There’s Just No Shaking Jimmy!

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Never trust a man in a shell suit”, is what my mum used to say…unless they’re stuck in some sort of parallel universe where Ali G is King and the music of Salt-N-Pepa is put on loop. Needless to say, this mantra should be universally recognised. From the public sphere to the media, everybody needs to know that – “if his suit’s made of polyester, he’s most probably a molester”.

So how can people be so surprised by the recent allegations against Jimmy Savile? I mean, yes his private life was forever shrouded in mystery but don’t tell me that the guy didn’t look like a sex offender in the making. For starters his hair looked like a combo of flattened down candyfloss and tensile cotton wool (apparently his barnet was so stretchy that Savage Garden were able to take it “to the moon and back”. No joke…). And as for those eyes? Come on, they were nothing short of a horny hawk’s gawk! Believe me, I am not shocked in the slightest. In fact, what surprises me most is how long the story has dragged on for; as if we need any more evidence to incriminate the man. Indeed, he once said, “I don’t own a computer because I don’t want anyone to think I’m downloading child pornography”…or something like that.  If that’s not damning enough for you then what on earth is?! But, just to show how long the case has gone on for, since the 1st allegation of this series of ‘Jim’s Abused It’ came out the world has changed dramatically:

14th October – Man breaks speed of sound

 16th October – Cats feud at Downing Street

 20th October – Liverpool win league game at Anfield

The whole saga has gone on far too long now. So much so, I expect that the ‘awe-inspiring’ Ed Sheeran will write yet another subtly titled track – ‘Paedophilia’. A track where he’ll tepidly parody the lives of Gary Glitter and Freddie Starr before realising that’s where his lukewarm sardonicism is destined to take him. Although I’m not entirely sure if I believe the stories I’m reading anymore. In fact, I’m starting to dream up conspiracies whereby the Daily Mail has fabricated stories in a feeble attempt to try and humiliate the thing they love to hate the most. No, not Northern-Labour-voting-teachers… but the BBC.

Yet, it is not a dream, for the BBC must face the consequences of having let such savages slip through the net. However, whereas Fleet Street got the steely-eyed Lord Leveson, the ‘Beeb’ have to deal with the wrath of someone from the National Trust!

So don’t expect an end to this mess anytime soon but do make sure to look out for the likes of Jonathan King, or indeed a John Peel-shaped poltergeist lurking about Stourhead. Alternatively, if you’re lucky, you may even catch a glimpse on Lundy, so how’s about that then?!

 

D.I.Y Diagnoses

It’s sad to admit, but our 21st Century society has become nothing short of a bevy of neurotic hypochondriacs… or should I say cyberchondriacs. Alas, for I speak of internet diagnoses!

For years when people had health problems a simple appointment with their doctors would suffice but now (oh how things have changed!), now we speak of our GP’s with a wave of fear in our words. “Go see a doctor!”, they’d say – what used to be nothing more than 4 words of simple encouragement has turned into a phrase of dread, as if your loved ones have turned against you, summoning you to the dark depths of hell!

Phewy chop suey, it was just a dream! But it isn’t, it’s reality. So what do we do (well, I say we, I mean most men…)? We decide to take matters into our own hands and diagnose the problem ourselves. That’s right, instead of confiding in someone who’s had years of medical training we decide to google (other search engines are available) the blooming thing so as to allow everyone to see several pages of ‘testicular pain’ filling up your history like some sort of nightmarish shopping list! I mean, why oh why do we assume that for some barmy reason we’re going to find:

  1. the correct diagnosis
  2. the diagnosis we want to hear
It’s ridiculous! Especially seeing as though none of the above ever, ever occur. You go to look for explanations to the pain in your knee only to discover that you’ve got a rare case of kneelusdownus-toomuchius, which if not treated properly you could lose the bottom half of your leg! Likewise, your neck feels sore every time you turn it… diagnosis? Only the unlikeliest of problems – disagreeingitus, which apparently if not looked after in the right way you could spend the rest of your life neither agreeing nor disagreeing with things!
One day you’re well… next day you’re under the weather… day after that and you’re worm food.
So if you wish to stay healthy then visit the Doctor and not Jeeves!
(Told you other search engines were available, it’s just up to yahoo to decide which one’s best!)

The Sin of Socks & Sandals

Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every 6 months – Oscar Wilde

Never have I ever seen a more horrendous sight than the ankles of a man sporting socks with sandals. Crime against fashion I

Sinful socks & sandals!

hear you cry? Yes, but surely it’s a crime against social decorum! I mean, who on earth ever believed that such a bizarre concoction should have the right to create amazing results? The sort of results that have women swooning at the mere sight of a man’s bottom half stepping off a bus; or have them rushing over to an escalator to see their hideous combination slowly being unveiled like some sordid prize on a quiz show… No, no, NO! No one, surely no one believed this could ever be possible, so why even try it?!

Only a small minority would think this, to spend that extra amount of time rummaging through their drawers looking for the most repulsive pair of white socks – as if drawing attention to yourself is a good idea! What is more, they agonise over trying to achieve that perfect S&S look – sock colour? Check. Sandals colour? Check. Sock height? Check. The latter is the one that really gets me. I assume that, if the measurements aren’t perfect and you’re sock doesn’t grip your shin about half-way up, you’re not allowed to gain Saint of the Socks and Sandals status (or, as we like to call them here at wordpress.com – St. S&S). Indeed one must earn the right to join such a clique through hard work and dedication… but most importantly – terrible fashion sense.

Admittedly, wearing socks with shoes does have its benefits (albeit only 3):

  1. Socks help keep your feet clean, protecting them from dust and moisture (although toe-fluff isn’t exactly the nicest thing… unless you’re throwing it at your enemies)
  2. Socks stop your shoes from rotting like old apples (no one likes rotting fruit)
  3. Socks make nice puppets (everyone loves a good ol’ sock bunny)
Nevertheless, surely this doesn’t justify wearing them with sandals. I mean, can we not make an exception to the law here; break the shoe-shaped mould; sacrifice our feet for the benefit of the bigger picture? When I meet people on the street they’ll agree with me that the few remaining renegades need ousting – people hate them (the S&S not necessarily the wearers)!
So, I guess it’s no surprise that such an abhorred practice, performed only by anti-social dorks and 1990’s Dads alike, is slowly starting to die out…

… or is it?! Duhn, duhn, DUHHNN!

Unsent Letters: The Weatherman

Dear Weatherman,

Admittedly, I’m not a fan of clichés so it will come as a bit of a surprise that I’m blaming you for the supposed ‘spring’ we’re having. Are you taking the piss or do you wish to create a nation of drowned rats? Therefore, in protest, I have decided to boycott summer since I believe it will amount to nothing but heavy showers, gale force winds and the re-releasing of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ – so off into hibernation I go!

Yours truly (pissed off),

Albert Winestain.

You’re Never Too Old For A Teddy!

Timeless Teddy

As heavy eyelids meet under darkened skies, a melancholy leg hangs down from my headboard. Brushing gently against the wood, his hirsute ears stay motionless… listening but never responding; a muted friend, safeguarding me from the nighttime’s unseen mischiefs. As a ticking radiator groans, arousing the watchman’s attentions, my peepers have long been fastened… secretly concocting fruit-flavoured dreams behind closed doors. While elves use up their reserve tank of niceties and fairies run low on magic, my friend sits peacefully, wide awake, devoted to the cause.

They don’t mind if their work goes unappreciated – glory wasn’t part of the deal. Quietly and subtly they get on with the little things. However, like fundamental bricks forming the base of mankind’s most staggering architecture, they’re needed. Man can’t live without water just as much as they can’t live without such creatures, for no bed is the same with a bear-shaped-hole in its pillow… they’re part of the furniture aren’t they? Besides, why break something that doesn’t need fixing…

4, 9, 14, 23, 39, 47, 58, 62, 71, 80… You’re never too old for a teddy… or 3!

(P.S. mine’s called Cyril… what about yours?)

Unsent Letters: Barack Obama

Dear Barack,

I’d like to thank you personally for not beating about the bush.

But answer me this. Why is that, in an age of such awe-inspiring technological advancement, people are happy to retreat into shades of grey? It should either be black or white – ambivalence and ambiguity don’t find answers, only more questions… and, while Politicians and World leaders alike dilly dally, carving out Neanderthal toys with rudimentary tools made of flint and wood, the important issues are often over-looked.

It’s the 21st Century, not the 18th. If we claim to strive for racial equality, if we can recognise that there should be parity between men and women, then why can’t we eradicate homophobia?

Let’s hope that, for civilisation’s sake, your words of honesty and assurance can start to make the world a better place.

Many thanks,

Albert Winestain.

Unsent Letters: People of WordPress

Dear Worpress.com(munity),

I’d like to firstly write a special thanks to whoever it was that made my post ‘The Sin of Socks & Sandals‘ magically appear on Freshly Pressed. I realise that it is a blogger’s dream come true to feature there since it has helped my traffic one heck of a heap I’ll tell you (pardon my French) and it certainly came as quite a shock! Now, although this person/magic wizard still remains anonymous (I suspect it could be Illumniati… but it’s best not to speculate), what I can be sure of is the identities of all you wonderful people who:

  1. viewed my post
  2. liked my post
  3. shared my post
  4. commented on post
  5. clicked ‘notify me for follow up comments via email’ (you guys especially seeing as though I probably clogged up your account with a lot of ‘thanks!’)

So, I guess all that’s left for me to say is a great big… wait for it… wait now, it’s coming… calm down, I’ll get there in a minute… THANK YOU! and I look forward to hearing from you again soon (even Keith!)

Peace out,

Albert Winestain

Unsent Letters: David Cameron

Dear Dave,

Just writing to see how the search for your chin was going?

Keep up the good work and look forward to 3 more years of shite,

Albert Winestain.

LOL x

Unsent Letters: Sir Alex Ferguson

Shock result.

Dear Sir Alex Ferguson,

We have just got the DNA results back – Howard Webb is your son.

Thought as much,

Albert Winestain.

Unsent Letters: Music (1)

Timmy Mallet.

Dear Music Industry,

Please can you let the unappreciated be appreciated since your current shit is beginning to make Timmy Mallet look good.

Kind regards,

Albert Winestain.

Alcohol: Winning The Battle Against Small Talk Since 4000 B.C.

Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy

It’s tough meeting new people. I mean, let’s be honest, we all dread it to some extent don’t we? That inevitable awkward silence waits around the corner, as the small talk starts to slowly deteriorate into digressing eyes and twitching feet. Take being at gatherings for example. I bet many of you have had conversations similar to this:

  • Hey.
  • Hi.
  • You alright?
  • Yeah, not bad thanks… you?
  • Yeah I’m good thanks.
  • Good…
  • Yeah…
  • ………………………………….
  • Nice house isn’t it?
  • (walks off in search of the family dog)
Yet, when there’s alcohol involved, conversations seem to flow with much more ease – they are certainly a lot more enjoyable! Our inhibitions are thrown out the window and we open up to other ideas, completely ignoring the conventions of small talk. For example:
  • Hey!
  • Yo!
  • You seen this guy’s bannister?!
  • Bloody hell! How much would you love to slide down there?!
  • Hmm I’m not so sure to be honest, my piles are pretty bad at the moment…
  • Ah come on! We’ll put some cream down it, you’ll be reet!
  • Oh go on then!… It’s Matthew by the way.
  • Tim.

Well ok, I know most of you probably haven’t had an exchange exactly like this, but you get my point. Alcohol causes the brain to shut down and we begin not to give a monkeys about what the people around us think. Slipping into an inebriated state the most personal of topics can suddenly appear, popping out of nowhere like some sordid jack-in-a-box… arms wide open to embrace the truth and reveal your darkest secrets!

I wonder if those Mesopotamians who discovered Beer had similar experiences. Just imagine them sat down with dead-pan faces as they contemplate their recent invention of the wheel, until Dave comes along with a pint of Mesopotamia’s finest brew:

Fox’s Mesopotamian Wheel

  • What you chumps up to?
  • Just thinking about this thing here.
  • Huh? It’s a bloody great big chocolate biscuit! What’s to think about?
  • What?
  • Boil the kettle, we’ve got some serious dunkin’ to do!

Nevertheless, although it may seem like a polar bear at first (an ice-breaker… geddit? Oh never mind!) it does have its disadvantages. To some extent, alcohol merely covers up the fact that someone is incredibly boring in real life (i.e. sober since being drunk is like living in a parallel universe) – you take away the beer, you take away the personality. So before I leave I must warn you:

1. Drink responsibly

2. If they’re no fun sober, then ditch ’em.

‘Man v. Food’? More like ‘Man v. lifetime of hardened stools and breathless arteries’

72oz steaks, 11lb pizzas, 10 layers of dead cow…

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching countless episodes of ’Man v. Food’ on Dave it’s that Americans certainly adhere to stereotype. As the loveable Adam Richman (in a cute, teddy-bear kinda way) guides us on a whistle-stop tour of America’s most outrageous restaurants and cafes, there’s not a glimpse of leafy greens in sight. Living in Britain, Americans have undoubtedly become synonymous with obesity (in fact, many blame them for the sudden influx of our ‘fast food culture’), since we’re forever being inundated with images of grease-ridden portions being manhandled by sausage roll-like arms.

Now, admittedly, I am your archetypal Brit in as much as I’m a serial tea drinker but I don’t worship the Queen nor do I speak with Received Pronunciation (or indeed Dick van Dyke’s ‘Cockney-cum-Australian’ accent). Sadly however, or so I have witnessed, Americans can’t seem to fit their bellies through that window of escape in a desperate attempt to flee from the portly pigeonholing, instead opting for the comfort of their armchair and a bag of ‘chips’. Don’t get me wrong, I realise that this is not representative of the whole population (to be honest, I source most of my information purely from the show itself) but what I have witnessed certainly has been an education… in how to guarantee blood in your shit the following day.

Crime number one:

So let us begin! Right, now we all know how delicious cheese is… boy is it one sexy dairy product…  but its tasty qualities don’t justifying it being plastered onto every food possible! Don’t get me wrong here guys, I don’t mind seeing cheese on maybe burgers or chicken (hell, even some pork with gorgonzola’s nice!) but with battered fish?! NO! Dial 999/911 please! I need the food police to come and stop this monstrosity! As Diana Ross beautifully put it “stop in the name of food!” (well, something along those lines at least…). Joking aside, the fish/cheese combo is wrong in every way. 

It’s like having a romantic kiss… with your own sister; brushing your teeth… with a tramp’s toenails; Dick van Dyke talking… with a cockney accent…

Crime number two:

Ok, so now to the second crime – portions. Unnecessarily gargantuan would be an understatement. I realise that the whole premise of this show is to find the ridiculously portioned plates and, I agree, that it is fun to watch countless meat sweats being induced by said meals however I don’t understand why they have to be so blooming big! “Ok, so we start with a slice of bread for the base (seems fair enough). Next we add the fried chicken… a layer of cheese (sure…), the 4-inch thick hamburger… another layer of cheese (why not, it is, after all, the key ingredient to EVERY meal), then the 10lb brisket, two more fried chicken breasts, the second hamburger, mustard sauce… deep-fried cheese cubes (well this is just getting ridiculous) and finally the top half of the bun.” Phewwy, it’s over… but, oh no, what’s this on the top? Impaled by a spike sits a gurken. Lying in a comatose state thinking, “why the bloody hell am I here?” And it does beg the question… what does it add to the meal?

It’s like jumping the Grand Canyon wearing a sweater instead of a t-shirt… Wearing a belt with jeans that fit perfectly anyway… Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins wearing glasses…

Crime number three:

Now, finally, this is the last problem – IT IS NOT FINE CUISINE! No matter how much you try to hoodwink us, there is no way one can class this as cordon bleu. The problem is that everything looks so bloody cheap and nasty, like the cheese for example, it doesn’t even look real! For me I’d much rather have some fine Italian cuisine rather than these 45-thick pizzas with grated arse on them. It’s worse than DICK VAN DYKE’S ACCENT IN MARY POPPINS!

Let’s be honest though… despite the abominations such as the one shown above, I do love this show and I love you America!
 

The Forsaken Triangle

Scales of skin peel off, falling

Down like sycamore seeds, twirling while they

Lament.

Distraught wings spin, forming

Kaleidoscope patterns yet beauty is

Obscured, shrouded by a layer of denial;

Flaky would be an understatement.

 

A toothless smile digs deep into my

Flesh; leaves nothing but impotent scars of

Futility.

One, Two, Three, Four…

Five Wheels? A Reliant Robin with stabilisers

Without the Fun;

Pathetic would be an understatement.

 

Dangled feet hang precariously,

Engulfed by shoes they test the

Waters.

Recoiling like snapping guitar

Strings they flee for the nearest money

Tree, not to harvest their withering fruits but to shelter;

Uncommitted would be an understatement.

Doggy do-DON’T!

Doggy do-DON’T!

Lurking deep in the depths beneath, shrouded by a neighbouring cloud of shrubbery these malefactors stay hidden. Silent but undeniably deadly – are they social pariah’s of a lost age too scared to venture out in daylight or mere delinquents seeking to commit the perfect crime? One thing’s for certain, whoever they are they remain unnamed, unsighted, unloved (well by me at least!) yet evidence suggests that these aren’t cryptids simply concocted by my imagination but that they really do exist! That one, solitary coil of dog shit that spreads itself so carelessly across my path… for fuck’s sake clean it up!

Forget the lyrical introduction, this is about one thing and one thing alone – dog’s and their owners. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know I can’t attribute total blame to the mutt since it is not entirely their fault. Yes, they void their bowels wherever they like and haven’t developed the necessary brain-power to sweep it away under the relative safety of some mud but it’s their bloody owners I can’t understand! I assume that this is the scenario:

  1. Owner and dog go for a walk
  2. Dog needs to relieve itself (on the footpath)
  3. I come walking down said path
  4. Owner decides that this would be a rather hilarious prank so decides to slip out of sight
  5. I don’t notice the dog’s turd (due to lack of visibility at night) and walk straight through

The worst thing is that, as soon as you’ve stepped in it, you know immediately. The combination of that tell-tale squelch and the almost immediate pungent smell, redolent of shit, warns you that you’re best taking your shoes off before you enter your house that night. What is more, I can’t fathom why we have a fine for this when no one, I repeat, no one is ever caught! These inconsiderate ruffians are roaming the streets (well paths), mongrels by their sides, just waiting to trip up some unsuspecting victim with a dollop of excrement… it must be stopped!

So please, criminal dog owners (you know who you are) clean up your act by cleaning up your shit! Otherwise, if you don’t, there’ll be a very funky smelling batch of post coming through your letterbox when I find out your name… or perhaps I’ll just get some of this…