Monday, 8 December 2008

Scattergum is Pleased to Announce

A new semi-regular feature from our guest commentator Terrance Littleknob.

Irascible, Irreverent, Irightfuckingcunt

For over twenty years this columnist has made a living mentioning that back in 2001 I published a novel called "This Country's Going to the Dawgs!" about how The-Liberal-PC-Fire Brigade left has been deliberately eroding the freedoms and Yuman rights our grandfathers fought to uphold in two World Wars and one World Cup by insisting those rights apply to everybody and not just white males aged 30 to 65 that don't like blacks or gays, or worse still, black gays serving in Her Majesty's armed forces.

Like all white males I'm the victim of a campaign of oppression perpetrated by a ruling cabal of Bi-sexual-Feminazi-Town Hall Talebans that would to see me banged up in the gulag up for thought crimes relating to weekly rubbish collections, wanting to persecute gypsies and insisting they build more prisons that aren't like a trip to Butlins to cage all scum that commit any crime.

"'ere Terrance!" I hear you shout "Wouldn't that mean that you'd be banged up by the ZaNu-Lie-bore Stasi for tirelessly pointing out the slow death of Great British democracy? Isn't it a little hypocritical to want all lawbreakers banged up?"

No, I say; our granfathers fought the Nazis at Agincourt in two World Wars and one World Cup to uphold the Great British traditions of persecuting gypsies and locking people up that disagree with you!

Because no one has read my novel that I published in 2001 called "This Country's Going to the Dawgs!” I can tenuously link it to current events to prove that I was right back in 2001 when I published my novel "This Country's going to the Dawgs!"

When I praised what Mrs Thatcher had done for local communities by breaking up the Anarcho-Gay-Communist Union influenced coal and steel industries in my novel “This Country’s Going to the Dawgs!” that I published in 2001, I didn’t contradict myself at all later on when I called the people still living in those communities “Subhuman drug and Special Brew addled sponging chav scum; too busy spawning generation after generation of moronic spaz kids they can use to claim more dole and occasionally fake kidnap for reward money than get off their fat, greasy arses and look for non-existent work!”

I was too busy crowing in my Daily Mail column about the revelations of Max Moseley’s sex life to be a hypocrite. The press, and especially, The Daily Mail should be free trample all over an individual like Max Moseley's private life because he was having kinky Nazi sex games and his grandfather was a noted British Fascist; the leader of the knuckle dragging Blackshirts no less. Which makes Max Moseley’s filthy Nazi themed sex games all the more disgusting and important for the public to know about! There are children that watch Formula One!


Even though Gordon and Polly Toynbee's (Polly Toynbee only hates this humble correspondent because her obvious sexual attraction to him is at odds with the lesbian beliefs she decided to adopt while she was learning facts at some Godforsaken-liberal subversive university - I don't fancy her though, even though I mention her all the time) censorship addicted-Stalinesque-Scottish Mafia-freedom hating-nanny state wants to keep ordinary, decent people like you from knowing and masturbating about what Max Moseley was up to.

There are children that like Formula One, so if you don't agree with a private individual's sex life being strewn around for public titillation, you're a child hating paedophile and worse than Karen Matthews.


And if any namby-pamby, Guardianista do-gooders try and tell you that the Daily Mail once published an article titled “Hurrah for the Blackshirts” they are lying. Probably as some conspiracy to stop ordinary decent white people from smoking in operating theatres. All because these weak willed woolly-liberal sheep are desperate to appease Elf and Safety-Gay-Midget-Islamo-Fascist terrorists on benefits that have fallen for the great climate change swindle! It beggars belief!

A Graph Plotted From Made up Data, Designed To Dupe Credulous Idiots.

I have a few thousand copies of the novel I published in 2001 called “this Country’s Going to the Dawgs!” left that were saved from being pulped by Eco-Terroristsand and "recycled" into mansions for Asylum seeker-Mad Mullah Muslim clerics -most likely at the taxpayer's expense courtesy of Moron Clown and Alistair Dar-lying – chuck us eighty quid and one's yours. It’s better than whatever lowest common denominator rubbish Clarkson is chucking at the council estate proles this Christmas (if they don’t ban Christmas)..

If I hadn't just now, you couldn't make it up!

Terrance Littleknob is a journalist, author and broadcaster. For most of the year he lives in Florida because Florida is the best place to accurately drool out a twice weekly cretin-cast for little Englander twats based on his his long-distance, made up opinions on the state of Modern Britain. He has nothing to do with the real-life journalist, author and broadcaster Richard Littlejohn; except they are both gleefully obdurate pus-brained spam javelins.

Saturday, 22 November 2008

Fuck me, This Took Fifteen Years to Make?! A Fair and Balanced Track-by-Track Review of Chinese Democracy.

Elliot Armstrong commented at 00:24 22 November
It's what the inside of a fat, middle-aged ginger man that thinks it's still 1993 and he's still the biggest rock star in el Mundo's brain sounds like, if you're interested. Which you aren't. Fuck you.

Elliot Armstrong commented at 00:32 22 November
HA! First ballad. Fucking hilarious. P-O-W-E-R-B-A-L-L-A-D-!
Does Axl Rose actually know what his voice sounds like now? It's like an X Factor retard doing a karaoke of November Rain and being strangled at the same time.

Elliot Armstrong commented at 01:22 22 November
Spanish guitar over a fourteen year old trip-hop beat that's been sped up a bit but still sounds really pedestrian, tinkling piano keys, strings and some chugging riffery. Over the top of all this Axl is trying to nail falsetto. A decade and a half ago idiots thought the future would sound like this. A decade and a half later, some really terrible things have happened and the future turned out to be a bit shit, but at least it didn’t have a Slash style solo rammed clumsily down its gullet.

Elliot Armstrong commented at 01:27 22 November

The strings are back and they're epic. In fact, this whole song is epic.

If you're a gurgling spanner factory worker that likes Wrestling and lives in Coventry.

Elliot Armstrong commented at 01:36 22 November
This one actually sounds like the original Guns and Roses doing one of the numerous filler tracks on that double album release they did. Well done Axl, you've got your band of session arses to sound almost as "Will this do?" as the "classic" Guns and Roses lineup did back then. Kudos on this one.

Elliot Armstrong commented at 01.39 22 November
Poke this. Another interminable ballad. This is just boring now, rather than being funny or even slightly amusing; much like these posts about it. I'm going to do something more interesting. You should stop reading this bollocks and go and do something more interesting too.

Thursday, 20 November 2008

Shack Radio: Konnie Huq and Bitterness

Dave: Where’ve you been chief? We were starting to worry about you. You didn’t get locked up for trying to kick the faces off dogs down the park again did you? You do know we’ve got a show to write?

Mark: Nah mate. I went to see my personality doctor; like everyone said I should.

Dave: Ah, good. Did he tell you to take some time off or something? Have a little break?

Mark: Something like that. He said that I should join some clubs or groups. Meet new people that share my interests. Distract myself from my spiteful, misanthropic, narcissistic and self-destructive behaviours.

Dave: Sounds like good advice. How’s it been working out for you then?

Mark: My spiteful, narcissistic and self-destructive behaviours are my interests. And I fucking hate people. So I fired the useless, thick, cock-socket and stayed up for three days eating bzp pills and boozing. I decided I’d better chuck it in for a bit when pus started to come out of one of my tear ducts. Have a look. It’s fucking grim. Pus covered eyeball!

So I had a small sleep, and now here I am, talking to you.

Dave: I’m worried about you sir. Put my mind at rest and tell me you did at least something constructive with some of your time.

Mark: I spent seven hours printing out pictures of Konnie Huq I found on the internet. HA HA! I'm a genius!

Dave: You fucking idiot. Did you do any work on the show? All I can see here is a load of pictures of Konnie Huq with ballbags crudely drawn on her chin. Oh fucking hell; you still don’t have a thing about her running in the Olympic relay?

The Olympics was months ago, are you going to drop this Konnie Huq, tool of Communist oppression thing? You know you’re in the minority on this one. Everyone wants to chuck one up Konnie Huq.

Mark: And that’s why I’m the last moral man on this dying planet. Having sex with Konnie Huq would be like making warm, tender, gentle, sweet and above all consensual love with that tank from Tiananmen Square. In an obscenely opulent hotel room made only of the tears of the families of people that China has executed with a bullet in the back of the head. On the forth of June. Whilst the Beastie Boys stare accusation from the corner of the obscenely opulent hotel room made only of the tears of the families of people that China have executed with a bullet to the back of the head.

The Beastie Boys are now protesting about the occupation of Tibet; but you are swathed in bed sheets woven like the finest of silks from the eternally lost potential of cruelly discarded female children; victims of uncaring misogyny and the cold one child only dictates of The Party. Konnie Huq wants you to pollute her rivers and exploit her child work force. She’s whispering sweet nothings to assure you that not many, if any, people died in that earthquake a while back. She wants you to lay your pipeline in her African oil fields. You can see her Great Walls from space and she fucking loves it

And while all this is going on you are saying:

“Nerr nerr. I don’t care about your moral objections to totalitarianism and state censorship or your Falun Gong beliefs. I’m shagging Konnie Huq. Look at me everyone! I’m shagging Konnie Huq! There must be a prize or money or some kind of recognition for shagging Konnie Huq! If I wasn’t you would be! You’d be right where I am right now! Shagging Konnie Huq! But you’re not because I am! I’m shagging Konnie Huq! Look at me!”

And you are sticking your tongue out at everyone that has had any objections to Communist China’s policies on anything ever whilst you just keep pumping harder and harder, always pumping away at the lovely yet forever morally tainted Miss Huq’s cervix. The corrupt, godless, inscrutable, red-pinko commie bitch!

Actually chief, I think I need to nip off to the toilets for a little while...

Saturday, 15 November 2008

Don't Despair Kids

There is more Shack Radio (the radio show you can read using your eyes) on its way.

It will feature hilarious jokes and japery covering a wide range of subjects, up to and including:

Why Konnie Huq is a tool of Chinese state oppression and why it would be immoral to shag her right up any of her lovely hole places.

Why living to thirty years of age really isn't that much of an achievement in this modern day and age.

How Dave's over sized genitalia is linked to the childhood bollock abuse he suffered at the feet of various assailants in the school playground.

Dung farming in the middle ages.

Making deliberately unlikable playlists of songs that will never work together and how it ties into that time you deliberately broke a girl from Michigan's heart.

Our long-overdue musings on the Brand/Woss Sachsgate affair. Weeks after everyone is bored by it! Topical!

All this and slightly more coming soon. Laziness and drink problems permitting.

We might even record an episode of it at some point. So keep your eyes and ears open!

Warmest regards,

E. S. Armstrong.

(I was going to post my notes for the Shack Radio scripts rather than this; but even though they are more amusing than this shameless self-promoting post, trusted friends assure me that posting your notes about a thing that doesn't even exist yet is pretentious wankery of the very worst kind).

Friday, 7 November 2008

A Short Note That Might Indicate How Much I Care About American Politics Right Now

Well done Barry Hussien-O on being crowned King Of 'merca.

Commiserations, Grampa Ovenchips. Better luck next year.

And Well done to 'merca, for overcoming hundreds of years of prejudice and electing your first Catholic monarch!

You all deserve a patronising pat on the head from the rest of the World!

Sunday, 12 October 2008

Ministry of Negative Male Sterotypes

Dave: Where’ve you been chief? Why haven’t you got a shirt on?

Mark: I’ve been down the park looking for blokes to scrap with. LIKE A MANLY BLOKE! WALLOP! It’s fucking cold out there though. Check my nipples one time. It’s like I’ve got two engorged clitori on my chest. Which is apt, because all the ladies were all engorged when they saw me with no shirt on being all manly down the park. WALLOP!

Dave: You’ve gone even more fucking wrong you cunt. Calm down, we’ve got work to be getting on with.

Mark: I can’t I’m all pent up and frustrated. Aside from yours and mine, I haven’t seen any tits in fucking ages.

Dave: That reminds me; I had a great idea for breast enlargement without surgery earlier. I’m thinking of fucking off to the patent office instead of doing the show today.

Mark: Sounds exciting chief. You gonna clue me into it? I won’t nick it, I’m far too lazy to be arsed.

Dave: I know that chief. What I was thinking is that the ladies would pay a really tall bloke like Peter Crouch or something to walk around behind them, arms outstretched as high as the lanky fucker can get them In each hand they’re holding a chain; at the bottom of the chain, perfectly positioned to hang in front of the lady’s own inadequate charms is a bauble shaped like a breast. The woman will be able to select the size shape and colour and everything. What do you reckon?

Mark: I think you’ve basically stolen Reeeve’s and Mortimer’s diet board idea and twisted into an excuse to think about breasts. How are you going to make any money out of this? Surely the woman would just give her money to Peter Crouch? Admit it, you just wanted a legitimate excuse to go to the patent office and talk about tits again. What was that last idea you went up there with? Tit cricket?

Dave: Basically you go to a crowded place filled with girls, a club or busy pub and try to feel up their tits. It’s one run for a casual or accidental brushing of the tits, four runs for grabbing one tit and for six runs you go for a full on grope of both fun bags. Ahh, tits, freckled tits...

Mark: It's a Bisto moment for sure. But you took that to the patent office? Fucksakes Dave. You’re welcome to go to the patent office instead of doing the show; what you just said is well racist. You’re fucking suspended.

*Credit where it's due. Written in collaboration with Sir David Halfpenny MBE. So once again, if you don't like it, write to that cunt.*

Wednesday, 8 October 2008

Shack Radio: A New Nadir?

Dave: where've you been chief? Up the park again?

Mark: Nope, that woman I was following has stopped jogging for some reason; the lazy fat cow. I've been to see my personality doctor.

Dave: Therapist eh? What's the diagnosis this week?

Mark: No change. I'm still a cunt apparently. What've you got there?

Dave: A report.

Mark: Report for what?

Dave: That course the boss sent us on?

Mark: What the one about not raping things? That sensitivity training bollocks? With
that cunt and his pc, do-gooder, liberal no smoke without fire brigade ideas. That
arsehole buggered belief.

Dave: Remember when we buggered that beggar?

Mark: Isn’t that why the judge ordered us to take that course? Well that and my thing with that car, but in all fairness to me, I fucking hate cars and that garage was locked; those two cleaners had no business just barging in like that.

Dave: Obviously. Anyways, this is the final report from that course the boss sent us on to be better radio presenters. The guy has listened to a few shows post course to evaluate how well we’ve done with his advice.

Mark: Oh yeah I remember that dude, nice guy. Gave us all that meat flavoured
Yogurt. What does he say?

Dave: Well he seems happy enough with me chief. He says I’ve a voice and a presenting style very much in the mould of John Peel, but without the good taste in music. Apparently I give off a fusty, benevolent uncle vibe; and then for some reason he’s written “Not the kind of uncle that diddles your underlings when Ma and Pa go out!” in big red letters.

Mark: Weird, but splendid work chief. How awesome did he think I am?

Dave: Not good news I’m afraid. He says your constant use of foul language betrays a tiny vocabulary and low intellect.

Mark, Well? What does the cunt expect? I left school at sixteen. Is that all?

Dave: ‘fraid not. He wants you to stop addressing the listeners as “You people”, boasting about how you have plenty of money, threatening to rob your local post office on air because you got another letter from Christian Aid asking for money, claiming we have a surprise guest and then playing that recording of that time you strangled a puppy; and you can’t do any more outside broadcasts from the local Off Licence or promote them in any other way to get free booze. Oh, and you’re to stop opening the show with the phrase “Ayup cuntybollocks.”

Mark: Ayup cuntybollocks is a term of endearment between me and the listner. And I’ll have you know that the Drink Stop carries the finest selection of fancy booze, fags and dried meat snacks in all of Hertfordshire. It’s a site of local cultural importance.

Dave: That’s not all. You did that Agony Uncle thing when I was on holiday that time. He heard it. Apparently some poor kid called up to ask advice about his over-bearing mother; you called him a “punk-ass bitch” and your advice was that he “put a beatdown on that honky ho she won’t forget, you feel me?” This guy reckons you are nowhere near middle class enough to get away with being a faux-mie.

Mark: Faux-mie? Fuck him, I’d been watching episodes of The Wire back to back that week. Some of the language is bound to rub off on a G. Did he report anything else?

Dave: Now remember dude that these are his words not mine. Well, not even words exactly. He’s finished up by drawing a picture of you with a turd poking out of the corner of your mouth and then next to that is one of those less than signs from maths, and then next to that is a picture of George Lamb, except he’s drawn a vagina on Lamb’s face instead of a mouth. Next to the picture of Lamb is another less than sign and next to that is a photo of some rancid prawns in a rusty bucket. On top of the prawns is some sick. Under your picture in big red letters he’s written “Actually shitter than George Lamb!?!”

Mark: Fuck me…

Dave: On the plus side the likenesses of you and Lamb are pretty good…

Mark: I think I need to call my personality doctor…

Dave: No need for that, this’ll cheer you up, it’s something I was thinking about while you were out. We could talk about it on the show if you like. You know how Protestants talk about “No Popery?”

Mark: If you are going where I think you are going with this, please stop.

Dave: What have they got against those little bowls of nice smelling dried bits of plant that your nan has scattered around her sheltered accommodation?

Mark: I really do need to call my personality doctor now…

Dave: It’s not that bad chief, cheer up you miserable bastard.

Mark: I’m not down at all; I’m just supposed to call my personality doctor every time I feel like doing knife-crime on some shit pun making div-kid.

Friday, 3 October 2008

Shack Radio: This was Dave's idea.

Dave: Urgh! What the fuck is that all over your boots chief?

Mark: Dogs. Dead dogs.

Dave: Been up the park again?

Mark: Walked through there on the way back from the post office. That nice tour guide we met last year finally got around to sending us the photos from our trip. They’re on a usb stick. Cunt didn’t pay any postage though. I got fined an extra pound on top.

Dave: Has your computer even got a usb port?

Mark: Fucking hell Dave, I’m from the 21st Century. I’ve got a usb port up my bumhole if I fucking need one.

Dave: All right, all right. Which of our trips last year are the pictures from?

Mark: Switzerland. Remember the bloke that thought we were Ant and Dec that you told to fuck off when he asked for our autographs?

Dave: Put us into the boot of his car at knife point? Little bits of spit came out when he spoke?

Mark: That’s the cunt. Why did you tell him to get fucked?

Dave: Because we’re far more handsome than PJ and Duncan. Anyway, it’s your fault he put us in the boot. You’re the cunt that hit him. That was sweet, bang on target chief. I could still take you in a fight if it came to it between us though. He must have known we didn’t have our passports on us though.

Mark: Agreed, You riled him first though. That’s why we ended up in his boot. He was obviously a sociopath, he was hardly likely to and, in fact didn’t, stop and ask us if we wanted to go to Switzerland and, oh, by the way do you boys have your passports? I thought it was going to be a repeat of that time we ended up in Belgium getting bummed by reformed paedos.

Dave: Oh no chief, Switzerland was better than that. Hence the pictures. Although the trip home was shit without passports. Hitchhiking, hiding in those containers. Scary as shit. Would’ve been even scarier if we hadn’t met that dude that used to sell alternative remedies in the Balkans, the Ex-forces guy from Bosnia, Ahmet? Sydur’s mate? If it hadn’t been for him we wouldn’t have got back so quickly and I’d have missed Home and Away. I fucking love Home and Away. It’s great.

Mark: For fucks sake. You do have about the shittest taste in just about
everything. I don’t know why I’m still friends with you sometimes. You’re
such a cunt.

Dave: I think the answer to that is in the question chief.

*All credit where it's due goes to Sir David Halfpenny MBE, this was his idea. If you don't like it blame him. The cunt.*

Saturday, 20 September 2008

Shack Radio: Stolen punchlines can still be rubbish.

Dave: You know how it’s all been a bit taboo to fancy that Sharleen Spiteri?

Mark: What? The Chris Evans thing?

Dave: The Evans thing, obviously. But there’s that whole other thing about being scared to admit to people that you fancied her a little bit. You know? Not much, just a little bit, even though everyone you know fancied her a little bit. But no one at the time could ever admit it. Because if you ever did that during the mid to late nineties you’d basically be admitting that you shared similar tastes to Chris Evans

Mark: Yeah, I remember when that was on the front of Heat. They never followed that one up much. What happened to Sharleen?

Dave: She got fat, didn’t she? Trouble is, by that point she couldn’t even get on the front cover of Heat if she got shin and forehead cellulite and turned up to a celebrity kids’ preview of the next pile of Pixar bullshit with thick Devonshire custard running down her inner thigh into the mouth of some disillusioned kid wearing skinny jeans and twatty pointy shoes that thinks pretending to be a junkie that needs to suck custard from Sharleen Spiteri’s leg to maintain his addiction to being in Heat will give his band (that are “heavily influenced by The Libertines” But “Not in that Way”) some kind of kudos with the kind of cunt that reads Heat and that the exposure from his fake-junkie custard sucking will skyrocket his band’s video onto TMF and maybe even 4Music.
What do you think happened next chief?

Mark: I don’t know. I don’t care.

Dave: Oh come on. It’s obvious.. She saw the way the wind was blowing with the whole Any Winehouse/Duffy shit copying of sixties women singers while having a beehive hairdo, so she started copying sixties women singers and she sported a beehive hairdo. She was copying them sixties women singers like a bastard, and as an added bonus, she was shit. But as you can imagine, it got her on Jools Holland. There’s a point to this, by the way chief.

Mark: I was just about to ask if this was another anec-dave. Seeing as it probably is; when is this going to end?

Dave: No it’s quite good this chief, worth sticking around for.

Mark: I’m sure, but can you finish early or something? Like some premature cock-gasm, but out of your mouth?

Dave: Shut up.
Still I saw her on Jools Holland. All fat, very shit and sporting a beehive hairdo and I thought, I still would, you know? Wallop! Spunk up right on her back! So I suppose my question is, if there has to be a question, is do you think it’s still taboo to fancy Sharleen Spiteri,? Bearing in mind that on the plus side she’s no longer shagging Evans, but on the negative side she somehow managed to become even shitter musically since her days with Texas and she's gotten fat.

Mark: Is this turning into one of those times where it’s not a competition, but, it is really?

Dave: “Not a competition, but, it is really?” I like it chief. What are we competing over?

Mark: Who can say the crudest thing about Sharleen Spiteri, even though she’s all fat and even shitter musically than ever.
So “Wallop” and “Spunk up on her back” are the best you can come up with, yeah?

Dave: Yeah. That’s about all I want to do to her now she’s all fat and somehow even shitter musically than ever.

Mark: Well then in the interests of winning the competition, I’d like to suggest that instead of feeling any “wallop” or however you described your inept cervix poking earlier, with me she’d feel like all her orifices were alleys that had been smashed up by hooligans several times over. And instead of “spunk up on her back” she’d feel like all her organs, including her brain, had been glossed all shiny in gloopy white Mark essence. I’d even do it after you had; does that win me the competition?

Dave: You’d do all that to Sharleen Spiteri? Just to win a competition?

Mark: I’d say I would.

Dave: You fucking pervert. She’s all fat. And she is shitter musically than she’s ever been ever. And she has a shit beehive hairdo. And she’s shagged Chris Evans; a stain like that never goes away. It’s taboo to ever admit to fancying Sharleen Spiteri, you stupid fucking pervert.

Wednesday, 17 September 2008

Shack Radio: The Interview.

Mark: Where’ve you been chief?

Dave: It’s 7.00pm on a Wednesday, I’ve been down the park laughing at the joggers.

Mark: Fair enough; I’ve been trying to find a guest to interview for next week’s show. This week’s was a bit shit.

Dave: We had a guest?

Mark: Yeah, technically, you count as a guest and you were shit. I could tell you how you count as a guest, but it’s complicated and I’m tired. Needless to say, you were a bit shit.

Dave: Fuck you. Who’ve you got then? Chris Morris?

Mark: I asked him, but it turns out he still hates us. Sent us a poo in the post by way of a reply. I’ve been trying to get that Mika arsehole. Big entertainment news story about him this week. You know him?

Dave: Not personally. He did the Grace Kelly song right? Sings like Freddie Mercury?

Mark: That’s the cunt. You hear about what happened to him?

Dave: Nah, what’s he been up to?

Mark: Fuck me; you really are a pop culture retard. It’s been all over the Internet. The poor cunt has been officially declared the World’s most obsolete, superfluous fucknut by the U.N.

Dave: Lucky boy. I dream of that kind of recognition, how’d he manage that?

Mark: He didn’t have to do anything; Freddie Mercury came back to life.

Dave: Fuck off! How’s that supposed to have happened? He bought himself back?

Mark: Nah, weirder than that chief. Out-going President of South Africa Thabo Mbeki bought him back. Had something to prove about Anti-retroviral drugs being shit and racist before they kick him out of office.

Dave: You’re such a fucking liar. Come on then cunt; tell me how he bought Freddie Mercury back to life.

Mark: The holistic way mate. He chucked his corpse in a hot bath full of garlic. That cured the Aids that Mercury died of. They’re controlling the unrelated HIV he’s still got with some vitamin pills they got off a German. It’s alternative medicine so it must work way better than anything you’ll get from those profiteering big pharmaceutical companies that sell proper drugs that have been trailed and peer-reviewed and all that bollocks.

Dave: But why Mercury? You’d think the President of South Africa would have better things to do than bring dead popsters back to life.

Mark: Good question, but he has a point to prove; why not pick the World’s most famous AIDS victim to prove it. Plus Mbeki fucking loves Queen, he was even happy when they played Sun City, even though he couldn't go.

Dave: Natch. So how is any of this Mika’s problem? Surely Mercury will just go back to Queen.

Mark: Nah mate, Mercury found out about We Will Rock You the Musical. Did his fucking bollocks. Kicked Ben Elton’s cock off and gave Bryan May nits to get his own back, Elton’s balls went sour and everything.

He won’t be going back to Queen; he’s sticking as a solo artist. And that’s this Mika Kid’s problem; with Mercury back and solo there’s just no need for Mika to exist, let alone rewrite Fat Bottom Girls another time. The U.N has officially declared him a useless cunt and they want him culled.

Dave: Shit. So you think we can get an interview with him? Would be a bit of a coup that one.

Mark: Can’t get in touch with him. They reckon he’s hiding out in North Wales with some Hindus he’s managed to trick into thinking that he’s a cow with TB.

Dave: The thick cunts. Why don’t we just interview Mercury then instead?

Mark: I asked. Even though Mercury’s totally all well happy about being alive again and all that, he still thinks you’re a massive wanker. Bit rich of him really, to my knowledge you’ve never indirectly supported apartheid.

Dave: But I have sported a really shit ‘tache though.

Friday, 12 September 2008

A Little Bit of Politics, Italian Style

"in 20 years Ratzinger will be dead and will end up in hell, tormented by queer demons - not passive ones, but very active ones."

- Italian comic Sabina Guzzanti

Covered with far more wit, intelligence and accuracy than I can muster right now (I'm five beers in the hole) by proper journalists

And here:

If prosecuted, she could get five years.

As anyone that knows me will tell you I'm always the optimistic, sunny side of the street kind of guy that will constantly look for the silver lining, so I can't help thinking that if we'd have had laws like this back in the eighties this hateful fraud

He looks a bit like my uncle Barry in this picture - sorry Barry.

might not have written all those shit books for cunts. Or made We Will Rock You.

I Can See You

Alright, own up. Who searched Scattergum for the word boobs?

I'm a little perplexed. There's foul language here, but there's no porn to be found. Maybe I should add some. Would this place become more popular if I did? Suggestions?

Thursday, 11 September 2008

For Anonymous.

Some cheeky cunt from Amazon marketplace has just asked me not to print out their confirmation email "UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY" because I should think of my carbon footprint.
Patronising cocksockets. Do they think I'm some doddering elderly fuckwit that needs a paper copy of everything?
I'll bet they also reckon I keep my life savings under the bed so the "gas man" can rob the lot; think bananas are exotic because we didn't have them during the blitz and I spend my days nursing a single pint of light and bitter in the pub while I wait for the piss I accidentally did all over myself on the way there to dry into a shameful stain on my trouser front; a sorry indictment of my urine soaked obsolescence.
Only to piss all over myself accidentally on the way home again.

I'm going to email them back with that actually and tell them they can print it out as many times as they fucking like.

This three quid wine I bought from the corner shop is rank, what a fucking surprise.

Oh yeah, and happy 9th November to any cunts reading this from 'merca.

Thursday, 14 August 2008

I swear Nick, It Wasn't Me That Laughed At Your Bald spot.

35 quid to see Nick Cave in November, if I'm reliably informed.

35 quid?! Doesn't he know all the credit has been crunched and no fucker has any money?*
He's only going to spend it all on more (admittedly sharp) pinstripe suits and Just For Men hair and mustache dye (colour: Midnight Goth Black) anyways.

Nick Cave once kicked the shit out of a journalist for pointing out his bald spot.
Not when it comes to journalists.

*Except me. I have plenty of money, I'm just not going because I've already seen him live this year (pretty fucking great since you didn't bother to ask, cunt). I'm thinking about the rest of you plebs and dole scum for once.

Wednesday, 6 August 2008

Sex and the City Movie Sequel: Exclusive Leaked Script Extract



Folks will tell you that lying is wrong and no good will come of it, but I once told a drunk guy that wanted to punch my face off that I was an off duty cop and he left me alone.

This proves almost scientifically that lying can be an amazing force for good because:

A. I didn't get my face punched off, it's right where it should be; on the front of my head, so I'm still totally handsome and attractive to all the ladies.

B. It highlighted that fact that some members of the angry, violent drunk community still have some respect for members of the law enforcement community.

What's the best lie you've ever told?

The most amusing one wins a prize of my choosing. It will be awesome!

Tuesday, 29 July 2008

What I will be doing for the foreseeable future.

So feel free to expect even fewer updates here if you want, I don't really give a fuck.

Damn, that's a nice rug I've got.

Saturday, 28 June 2008


Unfortunately, E.S Armstrong, the owner/operator of this particular ScatterGum franchise has been far too busy obsessively trolling the Get Huntley Off Facebook group to make any new posts, wash, eat, talk or write about himself in the third person, go outside or buy any great new stuff. In lieu of any actual new updates you will have to console yourself with this unfinished thing he found under some damp towels in his kitchen when he was searching for leftover Subway scraps.

Have fun!

"I was a socially awkward child. This caused me to grow into a bitter and slightly misanthropic adult gifted with a massive mean streak. Subsequently I’ve not had many serious relationships. It’s probably for the best though, about three years ago I gave my heart to a wonderful and beautiful woman from New York, I loved her to pieces and she loved me, three years ago I was certain I would spend the rest of my life with her, three years ago we were talking about living together, marriage, children and what we’d call our pet monkey..
Three years later I’m living the rest of my life alone, in my flat, with only my XBox 360 for company, I’ve not even bothered to name it. Three years later I find out that many psychologists and therapists in New York are convinced that going out with me should be considered a recognised form of emotional abuse. Like I say; it’s probably for the best that I haven’t had many serious relationships. I’m not a very nice person.

This isn’t some mawkish attempt to garner sympathy and I’m not turning into some self regarding weakling like that soggy mitten guy off of Scrubs and that terrible “the Shins will change your life” Garden State movie.

I’m telling you this because I don’t care about any of that junk in the opening paragraph. Because I’ve kissed television lovely Anna Friel.

And I’m going to tell you how I tricked her into it.

Like most of the world’s best stories this one begins with a pleasant Summer Sunday evening drink with my best pal and chum David. Because we are a couple of cultured bastards we were discussing our respective times spent in various entomological societies and women off the telly that we’d like to go all squelchy and spunk up on. Like I say, we’re a couple of cultured bastards. Cultured. We were sitting outside near some bushes and our in-depth and insightful and ultimately cultured discourse over whether it was Gavin Henson’s spunk what had made Charlotte Church so fat and whether My Name Is Earl’s ex wife was worth chucking one right up was interrupted when David noticed that there were many nasty looking bugs crawling all over the bushes, all over the pub table, all over our pint glasses and all over us. David had one of them right next to a suspicious looking stain on his face that was right next to his mouth. The nasty looking bug was chipping flakes of the suspicious looking stain off of David’s face with its mandibles, and letting them waft away to the wind like crusty confetti. It was a beautiful scene man, these were some ugly, yet helpful little beasties."

Friday, 18 April 2008

Training, Day Five.

Amusing story involving late night running and a rape alarm to follow.

Fags smoked: 1.5
Booze comsumed: One glass of red wine.
Women inadvertantly terrified: 1
People you've called a cunt since quitting smoking: 5
Where does it hurt: My shins.
Are you scared: Not as much as I was.

It's getting easier. Might have to make things more difficult next week.

Wednesday, 16 April 2008

Training, Day Three.

Miles ran? About 3
The Time it Took You? Too fucking long.
Cigarettes Smoked Since Starting Training? 1.5
Alcohol Consumed Since Starting Training? Fuck all.
Where Does it Hurt? Mostly everywhere. Except my balls.
Did They Send You Nurses? No, because they are cunts.
Are you Afraid? Yes.

Monday, 14 April 2008

Training, Day One

Send nurses...
Send many nurses with soft hands.
For the love of god, one of you send me some nurses...

*Edit/Update* Don't send any nurses, I'll kill them for their cigarettes/ the contents of their hip flasks.

*Further update* Send nurses. with soft hands...

Thursday, 10 April 2008

You Are a Runner and I Am My Father's Son.

For as long as I can remember it's been an amibition of mine to die childless attempting to do something really pointless. Mostly because I want to deprive future generations of my awesome DNA. I'm a bit spiteful, you see.

Anyways, because it will probably kill me and because I'm a fucking idiot, I signed up for the ballot to enter the 2009 London Marathon today.

This could be an interesting experiment, currently I can't get out of a chair without going into a coughing fit that sounds like someone has stabbed a dog with enphysemia in the lungs while giving it a good shake, by next year I have to be able to run for four plus hours.

I'm spending the rest of today saying goodbye to my two true loves; fags and booze. Tomorrow I start training.

It's going to be painful.

I'll mostly be turning this thing over to being my boring-ass training blog for the next year. I'm sure it'll be so exciting for you to read.

Tuesday, 26 February 2008

Further Evidence...

..that the man on the street is a cunt:

It's also cast-iron evidence that makes an open and shut case for hanging 99% of all people that would bother to vote in a phone-in poll on capital punishment. They should be hanged.

In a place of lawful execution.

By the neck.

To death.

The cunts.

Ohhh, the hypocrisy!

The hypocrisy!

Fortunately Scattergum's Legal Representation is Second to None.

On viewing Sitemeter (that little tab at the bottom of this page, it lets me see who and for how long has been looking at Scattergum - you can look too!) I found that the Unified Court System, State of New York has taken a passing interest in Scattergum's activities:

I expect to be "renditioned" any day now. Don't worry though, I've put in those tough hours building an immunity to being tied down while some meat-necked shit pustule pours water over my face and tries to get me to admit to a whole bunch of shit that wouldn't stand up in any civilised court, I look great in orange and get on excellently with most members of the Muslim community.

Most importantly, if the worst comes to the worst and I'm not sent to be tormented by conventional means. If they send me to suffer the most tortuous fury a 500 billion bucks a year budget can possibly rain down on one man. If the most awful thing imaginable happens to me. If my fate is to be one truly worse than death. Don't lament my plight too greatly.

Because being forced to listen to dullard New York media fuckwits pontificating endlessly (especially about an overlong electoral process) like their opinion matters for shit, has little to no effect on me. I've been through that on many occasions. I used to call that a holiday and paid plenty of pounds (pounds being way better than dollars) for the privilege.

So bring it the Unified Court System, State of New york, bring it. There's fuck all you can do to me that I haven't already done to myself in your fine state.

Actually, we all know what 'mercans are like, the three things they love to do best are suin' folks, shootin' folks and giving folks infected blankets so they can steal their land. All that's likely to come of this (if anything) is that I'll get sued then shot.

I don't own any land.

Friday, 4 January 2008

Master of Cinematic Suspense or Watcher of Teenage Onanists?

In the late Eighties my Dad got sent to some kind of painter and decorators' college.

They taught him how to make all kinds of smeared paint upon smeared paint effects that look really crap, because it was the late Eighties and smeared paint upon smeared paint effects that look really crap were totally in fashion with folks with money.

They liked it in their bathrooms because it helped them relax while they took a power-shower or power-bath or power-shit or something.

My Dad loved to come home and try out his newly learned skills. He still does. You haven't lived until you've wondered if it really is 2008 whilst marvelling at the audacious tackiness of a home made coffee table festooned in a brown, green and white rag-rolled paint job.

They also taught him how to Artex a ceiling. Because folks with (and without) money like that too.

The bastards.

This ruined my early teen solo sweaty hand fun for at least a year.

When religious types take random stimulus and interpret it into significant images they might, and have seen Jesus in the knots on a door or the Virgin Mary on a toasted sandwich or the word Muhammad (I'd wager the word rather than an image of his no doubt lovely beardy face for many of the reasons those clumsy Danish cartoons caused all that trouble the other year - but what do I know?) in a tomato. It's probably no wonder they see representations of their favourite significant dead people, or even that they think that their god has time to go around signing his name in their food just in case they want a tasty, yet perishable autograph.

We all do it all the time. That pesky theory of evolution is probably why it's hard wired into our awesome human brains. Maybe as some kind of defence mechanism.

But don't try telling that to some of those religious types.

Pareidolia is what they call it, but I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that a significant dead person was watching me wait for my older brother (we shared a bedroom) to go out for long enough for me to have my sticky fingered imaginary way with girls I went to school with.

I never saw Jesus, I saw something much more sinister than him up there in the random Artex squiggles on the ceiling above my bed, I saw this:

Clamp your eyes shut as hard as you like (and doing what I was doing when I first noticed the Droopy look-a-like master of suspense up there on my bedroom ceiling, you probably will at some point ) but the sneaking suspicion that the dead might be peeping in at you at your most exposed, no matter how irrational, can really put the dampener on even the most "festive" of moods.

Don't believe me?

Try this then; next time you are getting it on with yourself imagine some dead movie director, or dead movie star, or dead dictator. Or better yet Jesus, or even better yet, Jesus if he looked just like your grandmother, yeah that's good, Jesus if he looked just like your grandmother, crucifix pose, palms exposed, stigmata weeping pus and blood while a single shameful tear rolls slowly, so slowly, like salty syrup, down the sagging cheek of the deity/post menopausal old bastard.

Imagine that looking at you next time you are wanking.

Or fucking.

Have a really good think about that watching you.

Go on, really, really do your best to visualise her/him, all ashamed that the baby she/he/it made loving cooing noises at is all swollen and stretched out into an adult that is moving its hand like that while touching that. That the infant that she/He/your fucking nan held in her arms and doted on has grown into something that has that part of that person in their mouth/arse.

Imagine it.

Make your best mental picture.

Still in the mood?

Are you?

Are you?

Well are you?

You sick little fucker.


So what have we all learned from all this?

I'm not sure really.

Maybe that the human brain is amazing in its capacity for interpretation and imagination. That we will all spot patterns in our lives that aren't there?

That we too readily make our own or buy into group superstitions? That we would all be a lot happier if we just rationally thought about the reasons we find patterns in the most random of things?

That your "aura" isn't all out of wob and the wrong colour?

That your Chi wasn't misaligned, you were sick and getting stabbed with some pins wasn't the thing that fixed it, you just convinced yourself it was?

That you aren't all full of bad Thetans, you're maybe just as messed up as everyone else is and those cunts aren't interested or capable of really helping you, they're just after your money?

That Alfred Hitchcock's ghost has no more seen my penis than you are being silently judged by some invisible fucknut that will see you tortured horribly for all eternity the most minor transgression?

That there is no pattern or design to it all and that's why it can be so frightening but also so much amazing fun to be alive and in possession of one of those awesome human brains?

I'm sure my writing isn't anywhere near being good enough to convey sentiments and ideas like that with any subtlety though.

Maybe all we've really learned from this ultimately shameful little piece is that crappy looking smeared paint upon smeared paint effects on walls and furniture have been unjustly overlooked in the recent comeback of eighties fashions. My old Dad could coin it in for sure.

Oh, and that I should avoid ever taking a Rorshach test, and you should probably never ask me if I want to borrow your Hitchcock boxset.

Or look after your elderly relatives.

Especially when I'm feeling "festive".