“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?!
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:
- the correct diagnosis
- the diagnosis we want to hear
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.
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:
- viewed my post
- liked my post
- shared my post
- commented on post
- 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!)
Scales of skin peel off, falling
Down like sycamore seeds, twirling while they
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
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
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.
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:
- Owner and dog go for a walk
- Dog needs to relieve itself (on the footpath)
- I come walking down said path
- Owner decides that this would be a rather hilarious prank so decides to slip out of sight
- 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…
If you expect everything in life to conveniently drop into your lap then you best hope that you’re sat in the right seat… – Albert Winestain
Wrestling with insomnia…
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Even with a digital clock in my room I can still hear the monotonous drones of a second hand working its way round the vicious circle of my sleeplessness. Chained to the bed in a straitjacket of my own inner-turmoil I toss and turn searching for the answers to release me from this incarceration of insomnia, but, sadly (or rather typically), none are forthcoming. In an ideal world I wouldn’t be conscious enough to notice the valuable hours of sleep slowly slipping away in a countdown to inevitable fatigue and agitation the following morning – in fact my shop front should have been well and truly shut hours ago but instead the sleep-stealing delinquents are about doing their worst… and I’m helpless to intervene!
“Why don’t you count sheep?” they’ll ‘helpfully’ suggest “it’ll make you so bored you’ll want to sleep!” Oh hardy harrr Mr. Sagacious! Well, I’ve tried counting sheep many times before but, believe me, it never works – 1 sheep… 2 sheep… 3 sheep… I mean, logically, it should be a simple remedy for my restlessness however the problem I have is that I always end up over-complicating matters. Instead of systematically going: 1 sheep… 2 sheep… 3 sheep… it’s much more chaotic, like this: 1 sheep… 2 sh- no 3 sh- no 6 sheep… where the heck are all these sheep coming from!? Where sanity would normally prevail, I’m left picturing sly ewes slipping under the fence while others hide behind their friends as they leap for freedom! You see, I’m far too busy wondering where the hell the blooming shepherd is who’s abandoned his flock than to be in a relaxed frame of mind to rest my weary head! Actually, d’you know what, I’d like to find the person who concocted this farcical means for curing insomnia and give ’em a good slap round the chops! Ok, maybe that’s going a bit too far. Please forgive me for my extreme anxiety but I didn’t sleep well last night as there was a series of rogue sheep on the loose; filling my darkened sky like fluffy clouds of unease… how I despise them! Come on, surely there must be an alternative?
“Make yourself a nice warm drink!” Mmmmm… warm cocoa… warm milk… warm Robinson’s Blackcurrant… Like with counting sheep, I’m pretty certain that there are many of you out there who find the abovementioned drinks very soothing when it comes to hitting the sack, yes? Well not me. Either I’ve developed some sort of immunity to them or the rascals at Horlicks have laced my hot chocolate with a heavy dosage of e-numbers; knowing full well that I won’t be able to get a good night sleep which, in turn, will turn into a 3 hour, non-stop Angry Birds fest! Not only that but whenever I indulge in a nice warm drink I’m overcome with a sudden urge to reach high into the heavens of the biscuit tin. I don’t know about you but feeling bloated after gorging yourself on chocolate fancies is not the best way to help you to sleep… damn you Horlicks! Come on, surely there must be another alternative?!
Aha, but of course! How could I have been so blind?! Alas, for I have found my saviour in white! A refreshingly new face, an inviting smile bearing the necessary powers to seduce me to sleep. “Who is this force you speak off?”, only the cool side of the pillow! Where have you been all this time? Why have I hidden you away for so long? So many questions needn’t be answered as the most important problem has been solved – my insomnia. Wrestled to the ground I have managed to smother my wakefulness with a the warmer side of the pillow; suffocating it and moulding it into blissful dreaming!
Thank you Billy D Williams, you really have helped me to drift on off to dreamland and for that I am eternally grateful!
Since I don’t smoke I decided to grow a moustache – it is better for the health – Salvador Dali
Einstein, Dali, Selleck… The list goes on. Great men with great moustaches and, to quote Peter Griffin, “with such greatness comes a great responsibility”. Now, I know they say that a dog is a man’s best friend but I didn’t realise that one was referring to the little labrador hanging like moss from beneath our cliff-like noses! They keep a man’s lips fuzzily warm. They’re our own personal brooms to brush away the troubles of everyday life but why are they not as loved as all the other facial hairstyles?
Yes, Hitler’s reputation may have taken away the winsome magic of Chaplin’s toothbrush tash and, sure enough, Stalin’s moustache-hidden lies haven’t helped either but surely that doesn’t make all moustaches bad! So here are the 5 good (if not great!) famous mostaccios…
Aha! What a great place to start. How could I do a post on facial hair without mentioning one of the moustache-wearing greats at least 3 times! A skilled craftsman, both with his surrealist artwork and mustachio, Dali (pictured at the top) created a book solely dedicated to the tash – if that’s not love then God knows what is! For me, Dali’s is surely a splendiferous example of everything great concerning the upper lip hair since he is able to effortlessly combine elegance with enigma. Curving upwards like two curious vanilla beans, these carefully shaped points symbolise artistry, curiosity and, above all, psychedelia. Trippy.
Although one could argue that Thomas Magnum has single-handedly ensured that no stache will ever be taken seriously on prime time TV again, I believe it represents so much more than a joke. Like the rug sprouting from his barrel chest, Tom’s cookie duster is almost the polar opposite to Salvador’s because, whereas his possessed an exquisite subtlety, Selleck’s is an emblem for testosterone-fuelled power. Virile? Most certainly. I mean, without his mo can you imagine him trying to pull off the deadpan “Did you see the sun rise this morning?” with the same manly conviction? Thought not. It just goes to show that his somewhat disconsolate furry friend provides much more than a flavour-saver – it’s a crime investigator and evil repeller.
The king of mime, slapstick and humour – a visual comedy genius. It’s fair to say that Chappers owed a lot of his fame and success to the toothbrush that resided an inch or so above it’s habitual home. What is more, there seems to be something so attractively charming about the exaggerated eyebrows and moustache, an element that makes Charlie Chaplin so undeniably hilarious! Now I know that he might not be to everyone’s tastes but I think we can all agree that, if there’s one thing to love about him, it’s the mischievous quality of his rather cheeky moustache!
Oh Alby, how we love you! Everyone’s favourite and trustworthy uncle, this German-born scientist was truly a lovely and smart bloke. However, funnily, he was often mistaken for a tramp due to his unkempt hair and general disregard for personal appearance, something paralleled in his moustache. In spite of this, his list of achievements are endless: Noble Prize Winner; Matteucci Medal; Copley Medal… to name a few and, yes I realise that we can’t credit such a panoply of successes directly to his facial hair but I do believe that, since his death in 1955, it has come to represent a humble and heart-warming intellect – something we can all aspire to achieve
So finally we come to moustache no. 5 on the list of the all-time greats. As of now we’ve seen: artistry from Dali; virility in the shape of Selleck; comedy with Chaplin and geniality from Einstein. So what’s left? Only getting funky with Zappa! Let’s face it, there’s a little part in everyone that’s a wannabe Rock ‘n’ Roll star. If we had the chance, or indeed the talent, to fill out a packed arena we wouldn’t hesitate to take it (I know I certainly wouldn’t!) so I guess this is why we were, and still are, envious of the Zapster. Combining raw-sexual magnetism with the ice-cool qualities of your average rockstar, there is no denying that Frank’s was a corker!
…and if that’s not justification for why tashes aren’t all bad then I don’t what is!