Stinky Ponky; a miserable old bastard of a site that took the piss out of Kerry Katona (and some politicians). What started with hard-hitting news stories which were untroubled by the truth developed into news videos, documentaries, music videos, idiot bashing, horoscopes, agony uncles and a partridge in a pear tree. That was the past for Stinky Ponky. For the future? Much more of the same. We have videos for you, songs to record, idiots to laugh at and much, much more. And in May we will celebrate a Stinky Ponky birthday…
In 2010 we will finally be able to bring you the Unemployed Stormtrooper. Watch this space
ON GENERAL PRACTITIONERS
They piss me off.
That’s the short version, but let me take a moment to explain why.
I must be deeply unlucky, because every GP that I’ve met has been miserable at best and arrogantly patronising at worst. I can’t quite believe that they’re all like this. Somewhere there is a happy, smiling doctor who loves his work and who is deeply adored by his patients. I just wish the fucker worked at my surgery. That said I can fully understand how spending day after day in a poxy little room with an antique computer and a load of books about herpes can bring you down, especially when every ten minutes or so another snivelling, wheezing stranger wobbles in and coughs all over you. And so in some ways I don’t like to complain about them, because it must be a tough bloody job to do.
But when I sit down opposite my doctor and he turns to me with that sad, weary look on his face and sighs deeply before looking me up and down like I am made completely of dog shit before asking me “What seems to be the problem?” I feel like slapping the little twat and saying “It’s not my fucking fault you're miserable, ok? Now adjust your face and don’t presume I’m stupid just because I didn’t spend 7 years studying medicine at Pisshead University and taking extra classes in how to be incredibly arrogant without actually speaking. My nose hurts.”
Ah yes, and now we get to the crux of the matter. Let me share with you the particular encounter that has sparked this sudden outburst against General Practitioners.
It began with me calling the surgery to arrange an appointment. “There’s a slot free at 9.36,” the receptionist told me. “9.36? That’s very precise,” I reply. “Yes, the doctor likes 12 minutes for each appointment rather than 10.” Fuck me, I’m off to see Doctor O.C.D. Of course, it was 10.21 when I actually saw him. Oddly, the fact that my appointment was so precise made me notice how late he was with much greater precision too.
Here’s what happened when I went in.
DOC: (Disdain dripping from every pore) “What seems to be the problem?”
ME: “Well Doc, it’s like this. I had a bad tooth last week and had to have it extracted. I believe it may have been infected either before or since as I now seem to have what feels like a chest infection, a constant bad taste in my mouth and something horrible keeps coming out of my nose.”
DOC: (Sucks air between his teeth and gives the smile with raised eyebrows that means ‘you’ve been a little bit silly, haven’t you?’) “Ah, you see I’m not a dentist.” (The smile again).
ME: (After a brief stunned silence) “Well what an utter, cock-brained twat I am! You’re not a dentist you say? I thought I was at the dentists! What a silly, flabby arse I’ve been! This is just typical of me at the moment; only last week I took my sick dog to a car mechanic, and on Saturday I tried to push a shopping trolley around Going Places wondering why I couldn’t find the milk!
“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT A FUCKING DENTIST, YOU PATRONISING COCK, BECAUSE I’M NOT SUB-NORMAL, JUST FRIGGING ILL.”
Of course, what I actually said was “Ah, right, sorry. I thought maybe I should come to my doctor. I’ll book another dental appointment. Sorry to have wasted your time.” And just to really wind me up he gave me the ‘you’re a fuckwit’ smile again, sucked some more air between his teeth and said “Sorry, no. You need a dentist for teeth, not a doctor.”
Somewhere there is a parallel universe where I am still sitting quietly in his office with a tight grip on his hair, beating his long since unconscious head against the desk. I am smiling.
ON VIBRATING CHILDREN
So.... Alton Towers and kids that you want to hit.
I can already see some of you nodding, slowly, pursing your lips... you already understand.
It doesn't have to be Alton Towers of course. Pick a British theme park at random, chuck a stone and watch it bounce off at least 3 kids that you want to hit (a satisfying way to spend an afternoon incidentally). For those of you who aren't entirely sure what I'm talking about, let's give it a name.
Any closer to understanding? If you want real details it stands for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and replaces the old acronym LFFoS (Little Fuckers Full of Sugar) after we were able to blame it on science. It's sparked a debate recently because any kid who can provide a note from their doctor to say they have ADHD - and can stand still long enough for the note to be read - can go first on the Nemesis. Straight to the front of the queue.
Now let's be honest, I don't want to pick on our good GPs here - even if they are a bunch of miserable, freaky looking, emotional retards who start writing the prescription (or at least scribbling something barely legible on the presription) as soon as you walk through the door - but I can't imagine it's hard for mum to get a note from Doctor Shazklywskiwycz to say little Jimmy has ADHD. "Now Jimmy, we're going to see the doctor - no I won't let her touch you again with her cold, clammy hands - so drink your Lucozade and finish off your Haribo, there's a good little boy."
And there the little bastards are, at the front of the queue, vibrating with impatience while mum stands nearby, usually smoking a fag and slapping one of the other kids.
Now there might be those amongst you who think that ADHD is a load of cheesy old cock. You may bleat on about the fact that there was no ADHD in Grandad's day and that the invention of E numbers can be in no small way to blame. Bring back smacking! I hear you cry. Mum used to give me a damn good slap and it never did me any harm! And do you know what I say to those people?
Personally I'm a grumpy, sarcastic bastard. It's merely a matter of time before they invent a name for it and blame it on my body chemistry. "Oh yes, he has TDD, it stands for Tolerance Deficit Disorder. It causes him to respond to virtually anything he doesn't like - or anything he does like for that matter if he's having a bad day - with scathing sarcasm. We're treating it with 150ml of red wine in hourly doses, which seems to eventually take the edge off."
And on that day I will be at the front of the queue with a bunch of under tens (who are doing a passable impression of Taz) occasionally twatting one of them - which will be allowed due to my TDD - waiting for my seventh go on Oblivion in the space of half an hour.
July 2nd 2009
ON THE DEATH OF A KING
I think it was roughly twelve and a half seconds after Michael Jackson drew his last breath that I received the first 'joke' about it by SMS. I consider the speed of the insult a testament to how much of a star he was.
Of course, there was a lot of material there. Sick, amateur comedians worldwide came in their pants when they heard the news that the baby dangling white black man who lived with a monkey and fiddled with kids was dead - conveniently forgetting the fact that he was acquitted.
I was shocked - stunned even. It wouldn't be true to say that I was an adoring Jacko fan or that I was immediately saddened. I just couldn't believe it. It was huge. It still is.
When I was a teenager my Dad remarried after the death of my mother. I got on with my stepmother well but she may, in retrospect, have had some difficulty in understanding a teenage boy as she had no kids of her own. The most regular occupant in my walkman at the time was Guns 'N' Roses - Appetite for Destruction. I was somewhat scornful therefore (not to her face I might add) when she bought me a copy of Michael Jackon's new album - Bad. I wish that she were still alive today for a million and one reasons. Amongst them would be the opportunity to thank her for buying that cassette for me.
At the time I suppose it was my secret shame. Being into Michael Jackson would have made me the subject of ridicule amongst my friends and of course for the vast majority of us our teenage years are defined by the phrase peer pressure. And yet when I downloaded the album again after MJ's death was announced I realized I know every last damn word of it. It's engraved on my brain.
Forget the ardent Jackson fans for a moment - the ones who knew how good he was all along - and focus for a second on those who had forgotten or didn't realise. I'm in this category. We are the ones who gradually, over the course of a few days this week, realized just how big a loss this was. Whatever went on in his personal life the guy was nothing short of a fucking genius. His music and his method of delivery have been aped ever since - and will be for many years yet. Watch a Timberlake video and tell me I'm wrong.
I'm not going to spend a long time looking at his career in detail - that's happening all over the media right now so it would be pointless doing it here. So I'll leave it with one last thought.
I hope that when I die at the age of 118 very quickly and painlessly the sick jokes about me will be just as quick in coming as they were for Michael Jackson.
The King is dead... Long live the king.
June 24th 2009
ON "BRITISH" SPORTS STARS
It's Wimbledon that's done it really. Here I am, waiting for the traditional disappointment of another poor British performance, with the off chance that Andrew Murray will upset the apple cart by being good at tennis (I'm not too worried about this) when it suddenly occurs to me; who in the name of fuckery is Elena Baltacha? She is, I am told, the last hope for British women's tennis at Wimbledon this year. Good old Elena.
And so the research begins; according to Wikipedia...
Elena Baltacha is of Ukrainian parentage and has played for Britain and Scotland. She is the current UK number 2 behind Anne Keothavong.
Hang on a second... who?
Is it me or do they sound a bit foreign?
I have to be careful here of course because it the thin end of a wedge which ultimately terminates in a big, fat Nazi called Nick Griffin sitting not very prettily on his shiny new European seat, and almost certainly hanging over the edge of it. I'm sure you get the point though.
At least in other sports we get foreign sounding athletes who are good at their sport. I'm thinking of vowel thief Christine Ohuruogu as a good example. But not in tennis. In tennis we get Greg Rusedski.
And oddly the tide is turning... British people with a British background that goes past their own parents are getting good at sports and winning medals and stuff. Kind of crept up on you that one, didn't it? The BBC sports personality list of nominees for 2008 consisted of shit loads of people that you'd actually heard of. This is fantastic stuff. The England football squad are having a bit of a good spell - under 21's as well rather encouragingly.
And so here's the theory...
When we were a bit shit at sport, the last country to be picked for the team as it were, we balanced things by importing foreigners and slapping a passport into their hands. Nowadays we have to balance it in a different way... we have the good stuff already so we're importing tossy second rate athletes to plug the gap.
Fine by me. Come on Elena! Oooo! So close, never mind, come back next year.
May 29th 2009
ON THE LOST ART OF INDICATING
No pretty pictures, no unnecessary frills, just you and me, sitting by the fire side with a glass of something aromatic and chatting.
Welcome to the editorial.
Now my friends, let me tell you about anger. Let me tell you about frustration. Let me tell you about sitting at a traffic island and waiting to pull out but being unable to do so because of a steady stream of cars. Apparently a ferry has landed somewhere nearby - what else could explain all of the vehicles in close procession?
And of course every third bastard turns left without indicating.
Indicating is a lost art from a bygone age. It's a dinosaur from the considerate era; a near mythical beast from more courteous times. And it's a symptom of something else; a virus affecting the minds of the western world :- near solipsistic selfishness.
Everyone seems to believe that the world revolves around them. It's nothing new I realise, but it's getting worse. Everyone is of the opinion that they need not indicate but they turn the air blue if someone fails to indicate in front of them. I'm guilty of driving somewhat selfishly myself on occasion (I NEVER fail to indicate off an island however - you may have noticed it's my pet peeve) but not to the arrogant, dizzying heights that some people achieve nowadays.
And so, sitting here and devising intricate and painful plans for what to do with each and every rat turd that fails to tell me, via the medium of light, that they're planning a left; I have an epiphany. No longer will I drive inconsiderately. I will always let people out (instead of pretending that I can't see them). I will never cut anyone up again. I will never carefully - and apparently innocently - stay alongside someone I believe to be in the wrong lane to stop them getting across.
And why stop there? I will help old ladies across the road. I will see if anyone has dropped the next tenner I find. I will contact all of the relatives that I haven't spoken to for years. I'll put money in the charity box and buy a copy of the big issue occasionally (but only if the little bastard looks homeless - I don't trust those fuckers). I will...
Hang on, she's indicating, I can go after the next one... There. I'm out. I'll edge a bit closer to him to stop her pulling out and look the other way. What's he swearing at? Oops, I forgot to indicate!
Still... it's a good idea. And I will start putting it into practise. I have already (although my other half would probably disagree). I've started taking a deep breath and despite every nerve and sinew in my body screaming against it... I let people out. It feels ok I guess.
So there. I've looked at the man in the mirror and I'm making the world a better place; even if it's only in my own tiny way.
Sorry, were you expecting funny? Read the article about Thatcher being stabbed in the arse by the Pope.
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