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19/7/2003: Stupidstition

All I tried to do was walk to the servo to get a pie. Sounds innocent enough, I know, but I had the audacity to walk on the footpath while there were painters working. As soon as I passed under the ladders which leaned over the entire footpath, there were cries of horror from one of the local crazy old women. Apparently I was defiling the holy trinity. I never knew walking under a ladder was the corporeal equivalent of giving Jesus a good rogering.

Following on from that little fiasco, here’s

Larrakin’s List of Shithouse Superstitions, Volume I.

Breaking a mirror gives seven years of bad luck.

Depends who it belongs to. If it belongs to a ninja, you will only have about seven seconds of bad luck before his shuriken embeds into your forehead.

Dropping a knife means a visitor is coming.

Probably the surgeon to remove the steak knife from your foot.

Never give a knife as a present, it will sever friendships.

And I suppose giving adhesives restores friendships? Maybe we should restructure the way peace negotiations are organized.

"Mr. Bush, a package has arrived from Iraq. The sender appears to be a Mr. Albert Qaeda."

"Superb! This must be my new DVD. Mail order, you know. Open it, open it."


"Well? Is it Nasty Animal Erotica Vol. 12?"

"Not exactly. It’s a roll of duct tape. Tag reads ‘Sorry about the plane thing. Love, Osama Bin Laden.’"

"Aw, that’s sweet. He’s not such a bad guy after all. Let’s call off the search."

"But we already did. Remember the military action in Iraq?"

"Ah, yes. Operation Distraction. Carry on, Jeeves."

"Stop calling me Jeeves, sir. My name’s Kevin."

"Very good, Jeeves."

Never let a strange woman pour a cup of tea in your house on her first visit, you will bear a child.

Sexuality! Get it? Sexual...tea!

If your palms itch, you will come into money.

Quite the opposite actually, since fungal infection treatments are quite pricey. If your palms itch, you should wear gloves to avoid an embarrassing trip to the doctor.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Let’s test this theory. Take your mother outside. Find yourself a suitable piece of concrete, keep a close eye on mum, and step on a crack. If nothing happens, step on it again. Jump up and down on it. Kick the fuck out of it. Nothing will happen to your mother’s back. Let’s change this one to "Kick the fuck out of a piece of concrete, fracture your metatarsals. Your mother has a chance of being mugged on the way to the hospital".


18/7/2003: Fiction Friday

I really don't know what the hell I was on when I wrote this week's short story: a little thing I like to call The Curse Of The Don't Mention Panties Game.

That's about it. I think tomorrow's update will be from Larrakin, as he has plenty charisma to spare! Your assignment for the weekend is to see how many Fruit Pastilles you can eat before all your teeth fall out.

17/7/2003: Tackling Hard Issues

Boy, we've got a right shower in charge of our destinies today, haven't we? Bush wouldn't be so bad if it was just him jumping up and down on the corpse of international diplomacy, but we've got Blair as well, kneeling behind him and rhythmically planting a kiss on each buttock with each of the American President's gleeful bounds.

If Bush had been around when Blair hadn't been, maybe we could have avoided all this mess, but no, history has left us with two like-minded people in control of a military strength that would bring an appreciative tear to the eye of Ming the Merciless.

I used to think Blair was merely a cretin. Then I began to realise that he was a schemer with a secret master plan to modernise Britain, and I think I respected that. But he wasn't man enough to see it through and it's falling down about his ears. If Al Qaeda hadn't told a couple of suicide bombers that they thought the weather was nice in New York this time of year, and if Bush hadn't pulled on his cowboy boots and started wailing for support like a newborn baby wails for its rattle, perhaps Blair's plan would have succeeded, but he drank a little too much American semen and I have nothing but contempt for him once again.

From right to left: Pimp, bitch.

If nothing else, the current governments of the two countries have made us all wonder one thing: "Why didn't we appreciate Clinton/Major while they were around?"

This seems to happen a lot. As soon as a government's in the bin and a new one takes up the helm, we begin to wonder exactly why we didn't like the last lot. Was it the minor infidelities and cock-ups that we are constantly reminded of in the popular press? The simple fact that we automatically dislike whoever lords it over us? Or was it because one of them was a boring old fart and the other kept spraying his delicious manjuice on the wrong woman's dress?

Governments are disentegratory. Every government has to be worse than the last one. But there has to be a bottom line; sooner or later you're going to get a government so irredeemably bad that the only way is up. This, ladies and gentleman, is the situation in Britain. We have the worst government in living memory. Crime is rising, the police are increasingly ineffective, the national health service is in dire straits, government ministers are resigning front, left and centre (and because they CHOOSE to, mind, not because they've been shagging pubescent Thai boys or spending other people's money on crack), no-one believes a word the PM says anymore and we've all got that horrible feeling that the HMS Great Britain has gone down with all hands and bumped gently into the sandy ocean floor.

This is it, people of Britain; we've hit rock bottom. Now we start finding ways to claw back up to the top before Blair breaks out the pneumatic drills.

It comes as no surprise to me at all that the leader of the opposition, Ian Duncan Smith, is rapidly gaining in the polls. In the light of our current situation, any reasonable alternative would be welcome. Hell, we'd probably vote a dead lizard into no. 10 at this stage. IDS has it easy; all he has to do is look at all the things Blair did and do the exact opposite. When he's in power, it doesn't matter what the hell he does, he'll do a better job than Tony Blair. He could spend his entire term locked in a small wooden box making no noise or movement and do a better job than Tony Blair. Frankly, I envy him.

IDS: Whoops! I have to put income tax up! Sorry, Britain!

BRITAIN: That's OK, prime minister! After all, it was Blair who wasted all our money on frivolous shenanigans, we accept that we all need to contribute to get back on our feet!

IDS: Well, thank you - oh dear, I'm going to have to build a biological waste dump in Newquay!

BRITAIN: We understand completely! Biological waste has to go somewhere! And at least you don't hand out important government positions to old school friends, like SOME prime ministers we could mention!

IDS: Oh goodness me, I killed a man just to watch him die!

BRITAIN: We don't care! At least you don't have big ears and that stupid crooked tooth thingy!

IDS: (mad laugh)

I presume the same will apply for whoever becomes president after George W. Bush (Jerry Springer or Arnold Schwarzeneggar, if my sources are correct (they aren't)). As long as they don't rub shit on themselves during press conferences or drop nuclear warheads on nursery schools, the entire world will be breathing a collective sigh of relief.

16/7/2003: Flash in the Pan

Have you ever had a revelation just hit you, right out of the air? Have you ever been walking down the street on your way to your favourite street corner where the whores hang out, and just gone BANG, "Hey, Arnold Schwarzenegger is a really, really bad actor!"

These sudden bursts of clarity are rare, and are usually planted inside your head without your knowledge by some random stimuli. After that, it gestates in your subconscious for anything up to several days before something finally sets it off, like some kind of mental proximity mine.

I had one yesterday.

Sunday had been spent slouched in front of the VCR, allowing more brain cells to be killed off by two Friday the 13th movies, 3 and 4. During Friday 3, there's a scene where the heroine discovers a bath full of bloodstained clothing that belongs to her friends, left there by the lovable Jason Voorhees. I didn't think much of it. After all, I'd seen the film twice before. It was only today during lunch hour that I found myself thinking about it again, and then it hit me:

"What the FUCK?"

Allow me to explain this better. Imagine that you, you skinny undernourished computer nerd, you are the unstoppable Jason Voorhees. Ha ha ha (cough), sorry. You've just had a gay old time slicing up some teens and are now waiting for their loser friend to come back and discover your handiwork. What do you do to pass the time? Would 'stripping the corpses and leaving the clothes in a bathtub of water' enter the top ten?

It just seemed so surreal. Jason Voorhees should not suddenly want to do his victims' laundry. He is above such things. He can leave the corpses stacked up in places so they'll conveniently drop from the ceiling when the heroine turns up, but taking the clothes and washing them? That's something only a REAL weirdo would want to do.

More than anything else in the world, I suddenly want to be part of a DVD commentary for this film.

ME: So, here she comes into the bathroom and finds all the clothes belonging to her friends being soaked in the tub. Why the hell would Jason take clothes and try to clean them?

DIRECTOR: Hey, be fair, those are pretty sweet clothes. Maybe he wants them for himself. We already know from the beginning of this film that he likes stealing clothes from washing lines for no apparent reason. And where do you think he got those dungarees from in the last film? This is how he fills his wardrobe.

ME: Even with ladies' underwear?

PRODUCER: Well, they charge a bomb for those things these days. Stitch up the machete holes, could probably nab a few quid in a car boot sale.

ME: It still seems a pretty fuckin' out of character thing to do, lads. I mean, if he likes nicking clothes so much why'd he go around in rags for most of the rest of this series?

DIRECTOR: Duh! Because he didn't want to ruin his REALLY nice gear!

CAST MEMBER: Listen to yourself. Jason strips some of his victims naked, and you're worried about what he did with the CLOTHES?

ME: You know, that's a very good point. Well, I have another question. Why is there a bloke called Shelley? Isn't that a girl's name? And now I come to think about it, there's a girl called Chris, too...

DIRECTOR: Who the hell are you, anyway? Why are you delivering a commentary? I don't remember any speccy British tossers being involved with this film.

ME: Er... I was... I was that guy! That guy on screen now.


ME: I lost some weight since then.

After my first revelation, I had another one. In Jason Takes Manhattan, the sewers of New York flood with toxic waste, which the sewage worker says happens every day at midnight. At first I didn't question it, 'cos it's New York and I don't know how things go down over there, but now it does seem a little odd. If there are any denizens of NYC reading, do provide an answer for me: Do the New York City sewers really take in so much toxic waste that they have to have a big flushing every night? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE EAT?

15/7/2003: Ego Warriors

Anyone remember Captain Planet and the Planeteers? (Generation of twenty-year-olds are now all going "FUCK yeah!"). Even by the standards of the late 80's and early 90's, it was one of the more dreadful series-s, or whatever the plural of series is.

If you're scratching your head in wonder, let me bring you up to speed. Captain Planet was about five apparently randomly-selected kids from five different countries who are given fantastically powerful energy rings. Now, let's not dwell on how completely irresponsible that is. I suppose what I remember most about the series is how easily the theme song was corrupted for short-lived playground amusement. I can still remember a small legion of ten year olds singing "CAPTAIN PLANET / HE'S AN IDIOT / GONNA TAKE POLLUTION UP TO A MILLION". A million of what was never specified, but hell, we were kids. It was almost as much fun as changing the lyrics of the Lightning Seeds' "Lucky You" to "Mucky Poo".

Getting back to these rings. Each of these rings represented a different element, except one, which represented a muscular organ of the circulatory system. Let's go through them and see what I can remember about them.

Earth - they handed this over to the African bloke, presumably because earth is traditionally brown and so are Africans. This could basically create and control rocks. It was extremely useful when making Japanese gardens, but I wonder... what constitutes 'earth'? Metals are made of ore that come from the Earth, could he control metals as well? Could he create T1000-style stabbing weapons from thin air? Probably not, 'cos no-one was allowed to stab anyone in this sort of cartoon series.

Fire - this was given to Wheeler, the completely irresponsible American git who was a total cunt and I will hear no argument. His is the only name I can remember, as it was also the name of my 'house' at grammar school. As I recall, within five minutes of getting his ring he set fire to something by accident. That should probably have been the time whoever organised this elite band realised the importance of a proper selection process.

Water - There were two girls in the team (natch). One of them had water, and the other had wind. I can't remember which one was which, or their nationalities. There was definitely one from Eastern Europe. For some reason I thought the other was Western Europe, but Sarah assures me the other was from 'Asia'. That was all they gave, 'Asia', so presumably she was Indo-Chino-Japanese-Afghani.

Wind - When we were making up that schoolboy parody of the opening sequence, it was stretching a little bit to pretend that 'earth' referred to poo and 'water' referred to wee, but anyone could see the humour value in 'wind'. The creators of the series must have known that we'd be taking the piss out of it. If they'd called it 'air' we'd've been in trouble, but I guess 'air' isn't as dramatic. Any schoolboy who recites the line "From wherever, whatsername! With the power of WIND!" and does not immediately follow it with a loud raspberry has got something seriously wrong with them.

Heart - They had to take a fairly broad selection of kids from all over the world (the only requirement being that they spoke fluent English, apparently), and with only four rings that wouldn't have been as broad as they liked. So they invented another one to have a greater international appeal. This was some South American kid, and he had the wholly unspecific power of 'heart'. Why stop there? They could have invented a few more. "From Western Europe, Roland! With the power of FISH!" "From Australasia, Barry! With the power of DANCE!" 'Heart' was apparently 'the most special power of all', 'special' I suppose in the same sense as 'special school for special children'.

When the power of these five rings were brought together, they summoned forth a green-haired demigod by the name of CAPTAIN PLANET, who I think was Wheeler's mentor, as he had an American accent and was the biggest cunt in the universe. This show suffered from the Power Rangers/Sailor Moon problem, that being "Why didn't you do that in the first place" syndrome. There was really no point in doing anything prior to summoning the omnipotent all-powerful superhero, but they did it anyway, presumably for smacktardy reasons.


The villains in Captain Planet never had a fucking clue. They never figured out that if they committed crimes that DIDN'T involve damaging the environment, like extortion or gang rape, then the Planeteers couldn't lift a finger. But no, it was always pollution for pollution's sake. There was one prat who somehow got hold of an oil tanker, and deliberately caused a massive slick just for the sake of malice. Why did no-one point out to him that he could have sold that oil to petrol stations, make a huge profit, be operating entirely within the law and wouldn't have to get punched in the stomach by a wise-cracking twat in his underpants? They could've robbed a bank and used the money to pay for a dolphin sanctuary, that would've confused the fuck out of those pesky meddling kids.

One of these retards was some woman who'd had half her face burnt off, and another who looked an awful lot like The Thing from the Fantastic Four. My theory is it was a dare on the part of the show's writers.

WRITER A: Who shall we have for the villains?
WRITER B: I'm bored. Let's just rip them all off from Marvel and DC comics.
WRITER B: Hey, wait, I wasn't serious!
WRITER A: Ooh, chickening out now, are you?
WRITER B: I am not!
WRITER A: Pussy pussy pussy!
WRITER B: Shut up!
WRITER A: Dares ya.
WRITER B: Don't dare me, 'cos I'll do it.
WRITER A: Double dares ya!
WRITER B: You're in trouble now, 'cos I'm gonna do it!
WRITER A: Triple dares ya!

I guess I'm done on this subject now. Nighty night, and remember: Save electricity, pick up litter, and never trust people who run oil tankers and big corporations!

14/7/2003: Age of Knievel

I finally finished the second episode of my Duke 3D TC, Age of Evil. This will no doubt be delightful news to everyone waiting on tenterhooks for it. Yes, both of you.

I also spruced up the page, added some stuff and did some general spring cleaning. That's about it. No more content for you today. Shoo! Shoo! You're not welcome here anymore!

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All material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw
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