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...

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.*

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.

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.