Friday, 30 July 2010
Like-minded people have a way of finding each other, and under the fluorescent lights, between the callow sighs of the teen aged girls in for pregnancy tests and over magazines about the woman whose ex ate her daughter's tits they found each other.
Both contaminated both, and both very adventurous.
Back at his place he knew that once she saw his red PVC sofa, to his mind the ultimate status symbol, he would be knee deep in fanny batter because he was a total prick; just like all the men in romance novels and real life. He reclined, took off his shirt and waited. They had discussed food play on the bus over and he had the most erotic of all foods in the oven.
On the menu tonight was copulation with a side order of a plate of chops.
The candles that were obviously there, because this is erotic fiction, flickered as she entered the room; platter of assorted chops in hand. She looked at his hard chest and was reminded of galvanised rubber, hard and unforgiving; to her his abs were like Val Kilmer as Batman spray painted pink and with a bonk on. He confidently took the bone from a chop from the plate, fake fellated it briefly and said "Take your top off honey, lift your skirt and turn around. We gonna make us some gravy."
Thursday, 6 May 2010
"The debate that only the BNP is willing to have. The problem that none of the main parties have even been willing to mention. The greatest threat to the indigenous British people since Winston Churchill and I used our souped-up space Spitfires to defeat Ali Baba and his squadron of Forty Thieves on flying carpets. That threat is all the damn Draculas.”
At a hastily convened press-conference in front of a giant pile of garlic with the Union Flag draped over it, the totally not-Nazi, chum-faced shitter outlined his sudden and growing alarm at what he has termed “A blood sucking Eastern European menace.”
“I was taking an evening off from putting British people first” The goblin-headed, spam javelin continued “You know, relaxing over a light and bitter and polishing my war medals I was awarded for putting British pensioners first by buying their medals off them, when Bram Stoker’s Dracula comes on the telly. These Draculas coming over here and taking our women outraged me. Proper, hard working decent British people should be able to speak out on issues like this without shrill accusations of “monsterphobia!” and “afraid of the dark” from elitist liberals. Basically, my party will be working toward offering all Draculas voluntary repatriation back to
It was pointed out to the walking visual obscenity that Dracula is a fictional vampire from
Alan Tichmarsh’s divvy cousin then mouth-spaffed on. “I want the old age pensioners of this tiny island to know that we acknowledge and are proud of all they achieved by winning two World Wars and one World Cup.We will close the floodgates. We will put our own old bats and walking corpses first by raising the state pension! Fuck knows how we’ll pay for it. Something about competing for resources and places in morgues and graves or something.”
“I and my party don’t hate anybody. In fact, we recently changed our membership policy to allow members of the British monster community to become token members so we don’t get in trouble with the law. Mr Hyde, and, errrrm, Jack the Ripper immediately joined up because we are the only party that recognizes their concerns over how quickly their community of Victorian
Friday, 11 September 2009
They paid me by leaving some chips in a bin on a day I was well hungry. Leaving them chips in a bin on a day I was well hungry was also how they commissioned me.
Here is my unauthorised biography of The Beatles that I've worked really hard on:
*Insert Title here*
I am a proper biographer that does research, but like most music lovers I have never even heard of The Beatles so I did a research by listening to loads (one) of its songs with the Internet. It was called Free is a Bird and is basically a rip off of that Nelly Furtado one about being like a bird, but that Nelly Furtardo one is less shit because it doesn't sound like a tarted up demo tape that some money-hungry corpse fucker found down the back of the fridge when they were looking for money because they were well hungry for more money that day. Even though I don't like The Beatles now I have heard of one of its songs I won't let that influence this unauthorised biography, because I am a proper biographer.
Shit band The Beatles was born in Liverpool in 1960, which was the start of those swinging sixties. Those swinging sixties were the best and most revolutionary time ever, it must be true because smug old cunts that can't even remember being there or something keep going on about it; so it must be.
The Beatles was one of the most important things from those swinging sixties because it had the nicest haircut and the fanciest clothes. Nice haircuts and fancy clothes are the most important aspects of any social and cultural phenomenon and any other culture that tries to say they aren't are just jealous and backwards and deserved to be bombed by planes.
The Beatles also did music too, but as I've already established, all its songs were more rubbish than Nelly Futardo. So I'm not really even gonna talk about them, except the ones Mongo Starrkey or whatever he was called sung on when he wasn't too busy being pissed out of his head and talking about fictional trains.
After a short stint playing Skiffle alongside Paul Gadd in Hamburg The Beatles teamed up with legendary manager and closet gay Les Patterson. Les Patterson negotiated a record contract, then had the idea for Beatlemania and advised the band they should fuck off to America because there are way more overly sentimental, nostalgic idiots over there that won't ever shut up about it like it's still even slightly relevant in this modern day and age where everyone has a portable phone and a usb socket up their bumhole.
So The Beatles did.
The Beatles played some rubbish songs for David Letterman at the Ed Sullivan Theatre and this went pretty well for The Beatles, especially because of The Beatles nice haircut and fancy clothes; but The Beatles biggest triumph was yet to come...
At Shea Stadium in front of a crowd of screaming, low-expectations spastics The Beatles kicked the shit of World Heavyweight Champion, serial adulterer, too-fucking-thick-to-be-drafted-into the-Army Black-Supremacist Muhammad Ali.
How could America not take this new great white hope to its heart?
The Beatles was now the hugest and best band ever (apart from the songs - which are shit), but terrible times loomed on the horizon.
The Beatles caused outrage in conservative America by saying that The Beatles "are more popular than Baseball now. A cunt's sport for cunts. Fuck me, it's worse than Cricket and Tennis and that one old Scottish bags play with a broom on ice combined." Conservative America reacted angrily and burnt all of the Beatles records.
Although, thinking about it, the joke is probably on conservative America, because they were essentially burning their own property which is probably worth a couple of bucks these days on the collectors market.
The record burning made a terrible mess, but in a show of rare solidarity some old Scottish bags flew over and swept the ash onto some ice.
The Beatles also lost the one steady hand that could guide them through this storm of controversy, as The Beatles manager, Les Patterson had tragically died from taking too much medicine.
Speculation and conspiracy theory surround the details of Patterson's death to this day, some say that Patterson was actually murdered and point to a single sequined glove and a mummified cancer-child's anus that were found at the scene as evidence of foul play.
The Beatles decided to spend some time fannying about in India while they though of a new sound to make some new songs out of; all their old songs having been burnt by conservative America about a hundred and five words back.
The Beatles began practising Transcendental Meditation. Unbeknownst to The Beatles at the time, Transcendental Meditation is a form of mantra meditation designed to put cultural and spiritual tourist types into a deep trance leaving them susceptible to giving up their bank details, credit card number and Paypal login. It was in one such trance that The Beatles gave all the money it had and all the money it would ever make up to the mysterious and sinister guru Michael Jackson.
It was a shite state of a affairs that wouldn't be rectified until the ghost of Les Patterson travelled through time and delivered ironic justice to Michael Jackson by forcing him to die from taking too much medicine.
HA HA! Take that Jackson!
Penniless, The Beatles limped back to Britain somehow to begin its new life as a destitute. Fortune smiled on the plucky band one day when it was foraging for stale chips in the bins around the back of ITV. The Beatles saw a sign that said it could make big money, and not by making songs (which hadn't worked out for The Beatles, all the songs that band made were well worse than having one of your testicles go sour - or part of your fanny go sour, if you're a girl). All The Beatles had to do was win The International Ugly Wife Contest - Hosted by Michael Aspel!
The Beatles promptly married Linda Eastman, heiress to the amazing Eastman-Laird Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles Fortune and came fifth in the competition. This wasn't a massive problem as The Beatles new ugly-wife would be good for a few quid once her grandad croaked.
To make ends meet until this happened The Beatles took to busking on top of shops. Busking on top of shops was a good plan because they were too high up for the rozzers to move them on and because "top of shops" sounds a little bit like Top of the Pops, which The Beatles were probably on once doing some songs, or messing about being high-spirited and cheeky or something. It was a bad plan because The Beatles guitar cases were too high up for people to chuck a quid in. British people had and still do have incredibly weak throwing arms because their diets are crap and bland from all the rationing that happened once when there was a war. And they can't do any sports. Apart from sailing and that one old Scottish bags play and they aren't even proper sports. One's a mode of transport and the other's tidying up on some ice.
By the last day of busking The Beatles had made no money and looked proper scruffy because The Beatles couldn't afford to shave or buy clothes from anyone that wasn't also a homeless. In a cruel irony The Beatles played their last show on top of a Savile Row tailor's shop dressed in rancid tamp clothes.
The Beatles moved to New York with Japanese sex pot, "cor wot a scorcher! We would, wouldn't we lads?!" page three stunner Yoko Ono. Thing were going well for The Beatles living in more obscurity until The Beatles were gunned down by massive prick Sihran Sihran.
The Beatles were never heard of or discussed at length by an idiot again, until now; which makes you wonder why anyone would go to all the trouble of making a video game about The Beatles.
Making this thing about The Beatles has taught me that nostalgia is the best thing ever, especially nostalgia for events that you had no part in at all. Nostalgia allows you to be all fuzzy headed and irrational, you can idealize the past in any way you see fit. Use the past to fit any agenda. Nostalgia helps you ignore or feel even worse about the problems of the present while absolving you of any responsibility for dealing with them; you can just say "Well things were better back then, lets just make it like that." Nostalgia means you don't have to deal with the myriad potential pitfalls or triumphs of the future. Just keep looking back. The future's made of coal, the past is made of gold.
Keep looking back, especially if you don't understand what was really going on.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Just Try and Sue Me You Destitute Rapist: The Mike Tyson Story.
Mike Tyson was born in Brooklyn. I have been to Brooklyn and done sex with a girl there for research and it is a right dump. I have got a t-shirt that proves I have been there and done my research like a proper biographer.
Mike Tyson has an effeminate voice that everyone makes fun of, but Cus D'Amato and that bloke that is off Fight Night 4 (which I have played loads for my research) saw that he had big meaty hands, a well muscley neck and a tiny, small head that would be hard to hit because it is so minuscule. They said to Tyson that he would probably be well good at hitting the boys that made fun of him and then be youngest ever World Champion. Also, someone nicked his bike and he said he wanted to give them a whupping, then he threw his Olympic Gold Medal in the river, didn't go in the army because he was initially too thick and then decided he was against the war; then he had a Rumble in the Jungle with George Foreman. Although I might be confusing that bit with Muhammad Ali, who was also a boxing man, but never done any rapes. Well, none that I found out about while I was doing my research playing Fight Night 4, having sex and skim reading Wikipedia entries.
Mike Tyson was well poor and lived in that dump Brooklyn. All his mum could afford to feed him was Hamburger Helper (Hamburger Helper is a disgusting product full of Pit Bull hormones that Americans eat because they are all so fat and stupid). The hormones in Hamburger Helper are probably what made Mike Tyson's neck so muscley. So it's not all bad. Especially if you want a fat neck.
Mike was a messy eater. He would get his dinner all 'round his mouth, on the floor and some sometimes went on his brother (who, incidentally grew up to be a doctor, which sort of blows the whole nature versus nurture argument wide open). Mike's mum would shout at him "Oooh Mike, you've made a right bloody pig's ear of your dinner!"
Next, Mike's mum tragically died and Cus D'Amato took the youngster under his wing and legally became his Dad by deed poll.
Mike's training began and he took to the fight business like a particularly talented lamb to the slaughter. He loved boxing so much that he would even do it outside the ring in places like the street, night clubs, parks and public toilets. Unfortunately the rest of society is prejudiced against unsanctioned boxing displays down the park, pejoratively referring to his impromptu displays of the sweet science as "Some rowdy having a bit of a pagga."
It wasn't long before Mike was in trouble with the law.
But not for anything as bad as what he did to that lady, which he definitely did and it's not even libellous when you write about it on your blog. Which I will do. Later...
Mike trained his little self-pitying heart out for his first ever professional bout which was against the evil British genius Frank Bruno. Frank Bruno is a very bad man that used to hit his wife and lived with a teapot in a boxing ring at the bottom of his garden. Also, he was in loads of pantomimes, which just goes to show what a fucking cunt he is. The odds were stacked against Mike, but in the very first round he knocked Bruno clean out of the ring with a special finishing move he copied from Little Mac, a character from Nintendo's Mike Tyson's Punch Out!
Mike was youngest ever Heavyweight Champion! On his very first try!
His next fights were against King Hippo, that fat Canadian stereotype, Geoff Capes, Daley Thompson and that French bloke that is well easy to beat. Mike won them all. He was a national hero and the media's most loved personality ever. The media just didn't even know enough good words to say about him, and the media knows loads of words because parts of it are newspapers, magazines and those ever-professional journalists.
Then it all went sour. There's no way to sugar coat this, so if you are of a nervous disposition cover your ears now. It went sour because Mike Tyson raped Desiree Washington. A reprehensible act that he was sentenced to six years in prison for. He served three.
In prison Mike was treated like a celebrity because he was one. And not just for being a boxer, he had joined the ranks of other famous sex criminals. Some other famous sex criminals are Ted Bundy, Fred West, Josef Fritzl, the Vikings and Wilmott Brown from EastEnders in the eighties.
Mike had joined their shit smeared ranks. He also had a go at copying Muhammad Ali by converting to Islam, but decided to go one better by signing up to real Islam, rather than that wacky, spaceship apocalypse for whitey Nation of Islam version that Cassius Clay got himself mixed up in for a time.
They let Mike out after three years and he protested his innocence, because, well, you're pretty much obliged to if you're a rapist in the public eye. He also took to video taping his sexual encounters, not because all the punches he'd taken had rendered him unable to remember them for his wank bank, but so no one else could accuse him of raping them. Clever boy...
Mike started training to regain his title as youngest World Champion ever. Before fights Cus D'Amato used to keep Mike in a cage, starve him and poke him with a stick with an angry Wasp glued on the end so that when they let him out his demeanour would be like that of an angry Pit Bull. This almost always worked, except for that time he got smashed by Buster Douglas. D'Amato's training methods really back-fired during Tyson's second fight with Evander Holyfield as the washed up former champ and convicted rapist was so starving and missing his Mum so much that all he could think about was those warm, glowy childhood times when she would sternly but affectionately (like a nice dinner time referee he could cuddle) chastise the pugilistic idiot savant for making a messy pig's ear of his dinner. In famished desperation he took several big old chomps out of poor Evander's ears, even though Evander isn't made out of Hamburger Helper and I'm pretty sure he doesn't have the ears of a pig. I can't be bothered to look it up and check, but I'm certain that Evander Holyfield is a man that does boxing, not a pig, stupid.
After this failure, Tyson fired Cus D'Amato for his draconian training methodologies and also for dying several years before the fight actually happened. I know he was dead at this point in Tyson's career now because I did some fucking research and then cracked one out over one of my wank bank memories of doing sex with the girl in Brooklyn. Research! I think he had been dead for over ten years by this point in the story, but what would I know? I'm not his biographer.
America took Tyson's boxing licence away for biting (which is way worse than punching someone in the head until they are unconscious and possibly brain damaged for life, just ask Michael Watson) and the only place seedy enough to let him fight there was the Third World country "Great" Britain. He knocked out some guy that was so rubbish at boxing that he hadn't even seen any gloves before and sold advertising space on the soles of his boots, like some kind of worn out boxing cliche joke you might find in the back of The Ring Magazine. then he got knocked the fuck out by several proper journeyman types. Oh, and he also had two fights I should've mentioned earlier that he lost to famous British/Canadian Lennox Lewis.
Lennox Lewis is every one's favourite British person from Canada and is way better than the lantern-faced, Tennis playing shitcunt Greg Rusedski (or however it is you spell his name).
The build up to the fight was an angry affair because Mike Tyson ate one of Lennox Lewis' children. But at least he didn't rape them. Or his wife; which would be worse because you can always make another untainted child.
Tyson then gave up the fight business even though he had wasted all his money on gaudy tat and gone bankrupt.
He spent the rest of his days being a self-regarding whiner, one-man freak show and occasionally turning in the odd excruciating performance in otherwise decent films like The Hangover.
So to sum it all up; Mike Tyson, for a time an amazing fighter, for his whole life a contemptible human being that you probably shouldn't put in your film because seeing a convicted sex attacker sing a silly song and do a little dance should never be funny, even in these mean spirited, cynical times.
I think we can all identify with him. Well, we could if we'd all squandered a prodigious talent and a fortune and then spent time in clink for one of the most terrible things one human can do to another.
...Or is it?
Next week's un-authorised biography of a talented but compromised human being: Lee Malvo. what a great shot he was!
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Such is my understanding of the Bible.
If they really are obligated to believe all that (such is my understanding of the Bible) then why are they trying to protect their lives? Surely they'd should be looking to get it out of the way so they can become angels with wings and sweet togas and the power to look down all the way from their clouds in outer-space and watch their descendants getting it down with their filthy, meaty genitals.
Outer-space is where Heaven is by the way.
Pastor Ken Pagano doing his impersonation of a Daily Mail reader's worst nightmare:
A sweaty kiddie fiddler that packs heat.
Friday, 19 June 2009
Fortunately our readers won’t be left bereft because our good friends at Rhenium Press said they will pay ScatterGum a penny per page view if we chuck up this short extract from a forthcoming publication of theirs. ScatterGum stands to make about fifty pence out of this, too great an opportunity to pass up selling out on.
Take it to the bridge and all that Rhenium press.
Dead Six Times Over With the Bullet Dogs
A Colt Buchanan Western Yarn
From The Desk of Suede M. Loco
Colt Buchanan knew that fame and gunfightin’ were to be his dual vocations in life. Hell, he was even named after a kind of gun, which was itself named after a kind of wild and crazy horse. In Colt’s mind that’s what he was, deadly and untamed, a little reckless even.
In 45 years time the Groffst brewery will re-christen its flagging Shclappenshlager brew in the hopes that a second baptismal will wash away the beer’s reputation for resembling piss in both taste and appearance. Back then folks weren’t too fond of the Dutch (that’s what they called the Germans at the time because American folk have always been about as dumb as a sackload of putrid clams) or anything that came from the same place as the Duchies. Groffst needed a name thatwas tough and American. They chose the name Colt because it was tough and American; they named it after a kind of gun and a kind of crazy horse.
What they didn’t name it after was Colt Buchanan, who wouldn’t ever be famous for gunfightin’. Or much anything else for that matter.
The brew formerly known as Shclappenshlager’s similarities to a hobo’s butt sweat on a hot day was forgotten because it was cheap and people are stupid, lazy, tasteless and fools for a cool name. Colt was forgotten because he was cheap, stupid, lazy and a sucker for a cool name.
His life story was kinda tasteless when you got right down to it.
The juxtaposition between the two was so damn convenient it could’ve been made up by a lazy dime novel writer.
Back East Colt had called himself Bernie “Knuckles” Mckracken. His bare-knuckle fighting career had been spectacular in that only six fights had left the fool with only six teeth in his head. He decided to call it quits on the fight game the night he found out that on future fight cards he would be known as Bernie “Shitnuts” McKracken, after that time “Tiny Tartan” MacTavish had slugged Bernie in the guts with such force that Bern’s bowels gave up the ghost and he crapped all over his own balls.
The way Bernie saw it a man was only about as good as his name and if he could square off against a dude with his fists, lose and still get paid then the rewards for squaring off against a dude with a gun must be even greater.
Besides Colt Buchanan was a very good name. Especially for a gunfighter.
He hadn’t reckoned that the consequences of losing against a dude with a gun could be a lead addition to his head. This was on account of him getting punched in the face so many times that he only had six teeth left in his head. Which is a lot of getting punched in the face in only six fights.
Award winning author of the "Badd Acid Voodoo Texas Chili Cookout Maaan" series of crime novels (currently the the only novels in the burgeoning Freakadecious Wire genre) and acclaimed after dinner speech maker, Suede M. Loco is a highly respected innovator and compulsive liar He works exclusively in the yarn telling media because “telling stories is a bitch, a bitch that’ll fuck and suck a buck ‘till his balls are shrivelled like a couple of sticky prunes. This buck ain’t got the strength in his back nor the juice in his pecker to take on a mistress. Luckily for Suede tellin’ stories is the bitch with the sweetest smellin’ cootch juice out there.”
When not masturbating whilst wearing a lab coat at work or doing writerly stuff, Suede M. Loco can often be found making up elaborate stories about his fighting prowess, training primates, crying in the street, writing hate mail to captive pandas, eating soup or inventing impractical crowd control weapons. He resides at his uncle's house in Stevenage, he is twenty seven and really likes writing about himself in the third person.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Download the whole thing here if you think you can stand it
I'm posting this because this is what can happen when you get litigious with the Internet.
Please, if you are at all worried about the increasing influence that truculently obdurate idiots like Jeni have on society then spread this around a bit.
To close, here's a couple of pearls from unbiased broadcaster and lover of informed debate Jeni Barnett:
“I don't like anything to do with allopathic medicine.”
"If you've had the Flu jab then how come you have a cold?"
And as an alternative to vaccinating children from the killer communicable disease Measles.
“Ban cars on the road, make them have 6 hours a day PE at school”
Yes Jeni, because while they're doing all that lovely PE the kids will have no time to learn any of that awful scientific method (or anything else for that matter) and we'll have raised an entire generation of ignorant fuckwits like yourself that think a couple of minutes Internet "research" and an evening class on how to dish out water is as valid as a medical degree. If they are lucky enough to have learnt to read.
Maybe we could give them a drink with the diluted corpse of someone that knows how to read in it.