Kowalksi’s Lament, part 2, a Hazard of Parsnips mini story

Goddamit. Damn it.

Kowlaksi had pinned all his hopes on Sherby57 and now he was wondering why he saw fit to do so.

Ever since Kowalski had become conscious of being drawn to DI Ian, he had been in a maelstrom of despair that only Amaranto clothing can abate. Yes. The only thing that Kowalski had found that regulates his emotions is Amaranto/Papaya Clothing, Matalan’s own brands. That and his Daewoo Matiz. Sure, the other police officers in New York and St. Helen’s found it a bit fruity and continental, but there was no telling what Kowalski might do in a fit of road rage. He played it safe and drove the soothing Matiz. Kowalski was certain that a strapping hunk like him could do some serious damage with a Kowalski tongue-lashing  and he wasn’t that much of a loose cannon that the authors previously suggested he was. Chief Inspector Acorah had repeatedly informed Kowalski that he wasn’t too big to be spanked across his knee. CI Acorah’s secretary and guiding light, Sam, would whisper inaudibly that it was no longer appropriate to say those sort of things and remember what happened to Inspector Saville.

Kowalski had ‘rocked’ up to Sherby 57’s late at night to seek his advice. Kowalski had heard that what Sherby57 didn’t know about love, Haddaway could only ask questions about. Sherby 57 had spent a large part of his young manhood under the tutelage of ‘Style’ and ‘Mystery’ the reknown pick up artists (PUA) and had cultivated a PUA character of his own (Casio’)who could pick up a girl before you could say ‘playboy bunny tattoo’.  Style and Mystery had heard that St. Helen’s and Widnes had the most rocking potatoes and hot bitches and had made a bee line for this chick-topia. There they had ‘hooked up’ (not had sex with) Sherby 57 and they had rewarded his knowledge of the area with dark arts in cat-string-theory.

Kowalski began hammering on Sherby57’s door. It had come off the hinges and was beginning to stick within the door frame. Sherby stood there benignly as this hulking Yank began fixing the frame and sanding the edge of the door.

During this spot of spontaneous DIY Kowalski’s story came tumbling out between sobs. Sheila, crude drawings, Der Naughty Kitty, Clarence and Ian. Sherby 57 knew all of this as he had partly written the story in the pub with World of Sheds but he kindly heard out the sobbing man until all that was left was a dried up husk. Sherby had left it there around breakfast time as he couldn’t stand shredded wheat and delighted that it might torment the post man as he was morbidly scared of Donald Trump. Kowalski was still standing next to it with his hammer and sandpaper in hand looking hopeful.

Sherby cocked his head and leg to one side as he listened intently.

“Listen Kowalski”

Kowalski drew near. So near that Sherby could smell Kowalski’s scent. It was ex-clam-ation! which was quite a feminine scent. Sherby liked it so he wasn’t going to judge, but he liked Angel by Thierry Mugler better.

“there’s only one way to turn you back on to women as you hope”

“yes” breathed Kowalski and closed his eyes ready to receive the learned information he craved.

Sherby57 took this to mean that Kowalski was trying to keep flatulence from escaping. So he lit at match and shooed his cats away from the door so Kowalski couldn’t blame them.

“Listen, Kowlaski, you’ve got to read fifty shades of grey. The whole friggin’ trilogy. It’s the most erotic thing ever written. That is your only hope. Either that or ‘Riders’ by Jilly Cooper. It’ll really have you fancying the birds if that’s what you want”.

“yes it is”

“It’s alright to fancy fellas Kowalski. I mean I don’t and wouldn’t, but it’s alright for you to”

Kowalksi glowered at Sherby and stormed off in the Matiz. He drove straight to the Matalan in Wigan and emerged only when the security guards roughly manhandled him out.

To be continued.

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Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 13

My Love

I have but scant moments to transcribe this latest missive, so forgive my scrawled handwriting. Using a crayon on a toilet roll doesn’t help, to be fair. I chose the pink crayon because it reminds me of you. Wink wink.

Anyway, all this talk of wax-based colouring implements is a ludicrous digression for one in such a perilous position as myself. It can only be beaten in the unnecessary information stakes by the previous statement explaining that it was a ridiculous waste of time. I think you can see where this paragraph is likely to lead if I’m not careful, so I will curb my enthusiasm for the minutiae of letter-writing digression etiquette.

I should probably get on with my tale.

This day began like any other in the treehouse. I awoke in my makeshift hammock (made from assorted supermarket-branded cereal packets), looking ragged and unkempt, yet still electrically sexy. It’s quite incredible how good I look given the circumstances. When I eventually come to, I usually just shake my head in the manner of a dog who’s just got out of a lake. This works wonders on my luscious locks and I look like I’ve just stepped out of a salon. Literally. Once my hair is pimped, I find myself psychologically ready for the perverted one’s pre-breakfast poem.

I have to listen to one of his odious odes every single morning and not one of them is any good. If I didn’t know better I’d almost think that he was making them rubbish on purpose. His grating Teutonic tones do not help matters much. The rhymes might seem a bit better if they were read out by Felicity Kendall or someone of that ilk. This morning the fiend appeared before me wearing naught but a child’s Darth Vader mask and a terry towelling bath robe. The mask was so small that it barely concealed his face. As always, however, he wore face paint under his plastic mask. Today’s design was that of a baby panda. It occurred to me that the design of a sick puppy would have been more appropriate. If the mask did a poor job of covering his face, then the bath robe was even less successful at concealing his modesty. Let’s just say that the fruits on the barbarian’s plum tree are dangerously overripe and would need thoroughly disinfecting before you even considered eating them.

I thought that I would get some respite when he started to read the verse, as he insists that I close my eyes while he performs them. He says that it will focus my mind on his words and help me to paint a picture in my mind. Sadly his wrinkly testes are burned into my retinas for all eternity and my imagination is not strong enough to overcome the noxious image. For this reason, I actually paid attention to the poem. In the words of Run DMC, it goes a little something like this:

Ooh la la

Da Kitty ist here

There’s a party tonight

Do you like beer?

 

You look so handsome

I want you to dance

I’d feel your muscles

Given half the chance

 

My friends they are coming

The treehouse floor will bend

Oh my sweet Clarence

Will you come to a sticky end?

 

Oh, how they’ll want you

With jealousy they’ll rage

But Kitty keep you safe

Locked up in your cage

 

Oh, sweet Eileen. The words of the rhyme rang shrilly in my beautiful barnet. The message contained within seemed clear. He was either going to kill me or bum me into next week. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, my sweet potato. You think that I’m reading too much into it because you always see the best in people. Come on, Eileen! Wake up. This kitty character is a molester of the highest order and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough for his plans to ‘come’ to fruition.

As usual, the rapscallion departed straight after the recital. It’s almost as if he goes off to do a day job away from his demented crimes. It’s quite laughable though, who would employ such a troll? His exit from the treehouse is the cue for sweet, demented Theresa to bring me my breakfast. The wench has been going to night school for the past few weeks to study ‘gordon blue’ cuisine. I had assumed that her primitive brain had simply misunderstood the phrase ‘cordon bleu’, however, after trying some of her meals, I assume she is just having lessons from some guy called Gordon Blue. He can only work in a greasy spoon at best, and it seems unlikely that he has any Michelin stars at all. Today’s concoction consisted of: a can of shandy bass, a plate sized Yorkshire pudding filled with minced beef crispy pancakes and croquette potatoes and half an Arctic roll (melted). To be fair, I wolfed it down like a wolf.

I had hoped that as she collected my plate that I would be able to probe her. For information! I wouldn’t touch her with yours, if you had one, which you obviously don’t. Luckily, I did not need to turn on the charm (although the tap of charisma only has to be tweaked to get Theresa gushing for Clarence), and she filled me in on the forthcoming evening’s events. Apparently tonight is Halloween. I had completely lost track of time in my isolation and was crushed to realise that I had missed the opportunity to flog loads of pumpkins. I hope that the shop is being run properly in my absence. I can only imagine that the proportion of customers that are horny housewives has radically declined since my incarceration. Anyway, that was another flamboyant digression and we all know how I feel about those.

Theresa continued. It seems that every All Hallow’s Eve, the notorious DNK hosts his annual ‘spooky disco’ for his whole network of local sex offenders. As if this wasn’t horrifying enough, Theresa informed me that I would be the star attraction at the shindig. Now, I can totally understand why that would be, I’m gorgeous, but I really don’t like to be treated like a piece of meat. Especially not by someone who wants to molest\murder me. The news galvanised my resolve to escape from the treehouse on this very day.

The rest of the morning was taken up with me scheming and getting exactly nowhere. The fortifications in the treehouse are staggeringly thorough. The main problem is all the barbed-wire, which is easy enough to clamber over, but it might result in some minor cuts and grazes to my ruggedly handsome face. There are some things that I am not prepared to sacrifice in order to secure my freedom.

In the afternoon, Theresa returned to the Kitty’s den in order to prepare me for the evening’s ‘entertainment’. She told me that I would be expected to dance for all their guests within a giant gilded cage. I’ve got great natural rhythm and so my mind instantly began to think of which of my favourite moves I could bust. I just couldn’t help myself. It’s a burden being so erotically charged. Theresa informed me that I would be expected to wear a special outfit in the cage. I hoped that it would be something like a pair of leopard-skin speedos. Something that I could really show my abs off in. Alas, my sexy attire was never destined to be something as clichéd as animal-print swimming trunks.

The wench, dressed a in cheap, PVC maid’s outfit that made me gag, started to prepare me. She stripped me naked, but never fear, my dear, it was the least sexual experience of my life. Theresa seemed to be enjoying it, though, and she was breathing all weird. You can’t really blame her, can you? I am a magnificent animal. She first washed me all over using anti-bacterial handwash. It was the cleanest that I’d felt for weeks, but it did mean I smelled of vodka. After the cleansing, I was anointed by a good quality, extra-virgin olive oil. At least that’s what she said it was. I suspect that it was probably chip fat.

After this, she began to dress me. I can barely describe the outfit that I was subjected to, but I’d better try or it won’t be much of a letter. To be fair, the outfit is quite easy to describe, I just don’t really want to. I was forced to wear an elephant thong underneath my ensemble. You know, those ones where you have to put your John Thomas in the trunk. This is the only part of the outfit that I would wear under other circumstances. Over this I was given a skin tight orange romper suit, with buttock peep holes. Where you would get such a garment from I cannot imagine. Theresa probably made it. Attached to the romper suit, in the region of my belly button, the was a sheriff’s badge from a child’s cowboy set. On my left foot was a pink wellington boot, on my right was a patent leather stiletto. My face was covered by an old pair of Theresa’s tights. I won’t comment on the stench. On the top of my head was the original woolly hat as worn by Benny out of Crossroads. I looked utterly ridiculous, and yet still somehow managed to pull the look off.

After Theresa had finished pampering me (I mean after she dressed me, I wasn’t wearing a nappy), she stood and looked at me with a certain look in her eyes. She’s quite gozzy so I’m not entirely sure, but I took it to be the look of love. My chance had arrived. I am ashamed to say it, my love, but I wooed like I had never wooed before. I don’t want you to worry your pretty little head too much though, it was purely a faux-woo. I took Theresa under my metaphorical wing and flapped for all I was worth. I complimented her wantonly on her many folds of flab, telling her that I was enamoured with the ‘curvy’ lady. I said the the smell of peanuts in her hair was driving me wild with desire. I told her that my heart belonged only to her. How I wish I hadn’t said those words, but, to be fair, they certainly paid dividends.

Before I knew it, Theresa was gushing hot, salty (and surprisingly rusty) tears down my romper suit. In her muddled English she let me know that she loved me and wished for me to make ‘scooby doo’ inside her. I didn’t enquire exactly what that meant. I dread to think. I leapt at my chance for freedom. I told the demented harridan that the only way that we could truly love one another was if I was set free and we could run away together. She seemed to believe it; what a sucker. I’m being a little harsh, I suppose. People tend to believe anything that they are told by devastatingly attractive people. I know that I believe everything that I tell myself. It sometimes gets me into trouble.

I had by this time formulated a plan to escape and I informed Theresa of the part that she would play in it. I couldn’t be sure that she would follow through, both out of loyalty to the Kitty and because she seems really, really thick. My fingers were crossed. But that was only because of the weird gloves that I had been forced to wear. I forgot to mention those earlier, sorry about that.

I sat anxiously in my cage and waited for the party to start. It was only when I heard the strains of Agadoo wafting up from the Kitty’s ghetto blaster did I know that things were on the move. It was still early, so DNK was fussing around with his tuxedo and straightening his Dooby Duck mask. Theresa was attending to the buffet. She’d obviously gone to a lot of effort but it looked like roadkill. Actually, it might just have been roadkill. Eventually, his guests started to arrive. I had expected the treehouse to be packed to the rafters, but only 3 guests arrived. I suppose that his social group is rather…niche. My cage was lowered so that I could be introduced to the visitors. They all looked as big a dick as the Kitty himself. They were:

That Creepy Mouse – he seemed to be an acolyte of DNK and clearly modelled himself on his idol. He wore a homemade mouse mask, that he’d drawn on the back of a washing powder box. His accent was trying to be German but sounded more Welsh.

Super Pervy Lemon – a true one off, dressed entirely in yellow and communicated entirely in morse code. He said that he’d like to be rubbed on my ‘pancake’.

Dave – he was wearing a simple black mask, with jeans and t-shirt. Apparently he hadn’t ‘graduated’ and so had not yet earned a sex-crime-name. He had a worryingly hopeful glint in his eye.

Let’s just say that I didn’t really warm to any of them. After I had been paraded, the curtain was shut around me and the cage was hoisted. Part of me longed to perform as I know how much they would love seeing my body in action. Alas, I had other things on my mind.

Theresa was sent up the ladder to my cage to give me my final preparations before performance. The four perverts stared avidly at the cage and barely noticed as she descended from the cage and left the treehouse. Perhaps they should have paid closer attention because it was not Theresa at all. Can you guess, my love? Can you guess who it really was that left the treehouse? Well, yes, it was obviously me.

In a ruse worthy of a really bad film, Theresa and I swapped clothes and I made my escape like a croissant into the night. I just hoped that Theresa could fool them long enough for me to get away. In some ways, I prayed that they would realise straight away because it’s completely humiliating to be confused with that sad, old bag. Obviously, the plan did work because I’m able to write you this letter.

I’m currently sat in a hedge, and that is all I know. I ran for two hours solid before I dared rest and this hedge looked mighty welcoming for a rest. There’s a friendly hedgehog in here with me, and I hope that if I smile nicely, he will make me a cup of tea. I’m on my way back to you, my darling. Never give up.

Yours hedgily,

Clarence

 

A Hazard of Parsnips, chapter 12

 

Kowlaski took a swig of pitch black, bitter coffee and gasped, in a dramatic fashion. Boy did Gregg’s make good coffee. It was like he was back in New York. But with a load of limey fuckers who couldn’t do their job properly.   He grabbed a copy of the St.Helen’s champion, god these free papers were informative and full of important local issues. My god! World of Beds has a sale on! Goddammit some plucky broad has opened a nursery and organised a fundraiser. Whatta gal. She raised forty seven goddam pounds for those kids. Kowalski needs a broad like that.

His mind fluttered back , like the pages of the free paper, to ten years ago and his ex wife, Sheila.  God he loved that woman. They were solid as a rock for ten fucking years until one day he woke up from his sweet slumber to find that Sheila Kowalski was no more that a crude drawing on the back of a flyer for Marmaris Kebab house.  How could he have not seen the signs for so long. The fact she never asked him how his day was. She was a good listener and never bothered him with the trivialities of her day, she never got changed and she wouldn’t go out if it rained.  Kowalski silently wept internally. Ten years and all he had to show for it was paper cuts all over his body.  He looked like a goddam emo. Sheila!!!!!!!! How I miss your dry kisses!

He turned the page, roused from his self indulgent sorrow by the headline on page 15.

‘HOT BODY SHOW COMES TO OLDHAM’

Right, you feisty little headline. You have Kowalski’s full attention and I’m going to read you all over. I’m going to read you like you’ve never been read before. My eyes are gonna read every single one of your letters, oh yeah, I’m going to make you feel like a real story, like you’re the only motherfucking story in the whole goddam world, you bitch.

Kowalski liked to talk to newspaper stories like they were filthy little minxes that were playing with him. It was a habit that was a throwback to being married to a drawing of a woman for so long. It felt comfortable.

Kowalski read on, aroused. He’s eyes feverishly scanned the words, poring over them like when smash hits used to print the lyrics to songs. Kowalski soon became sensible of a archaic practise called a ‘Hot body Show’ which was some kinda goddam pageant for sexy bitches or something.  The people in Britain were going goddam crazy for these shows and to become number one, well, there was nothing that goddam matched it for these crazy limeys. Apparently there were qualifying shows in Bury, Burnley, Blackburn and Bolton and Oldham and the residents of Warrington and St. Helens were being whipped to fever pitch in excitement.  There was a picture of some tacky looking broads who were beaming like Veet was on offer at Bodycare or like Ethel Austin wasn’t going into administration, and doing an irritating ‘thumbs up’ gesture.  It was this that caught Kowalski’s attention.  Broads on paper. Sheilaaaaaa! I miss your inky hands.

Kowalski angrily scrunched up the paper, drained his coffee cup aggressively, and jumped in his Daewoo matiz and drove to work. It was very convenient having his car in the kitchen, but most people thought him quite odd. Fuck them. He could get to the A580 quicker than any of those losers.

He arrived at the cop shop buoyed up by the golden hour on Wish Fm. Visage: Fade to grey was throbbing through his veins like peawet.  God he felt alive! He had also a sense of satisfaction through avoiding a traffic hotspot. He had such a sense of mastery over the back roads of St. Helen’s, they were his badgers and he was their ring master. He had the top hat to prove it.

DCI Acorah’s PA gave him a flirty smile and looked him up and down appreciatively. He held her gaze in the palm of his hand and she looked away coyly.

“Where’s the chief, Sam, sweetcheeks”

Sam blushed and looked towards the DCI’s door.

Kowalski used his finely honed detecting skills and advanced body language reading-ship skills to deduce that that she meant that he was in his office.

“thanks gorgeous”

Kowalski knew she would be looking at his arse as soon as he turned around. It was obvious really. That she would look at his arse, not that his arse was obvious. Kowalski was used to people’s eyes burning a hole in his ass.

He barrelled into DCI Acorah’s office like a crazed madman cruising down the highway in a stolen mustang, with no regard for the hearts of all who stood close by.

Acorah’s face brightened instantly when he laid eyes on Kowalski’s rippling slacks.  This expression turned to one of concern when he saw the look on Kowalski’s face. This was one vexed cop.

“Morningn Kowalski. You look nice”

“shut it, you goddam sonofabitch”

Acorah flinched. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in this way unless he was paying for it.

Kowalski continued

“listen chief and listen good. This is one godawful cake and arse party of an investigation. You gotta smarten up this whole goddam scene or I’m quitting this investigation”

Kowalski rattled a chair for effect.

DCI Acorah stared at the chair in silence while he pondered the significance of such an action. This silence lasted for a good ten minutes before Kowalski broke it by letting out an audible trump. He hated silences. It reminded him of when Sheila wouldn’t talk to him because she was a crude drawing.

“Now listen Kowalski, er, you darn, er, punk. I’m going to take your badge and put it in the drawer if you don’t pipe down, son. I’ll touch your balls, if  you speak to me like that again”.

Sam sidled seamlessly in, like an apparition, and whispered in Acorah’s ear.

“sorry, I’ll crush your balls”

Sam nodded to indicate that this phrase was correct.

Kowalksi shot Acorah a puzzled glance.

“Chief, listen up. The other guy you got leading this laughable ‘investigation’ is leading it into a goddam cul de sac”

Kowalski reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the Panini sticker book that he’d been making notes in.

Acorah was baffled by Kowalski making notes in a football sticker book. He wondered whether he could swap him a bruce grobbellaar for a Kevin keegan.  He liked being called Chief. It made him feel like he was in NYPD Blue.

“ this joker, Chief…”

Acorah had stopped listening. He was just reflecting again on how much he enjoyed being called cheif. He wondered if he could pull of a new York accent.

“chief. This joker is putting Clarence Crapper in danger” He opened the sticker book. You couldn’t write much in these small boxes, thought Kowalski. How do these limeys do it. They must have really small handwriting, tiny typewriters’ or insects who take notes for them. Maybe scarab beetles. Boy would that be cool.

“you better have some goddam proof to substantiate that claim, Kowalski” snarled Acorah

“ooh this is such fun!” Acorah thought, internally. Where thoughts tend to be generated.

Kowalski raised a sexy eyebrow, shook his head and continued

“last week DI Ian Detective Inspector spent more time staring into space and glowering at me than he did looking at maps, drawing arrows on the maps and putting up pictures of suspects on the investigation room wall”

Kowalksi slammed his sticker album on Acorah’s desk to reveal a rather tidy pie chart to illustrate the proportion of time Ian had spent on various activities. He had even used a stencil to label each component of the pie. Acorah was quite surprised Ian spent so much time on ‘celebrity heights’ on the internet. Still, it was interesting to find out how tall famous people are.

“Crapper’s life is worth more than finding out how tall Billy Crystal is, Cheif” growled Kowlaski, as if reading Acorah’s thoughts. Acorah jolted. It was bad enough Sam appeared to know what he was thinking. He blushed remembering when Sam had confirmed that she did work out and she was wearing a black bra.

“He’s hindering the whole goddam investigation”

“Send him to my office” Acorah glibly instructed. Mouth set in a firm line.

“But if you’re wrong Kowalski, Your ass is mine”

Sam nudged him

“Sorry” Acorah cleared his throat and said loudly “Your ass is on the line!”

 

 

 

Kowalksi Facts

This list of Kowalksi facts was compiled by sherby57 and I when we were out clubbing in P-Diddy’s flying nightclub in Widnes. There is enough gas in the air in widnes (chemical composition: 67% turnipium, 4% powergen and 99% liquid eyeliner) to keep this nightclub aloft, which is constructed from gravel, lead and the portable telephone from lethal weapon).

  • Kowalski assumes all english people can talk to spaniels.
  • At home, he crawls between rooms.
  • He had a crush on Helen Daniels, even though he’s never seen neighbours.
  • He is a post-modern cop and questions suspects from a point of curiosity and then ignores what they say.
  • He once had a wife, but one day he woke up and realised she was a crude sketch.
  • He loves Jilly Cooper novels as they are full of ‘romping’.
  • he has always wanted a open fire so when he lays on his bunk he makes log noises.
  • he once has a vacations where he met Ringo Starr who wouldn’t do the thomas the tank engine voice. He would accept a small replica in his top pocket.
  • His father used to make him act out episodes of Friends in order to impress local gangsters, and it’s from this that he developed his hatred of organised crime.
  • His apartment smells of sighs
  • he doesn’t have a notebook like a traditional detective. He writes in a panini sticker album from 1986.
  • he loves french cookery but refuses to use garlic as it’s ‘satanic’
  • he wears ‘white musk’ by the body shop as it reminds him of ‘sexy glands’
  • he doesn’t realise his sheer animal magnetism, especially to men.
  • he always dunks his donut twice, to be thourough.
  • he has an ear wax problem caused by incessant listening.

Short Plays: Quirky, Tortured Romance

Another thrilling installment of my short plays. This time, I thoroughly explore the genre of the quirky, tortured romance. I think I may have made up this genre, but you know the sort of film. It would probably have that Cera fello in it or that girl from Juno or the fat one from Superbad (noone can accuse me of not doing my research).

I first explored this genre as part of Milk Bottle Manifesto (learn more about it here http://poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2010/06/03/mbm-team-extreme-squashy-face/ ) a cause championed by my good friend, and writing partner, Sherby57. I was tentatively experimenting with the genre and hit on something quite profound, I’m sure you’ll agree, unless you’re some kind of mental sub-normal.  On bended knees, Sherby implored me, like a man posessed to develop this life changing dialog, and I was compelled to comply, to at least save Sherby’s mental wellbeing.

So here it is. Tissues at the ready.

_____________

 She: I can’t help but love you even though you have a squashy face!
He: Maybe you love me because I have a squashy face.You won’t realise this until you date a normal faced fellow and find yourself missing my haunting visage.
She: OK, I’ll get back to you after that.
He: OK. See you later
FIN

Short Play: Hard Hitting Harrowing Subject matter, that is topically relevant.

I don’t usually do requests, Shedders, unless it’s to get a round in at the Goitre and Shovel, my local, but today is an exception. A sparkling moment in a sea of shitty bollocks.

“what’s the difference that’s made the difference?” you cry, as you have all been collectively trained in the manner of solution focused brief therapy popularised by Steve DeShazer and Insoo Kim berg. You clever swine!

Well, I happened upon this video ‘Rap against Rape’ that was tweeted by Saliwho.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKMTSGgJPGA

If you’re so lazy you can’t be arsed to click on that link, PLEASE RECONSIDER. This is a video that is unparalleled, not only in its awareness raising that “rape is wrong” and that every one of all ages can be raped “even a simple child”.

Heavy Stuff. This is punctuated with some great mime by the dancers at the beginning. Miming the terror that might be on a woman’s face if she were about to be raped. Moving.

Apparently rape has been happening for ‘some time’ according to RAR, which was filmed in the early nineties, which makes it sound like it has been around since approximately 1985.

The ‘rappers’ are cunningly disguised as electricians wearing ‘dad jeans’ and moustaches meanwhile their angry sister, modelling herself on Yazz, stomps angrily in the background, occasionally shaking a fist, miming “what did I do wrong?”.

What didn’t you do wrong? That dance is just the tip of the iceberg. I remember my mate Liz doing a dance like that at the local underage disco. She didn’t get off with anyone that night.

Ah, I see! Effective.

Anyway, my pal, Sherby57, asked me if I’d write one of my famous short plays about ‘da issuez’. I’m not sure which issue he’d like me to raise awareness of, so I’ve chosen to use all of them. Possibly interchangeably. Not rape though. I think ‘Rap Against Rape’ have made the position on rape perfectly clear.

IT’S WRONG. DON’T DO IT. NOT EVEN IF IT’S A SIMPLE CHILD.

Ok here’s the short play:

______________________

person 1: Don’t do that, it’s wrong.

person 2: Is it?

Person 1: Yes. It hurts people/the environment/animals in some direct or indirect form.

Person 2: Really? I did not know that.

Person 1: Yes, it does. Can you stop it?

Person 2: Sure thing. Thank you for opening my eyes.

Person 1: You’re not even going to put up a fight?

Person 2: Your argument was very erudite and cogent, so no. And I fancy you slightly.

Person 1: Can you not put up a bit more of a struggle?

Person 2: No, sorry. I don’t like doing wrong things.

FIN.

Adventures of the Doctor in 2006

As some of you eagle-eyed stalkery types will have observed, I’ve not been blogging much these days. The reasonage is two-fold:

1) I’ve got some godawful fatigue thing

2) I’ve been working hard on the book, a bridesmaid speech (imagine what my speech will be like!) and a writing project with Sherby 57 (stay tuned, it’s going to be immense).

I do feel incredibly remiss, in manner of an apathetic workhouse owner, so today I bring you a post from this month in 2006! In those days I was a bit more ‘blue’ and more ‘edgy’, thanks to the influence of Cannon and Ball on my writing style. I was heavily into them at this stage. It was only when I grew into my ‘Little and Large’ stage that my writing style mellowed and took a more eggy stance, like the one you see today.

Anyway, enjoy a rare treat from the archives. I should imagine I’ll be mining them for you every now and again.

28.04.2006

Dr. Angel’s Instructional Videos

Those of you who know me know that I regularly produce instructional videos to educate the unwashed masses (i.e. you) into the Angel system of working. I am the educator. I knock these titles out from my shed in the Bermuda Triangle (next to the Bermuda Octagon, just after the Spar and the burnt out pram) and now I can exclusively reveal to you the latest titles that you can buy when you get paid from working in the Carrot packing factory/sunbed salon/slaughterhouse.

Please send a cheque for £3875894594876.09999999 for each title plus one peseta p&p music factory to :

Angel Industries

Shed 99

 Bermuda Triangle

Wigan

the back seat of the car

 Level 42.

Latest Releases:

  • Need an excuse to touch girls up? Learn to tickle!
  • build your own eye of the tiger
  •  1 2 3 Bumming!
  • stopping radioactivity with paper
  •  MC Hammer presents chair bonkers!
  • Why reciting lines from comedy shows doesn’t make you funny by A. N. local radio DJ
  • Killing Chris Moyles> do it for mankind
  • Natural Selection: selecting produce made easy! Use the pointing method!
  • Dirty Ticket: giving blow jobs for ciggies
  •  Write songs like an adolescent by Hard Fi
  •  Mwah wha wha by Charlie Brown’s teacher
  • Tuba Monster Anatomy
  •  What is ‘old bumfun’?
  •  1 2 3 faeces!

And then, I just leave it hanging there. I don’t even attempt to round off the post and come to any conclusion. That’s how avant-garde I was in 2006. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. I certainly did. I get a great deal of satisfaction in admiring my own genius.

Until the next time, party hearty till the breakadawn.

x

Bad Romance Part 2: Clippit

 

You look like you’re getting undressed. Can I help you with that?

Here we see Clippit. Sexy and fascistic.   Oh he’s so proud! He’s an absolute nightmare to date though. You may have seen me talk about  (drunkenly) on Sherby57’s blog http://sherby57.co.uk/2010/01/23/clippit/.  Oh he’s an absolute beast! When we went to the pub as soon as you even go to stand up he’s all “you look like you’re going to the bar, can I help you with that?” and I’d be like “Jesus clippit, I’m going the bog”. 

If I spend too much, he gets all bent out of shape, turns into an exclamation mark and tells me to ‘save’ what I’m doing. When he’d come around to mine, we’d be watching TV, I’d have a hard day at work and just want to lie, comatose, on the settee.  Oh he wouldn’t like that. He’d be tapping me all the time. Then I’d lose it with him and start shouting at him for tapping me with his little wiry finger thing.  He’d reply “you look like you’re getting angry. Can I help you with that?” The sarcastic bastard. Then he’d say “Do you want me to rub your feet?  Do you want to turn into your mother?  Do you want to take out your issues with your ex-boyfriend on me?  Would you like to bring up the incident from the past when I wet the bed that you always bring up when we have an argument?”

He knows me so well. Darn Clippit. Anyway, see a lovely portrait of him that I did. I know it’s a bit risqué, with me doing a nude portrait of him, but he really is quite proud of his body.  He is an overbearing piece of stationary, but swit-swoo!

The Gravy Boat Podcast

http://poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2009/11/25/the-gravy-boat-episode-1/

If you’re not already listening to the Gravy Boat podcast, what the fuck is wrong with you?  I bet you spit on the pavement as well. You disgust me. 

The Gravyboat podcast consists of the holy trinity of my pal, Sherby57 and his mates ‘Shaky’ Greg and  and Rev. Boris.  Not really. But what you need to know is that it’s a weekly podcast from the Wazza (warrington) based trio and it’s rather good.It’s a humerous, meandering, freestyling conversation.  It will make you punch the air.   Find out more about it on the above link and subscribe to it (free) on i-tunes.  There have been two episodes thus far (episodes 0 and 1) and on episode one, yours truly featured, so it’s got to be worth a listen eh? EH?

You can also become a friend on Facebook and follow their tweets on twitter.

Listen to it. Do it today.

Sheds Honoured

http://poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2009/11/21/visit-the-world-of-sheds/

Big thanks to Sherbs for honouring me on his blog.  A staunch Shed supporter, I would like to extend my overwhelming gratitude to him and suggest to you fine blog readers that you would enjoy either/both of his blogs:

Sherby 57: (as in my blogroll) for surreal, dimension hopping, fun with the overuse of the word ‘erotic’: Always a bonus

Pour some gravy on me: link above. Reality based musings about real things that are in real life.

Holla!