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.*

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.

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.*