Dr. Angel goes abroad

hola, you bastards
Yes, tis true.  Tomorrow, I set sail on the Angel yacht to El Dorado to give Marcus Tandy a good seeing to.  I trust you will all keep well until I return, and will have written lots of technological comment-notettes for me to reply to.
Here are some top rules of living that will keep you safe until I return:
  • Don’t I repeat, DON’T go into Wigan without an escort from either me or big Nige.  People get hurt that way.
  • Do not shit in my burnt out tyre, lest I spank you with Rod Stewarts love eggs.
  • Tell your fat Mam you’ve given up sprouts and have taken up snorting cocaine off supermodel’s backs as a healthier alternative.
  • Read this website every day and think of all the lovely things you can tell me when I get back.

Stay safe, world of shed enthusiasts, and above all



Hasta luego, guapo!


Dr. Angel

This weekend I have…

  • spent inordinate amounts of time in Wigan.  I travelled by luxury yacht and was fanned by a young bum-boy with out of proportion palms.
  • wrote, starred in and directed a play called ‘Times up for Nancy’.
  • wrote a scathing critique of ‘Times up for Nancy’, denoncing the writer, star and director as " a terrible narcissist, rivalled only by big brother contestants.  The play lurched from one farcicle debacle to another and it’s only saving grace was the appearance of a bag of spanners stage left".  This was published in ‘Bum-fun monthly’.
  • went to a speed-dumping night. 
  • didn’t knock one out.
  • laughed at a koi carp. 
  • changed my name by deed poll to ‘Wilbur S. Stallyn enterprises’
  • Went to the gym to watch people looking in the mirror as they did weights.  I laughed scathingly and left.

What have you been up to this weekend, shed enthusiasts?

Dr. Angel takes a lover

While going out with Justin Timberlake is faintly interesting and amusing, the amount he wants to sexually possess me, truly is alarming.  The other day, he was around at Angel Towers with a bin bag stuffed with the finest trinkets and baubles known to Christendom all purchased from the local Avon Cosmetics Emporium.  There was Magnum 24 hour on duty roll on men’s deoderant (he says I have the face of an Angel but the perspiration of Lucifer, Mephisotphiles and Beelzebub after a night dancing to early 90’s rave in the passage to india), ‘Park Avenue’ ladies fragrance and some tea tree gel for my weeping pustules.  Despite this, (and also how he takes me for wonderful dates to motorway service stations)  poor old Timberlake has limited charm.  He can only really talk about central heating systems and crop rotation and he sexual speciality is the ham shank over a picture of Mr. Belding and Screech from 90’s high school high brow ‘comedy’, ‘Saved by the Bell’.  Therefore I have decided to take a lover.  He must meet the following requirements:

  • He must be a fan of my favourite pursuits, eye writhing and shitting in burnt out tyres.
  • He must admire all 20 of my offensive tattoos.
  • He must be able to blow dry my hair should I burn my hand on egg acid in Paul Danan’s needy laboratory.
  • He must own a spillage kit.
  • He must never use the phrase ‘at the end of the day’.
  • He must be able to tickle a tuba monster under the chin without shitting himself.
  • He must prize me above all other treasures and jewels of the world.

Dear world of shedders, are YOU that man?  Do you know someone who might meet my standards?  Can YOU take me on dates to motorway services?  Can you give me any advice of where to pick up fellas? 


Look at this