You Don't Want To Know

Okay, apparently you do.

Sometimes Ewan can push a joke too far.  This is why I am currently sat in a damp field in North Wales surrounded by naked farmers while they currently act out the highlights from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.  Ewan being the upstanding coward that he is bolted into a hedge grove about ten hours ago and by now I'm hoping that he is dead.  It is his fault I am here and it is also his fault I'm getting a mating display by a burly farm hand called Gavin.  Apparently a kick in the balls is foreplay to this twat.  I have never in my entire life been more uncomfortable and angry than I have been now.

It started a month ago.  I was rocking a few samples on this old Casio FX14-0 when Ewan arrives to tell me his Aunt had died and he had inherited a time share in a caravan that under looked Snowdonia National Park.  I didn't really want to go as my foot massager had just arrived and needed testing but Ewan bashed out the boggle eyes and the matter was settled.

So it takes us four weeks to track down the camp site by which time I'm busting for a piss.  As soon as we halt I'm off to the nearest hedge to let loose.  Little did I know that the neighbouring Farmer was going all 'Carry On Camping' with his misses on the other side and a splash of the golden love syrup wasn't making me any friends.

That's when it all kicked off.  While I was running for my life from a disgruntled Farmer, Ewan has already been to the caravan to discover that it was inhabited by a heap of Strangers.  A quick education in the notion of sharing time and Ewan was back in the car.  Luckily I managed to Duke's of Hazard that shit through the window and we were gone, leaving our troubles behind us.  Or so I thought.

It seems farmers are a persistent lot and what with all this interwebbing their communications network is a force to be reckoned with.  What I hadn't reckoned with is their love for all things theatrical and that Ewan's van wasn't good for the 7.5million miles we were promised.  So we break down.  And then the farmers come.  And then Ewan runs away.  And then the Farmers get weird, very very weird.  Then I die a little inside.

They promised me that they'd leave once the third act is done properly but I don't believe them.  I've already been here half a day and I am already of the mindset that you should never wrong a Farmer especially one named Cuthbert Sinister.  The rain has come and gone again several times but yet these guys insist on doing muddy cartwheels as a punishment for my disagreeable acts. I'm of the confused mindset and am hoping that someone will write me out of this.

My one hope is that Ewan comes to the rescue before I die with the image of Gavin's twig and plums being my only distraction on the journey to hell or heaven or wherever the fuck I'm going to end up.  I just want out.

I've learnt three things on this adventure.  One, naked farmer's are just as hideous as other naked people, two, holding in a piss for several weeks can cause extensive bladder damage and finally, it really is possible to put a fresh expression onto a classic work of art.

I thought I'd just jot down my final words before the battery on my handheld magic talkie thingy runs out.  I...

The Olympic Ticket Debacle a.k.a. Dodgy Ronald's Horlicks Emporium

Ewan and I were pretty annoyed when our promised front row seats to the High Jump failed to materialise, so we had to take matters into our own hands if we had any hope of seeing the event.

It wasn't until Mike The Shite rocked up at the shop looking to buy some ham that things got moving.  He said he knew this dude who could get us some tickets but he was a bit iffy and shouldn't be approached without a gift.  So we jot down the address and head out.

It was late afternoon before we got to the allotted place, even after our swift progress through the gumdrop forest and the haunted ruins.  It took us a while to locate the entrance, what with it being a black door down the side of an alleyway, but the sun was out and all its menacing attributes were lost under a radiant summer's afternoon.  As directed we had arrived with a box of Matchmakers, orange not mint, and knocked on the door.

We were a bit nervous because of all the stories but Mike assured us that Dodgy Ronald was all talk and most of the tales we've heard were made up.  Although he said the chocolate reindeer fiasco was all fact.  So this put us a little on edge.  I mean there are crazy bastards everywhere so you just have to keep your wits about you, which is why I bought Ewan that bum bag.

So the door creaks open on its haggard old hinges and this dude Ronald is just standing there naked except for a pink garter belt and a 'Vote For Pedro' T-shirt.  Ewan was already gone so it was up to me to brave this guy's den and secure us our front row seats.  He looks me up and down and seeing the Matchmakers he gestures and I hand them over.  He slowly opens the packet and carefully chomps his way through the lot before crushing the packaging into a little ball with his little fingers.

There is a lot of silence before he invites me in and cracks open the Horlicks.  After the brew is made up we get to talking.  Seems that Ronald has some inside knowledge of Sebastian Coe's operations and that for a small fee he can sort us out with a few tickets, "If I get what he's saying."  I don't have a clue so he comes clean and says he stole a box of tickets from this big pile at the Olympic Stadium while he was there delivering a box of high end cat food.

Our next hurdle is the haggling.  Ronald wants two fifty each and I'm not happy with that at all.  I say two thirty-five and he comes back with two forty-five.  We aren't getting anywhere so after another Horlicks break we get things underway and a few hours later we agree on two sixty.  I had no choice but to go higher because I had drunk my way through a whole jar and that shits expensive.

I hand over the change and after a few victories on Mario Kart 64 I head off.  I'm walking back down the high street's low end to find Ewan still cowering behind the hardware store's emphatic mascot Mr. Spanners.  I show him the tickets and after he is done wiping himself the excitement subsides and we head back to the shop to chill out until the events kick off.

Stumbling Upon The Truth

Things have been slow this week.  They updated the 'Wanted' posters outside the pub and the Local Vandal, Timmy spray painted a giant cock on the croquet lawn.  Aside from these trivialities time drifts along surreptitiously, making a mockery of the uninventive.  The rain has forced me indoors and after a stressful encounter with a Robin I have been in no mood for contact.

It was thus I spent the morning stumbling upon many an unnoticed gem on the Interweb.  I was getting my fill of laughter until I stumbled upon something I found shockingly distasteful.  My suspicions of foul play have been silently growing but suddenly before me lay the proof that my ancestral seat had indeed been unduly whipped from beneath my feet.

I read the confession with much interest.  At first taking it to be a fake my reading pace was unhurried.  It wasn't until the facts of my Mother's death sprang out of the page that I knew I was reading the confession of the man that had stolen my fortune and cured me of my parental love.  Archibald Gubbins, Stableboy and genius.  This dastardly fiend and scoundrel has faced me many times from the witness box but alas his deployment of my inherited wealth have given him the upper hand in legal matters.  I have resigned away justice to the banks of memory and keep it locked away.  Now they burst forth in a tide of rage and hate.

With this written and signed confession Archibald has made one fatal mistake and played right into my hands.  A swift sojourn to the library allowed Miss Bubble the opportunity for a good faff while she made the digital physical.  Not three days later and the problem was solved and I had my evidence.

Thus crossing the street to my childhood home I was greeted by Patters the Butler.  The man had nursed me through many a grazed knee and it is to him I owe my victory at the 1972 World Polo Championship.  Currently acting as my dealer he was pleased to admit me into the entrance hall of the splendid Gothic mansion I once called home.

Grinning from the balcony in my grandfather's robe stood Archibald.  The devil, how dare he don the attire of a lord when his existence lay in the stink of the cattle shed.  From across the auditorium we yelled and upon seeing the confession in print he was aghast with violence.

Springing form the balcony he deployed all of his Zorro skills and swiftly snatched the document from my grasp.  The ghastly scene was already playing itself out.  The confession maybe legal and allow me justice but my thirst for blood was insatiable and I wanted my REVENGE!

That fateful night flashed before my eyes.  I was strolling through the garden sharing the air with Agatha when the upstairs terrace was opened to admit my Mother.  We waved, we called and the gestures were reciprocated then out of the illuminated interior a second shadow presented itself.  I knew it to be of Archibald because no one sports such a hump but I was unable to witness a face.  Before confusion could present itself my Mother was falling and hit the fountain with deathly force.  My cries rang out into the night and all that was left was anger.

Now he stood facing me.  The destroyer of my bloodline and thief of my grief.  He was to pay.  I grabbed the nearest weapon to hand that usefully turned out to be motorised rapier and against his quill and ink the battle was already won.  His reluctance to fight was something I had not bargained on.  He fought with a melancholy attitude, as if his life had already reached its end.  My anger could not be contained and amid protests from Patters' I injected my hate into Archibald Gubbins' heart.

He slumped to the floor, blood spilling from his mouth along with his nonsensical chatter.  Finally he drew his last breath and in one incredibly impressive sentence brought about my emotional downfall.  "For you see, I am your brother.  I wished not for this bloodshed.  I was rash, young and hot of head.  My Mother was a simple village groveler and my Father abused his position to abuse her.  I was shunned by the world I was bound to and in my anger I killed your Mother.  It was I who sent you that confession and wish now I had chosen a more suitable initiation for our battle.  I have been waiting here many a year, dying of cancer.  Being kept alive by the thought of repairing a family I have destroyed.  Now I can die free."  It was then that he died free as I would not be tapped for burial costs.

So the rain continues, Timmy spray paints his phallic symbols across my many acres and I dwell in misery here in my study.  Watching the hate flow through this building like the love that once did.  There is no punchline to this story, only a gripping sadness.  That was until Ewan showed up and we had a cracking game of Mouse Trap.

He's Just Rolled A Six, Bastard

That bastard butcher has just rolled a six.  I can see it in his eyes; he thinks he can defeat me.  Well this game isn't over yet.  We both have a lot riding on these roles and I'm sure as fuck not losing.  Not again.  I can't suffer another loss.  One more failure could be the end of me.  There is nothing left for me in this world now except glorious victory or an approaching union with darkness.  My life hangs in the balance and that wonky eyed opponent of mine is on a winning streak.

I should have been more careful.  I should have listened to those around me but I'm addicted.  I fell for it before I had chance to muster resistance and I'm glad.  Even the strong willed are puppets to be overpowered by a desire for exhilaration.  That hit of adrenaline as the cube sputters across the surface is like nothing I've ever felt.  The risk involved is unprecedented in our circles but I'm hooked on danger and that fear of a fatal ending just draws me deeper into this seedy soul killing game.

That is just what it is, a game.  But at this time and in this place we have taken it to another plane.  Created life from the inanimate that will mean sorrow for myself or that freak of nature who interrupts my eye line.  This gentlemen's game we play, oblivious to the aging effects of time and its counterparts that will make legend reality.

I role.  Safe.  I pray, gesticulate all manner of praise and thanks to a god who only seconds before was ready to condemn me.  He takes his turn.  Nonchalantly roles away his fate.  Things are slow now.  The echoes of wood on wood become our reality.  I stare at each bounce, intently wondering where my opponent's fate will fall while he casually diverts his gaze upon the floor and window unable to witness the result existence has bestowed upon him.  There is no more rolling.  Silence.

YES!  Ewan's off to snake town.  Whoooooooo.  What's that?  You've just lost sixty-three spaces.  Boo Hoo!  That twenty pence is almost mine.

Ewan tells me it's just a game, but I can see the disillusionment in his eyes as he slowly winds his counter down that path of retribution and failure. The sadness is quickly enveloping his being, crushing what little spark of life there once was. I sigh and take in the scene.  What are we but insignificant pawns in hell's creation?  Wondering fools taken in by our own desire for feeling.

It is my turn now.  What if I get a one?  The embarrassment, the laughing, mocking of a lost hope.  Even a three could do me in.  I'm so close but still have so many trials ahead of me.  I release the die but the outcome is lost to memory and will forever be a footnote in this thing we call time.






Whose off to snake land now bitch?  How many lost spaces is that? One, two, three, four, five, six...

Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Hello Fans, I cannot bare to see hurt on your pretty little faces so I am going to be honest with you.  I am currently having a shit.  That's right.  Blogging on the toilet, it is the way forward.  With it being Jeremy Beadle Month I've been too busy to relate to you my humble goings on.  I have therefore taken it upon myself to use this current time to dump my thoughts onto your ever-impressionable mind meanderings.

For this week's entertaining tale I will be recounting to you the story of Ewan's unfortunate accident.  This week poor Ewan was squashed under a tree.  The outcome being that his shop was closed and all the bacon went stale.  He is...

Hang on.

Shit! Someone's just broken into the flat.  Can you email the police on this thing?  How does it work?  Login?  There isn't time.

SOMEONE HELP! I'M BEING BURGLED!

I'm too much of a nervous shitter to yell for help.  I've only just plucked up the courage to get in here today.  If he finds me here things could get ugly.  I'm very uneasy about this whole event.  What do you do?  Better make the best of this situation and get on with things.  Fingers crossed his tastes lie in stamp money and Rice Krispies Squares instead of vintage cassette tapes.

So anyway, Ewan was strolling past the Church when this big old birch tree uprooted itself and fell on top of him.  Typical Ewan.  The Church in question was in the process of being fumigated due to its parishioner infestation so he was without aid.  Three days Ewan lay dying under that tree.  We all thought he had taken a surprise holiday, as is his want.  He had been discussing Hull for a few days so we naturally thought he had tripped off up the A1.

Luckily Mike was hunting for road kill at the time and saw something was amiss.  They dragged Ewan off to hospital and he has been there ever since.  Shame, he missed the Jeremy Beadle Lookalike Contest.  The entrants showed pure dedication, mangled hands, magic, the lot.  It's good to keep the memory alive.  In a tear filled ceremony we ended up giving everyone joint first.  Except for Miss Bubble who had to be disqualified for tampering with the opposition's wigs.  It is such a disgrace when...

I can hear a clanking, a rattle of hands against metal.  HOLY SUGARSCROTES!  He's got my Casio MT-600.  I have to get out of here.

Phew, he's put it down, and, is, making himself some tea.  Bastard, he didn't even offer to make me one! That is the last straw.

Sorry fans, I must put a stop to this, no one steals a Mix Master's Keyboard and gets away with it.  Let's pray this doesn't go all Pulp Fiction as we have got Beadlefest Planned for next Saturday.  Bye.

FLUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!!!

My Time At Radio Two

You may think that after relating my last tale a career at the BBC would be impossibly achieved.  And you would be right.  So under the pseudonym Paul McLennon I applied for a job as a Mix Master Understudy.  Naturally my skills as a Mix Master Master got me thrown through the audition and into the broadcasting booth.  My only problem lay in the fact that I was playing part in my host's egotistical plans to twist the world to his will with his loving voice.

I was thus angered by my creative stifling at the hands of this Irish wizard and was regularly seen venting my anger atop Western House.  There is nothing like cloud abuse to lift the spirits and dampen the window boxes.  My controller's spell binding voice had control over the entire nation.  His charming magic nearly defeated me but I was saved by my singular desire to break this conjurer's tricks with my Mix Mastering.

It took many years to weaken his defenses but I was soon given my chance.  After lacing the coffee pot with crack cocaine I was able to delay my nemesis' return to the microphone.  While he was shivving a secretary and protecting his lucky charms I seized upon the opportunity to demonstrate my talents across the airwaves.

ALAS, TRAGEDY!  I had lent my tapes to Ewan for use at his Son's First Scalping.  It was at this point in history I called out to the Mixing Gods.  I prayed them to bequeath me with the powers necessary to slay this demon.  There was a flash of sound, and a magical disco ball descend from what had once been air.  It's reflective power bestowed upon me a sensation.  I had not felt such power and almost believed myself to be dreaming.  Suddenly without any thought to my own safety a strange beat emerged from my lips.  It continued and layer upon layer soon became a musical masterpiece.  I have since dubbed it the Beatfox.  A form of musicianship so confusingly cunning that it permanently broke the spell of my captor and freed his millions of enslaved listeners.

I was thus responsible for the lowest ever ratings experienced by this corporation.  Thank you.  My interruption killed the airwaves and saved the world.  I had dispelled the bewitching chants of this delightful fiend.   My dreams of a richer musical nation had alas, been temporary thwarted.  Had I not intervened this warlock may have taken over the minds and indeed hearts of our fair people.  His power was dispelled and though unnamed my deeds made the national press and Paul McLennon's picture graces the reception desk at Broadcasting House.  To this day I am confused as to the words hidden message but it ran as such,  "Wogan forced into early retirement after cocaine binge leaves three dead and a nation weeping."  I am proud and grateful to the Mixing Gods for having such faith in a young disciple.

I take no credit for these acts of heroism.  A new music form has entered the mortal realm and a nation is free to weep for its freedom.  Despite remaining anonymous I have been getting increasing volumes of fan mail from an organisation calling themselves TOG's so I better crack on and find out what I can do to enrich their lives.  They probably wish me to perform a Beatfoxing fundraiser in celebration and I am happy to oblige.

My Time At Radio One

I've had a pretty mellow week.  Went to the shops, spent three grand on a Jeremy Beadle Mural for the exterior of the basement and found that pen I was looking for.  So instead of telling you all about how the painter got his head stuck in a paint tin I thought I would reminisce about my time at Radio One.

It was a long time ago.  Ewan was still working in hoofs and Lucifer hadn't yet crushed his legs in that Himalayan cave.  I was a plucky young Mix Master with nothing but a sweet record collection and optimism in hand.  I remember walking those golden tinted halls, smelling the incense and pretension, and thinking I had just found my home.  I finally found my office, seven floors down from the basement, which took some time to find, as there wasn't a B5 or B6.  Once home I set up shop and got straight onto the airwaves.

It was three weeks later when Derek Chinnery's assistant burst in and ruined my morning broadcast.  Apparently I was literally in the shit.  I hadn't fixed the third floor lavatories, the carpets were getting soggy and John Peel was losing his buzz.  It turns out the smell of rotting shit can really upset a higher state of consciousness.  I was ushered into Aubrey Singer's office and immediately sacked.  This came as a complete shock and my reaction didn't go down well.  I don't know if lack of sleep from a constant three week Mix-up triggered my act or if it was just anger.  I sort of lost it in the way that I totally lost it.  The details of my outburst were far to sickening to relate to such a fragile audience but Aubrey will never look at a middle finger in the same way and to this day he has never been seen singing Ave Maria.

Although brief I consider my time at Radio One to have been a very fruitful and creative endeavour.  I still get fan mail even now.  What worries me is that it is always postmarked with Iranian stamps.  To this day I don't know if they were just avid listeners of my breakfast show or if the signal I was using to pump out the magic was a secret MI5 spy frequency.  All I know is that I rocked their lives and that is what it is all about.

It was a memorable time for me and I was sad to leave.  Still, things turned out for the best.  Upon leaving the building I stumbled upon an idea so revolutionary I have only just entangled its complexity.  The idea was for a, wait I've lost it.  My fortune is tied up in there somewhere and once I decode my own complex thought patterns the world will be a better place.

I hope you have enjoyed this brief trip down memory lane as much as I have.  I must head off as I am scheduled to play a church disco down in Cockford Falls.  It will give me a chance to try out the new Moomins Dub Jam.  Something I've been mulling over on the fringes of my imagination for many a minute.  So I bid you a fond, HOLY SHIT THAT'S IT!  Bicycle pedal straps.  It's so simple.  Let the revolution begin.

What?  Ewan tells me it's been done and that they have met with only mild enthusiasm.  Sigh. You can't win them all.  Maybe if I stick a radio into them, that is a sure fire way to reinvent any form of cycling equipment.  Indeed it can be a much-wanted addition to anything.  How about Radio Radio's?  WOOOOOOOOW!!!  This is going to take some planning.

EWAN I NEED THIRTY GRAND FOR SOME RADIO PROTOTYPES, I'LL PAY YOU BACK WITH FAME AND ADMIRATION.

Ewan says it's fine.  Eat that Radio One.  I've just doubled your whole ethos.  Radio Radio.  It's the next big thing.  If I had an evil megalomaniac laugh this would be the perfect opportunity to put it into practice.  Better make a note of that, but when is another moment like this going to present itself?  I'll have to wing it.  WHWHWHAAAHYFJFHFOLFNFEYEHWYWHW!!!

Easter Egg Hunt Result

I don't want to talk about it.

The Upper Lower Tollwoodford Easter Egg Hunt 2011

There is still an hour or two before the big Easter Egg Hunt so Ewan and I are rocking some warm up exercises.  It's physically impossible for Ewan to touch his toes but he is giving it a damn good try.  I've been working on my running.  I can now get a whole fifty metres without questioning myself.

The reason we are working so hard is that this year we have vowed not too lose.  If it is the last thing we do we will stop little Tommy Worthing from winning all those damn eggs.  Every year that fat shit alters the arrows on the course, plants fake eggs or fiddles with the clues, but not today.  I've had Mike doing reconnaissance around the course overnight to stop Tommy's annual prehunt search.  I also dragged Miss Bubble in to do security this year so there won't be any fucking around.  She used to work security for Edward VII back in the day and has broken enough bones to fill a really big hall.

You may ask us why we wish to win so badly seeing as Ewan is afraid of chocolate and I have some unresolved issues with the whole crown of thorns business.  Well I shall tell you why.  I hate fat little Tommy Worthing.  Not only is the kid a millionaire because of his Dad's Ugandan coffee shop chain, he was awarded an honourary membership to the Lego Club without buying so much as a brick.  That sort of thing just pisses me off.  I pay my subscription like everyone else and what do I get, an awesome magazine and a birthday card.  Well I don't think that sits right seeing as Worthing gets full use of the Lego company jet and all the bendy two's he can dream of.  Not to mention that botched bakery heist we did together.  He was our driver and shopped us to the fuzz while making off with the all the lemon slices himself.  This is an injustice that must be stopped.  I will not suffer another success by fat little Tommy Worthing.

Here comes Ewan with the match plan and background checks on all the contestants.  There doesn't seem to be anything to worry about.  Wendy Kingsley is out with a grazed knee and the Reverend has disqualified Bruce Fields because he said 'bollocks' really loudly behind Prince Philip.  He also lost his regulation jumper while feeding the flamingos so it looks like it is a straight contest between Worthing and us. 

I would say that we are an absolute shoe in to win today's Egg Hunt.  I can imagine it all now.  The glory, the fame, that feeling of pure bliss knowing that Tommy might be denied those few morsels of Mini Egg heaven.  I can't wait.

We just have to do a few more stretches and everything will be golden.  I don't want a repeat of the '96 hunt.  I overslept because the night before I found out my keyboard had an extra note and without the proper warm up I cramped up during the final dash.  I've never lived it down.  It was worse than the time Ewan forgot how to read or when Lenny Henry turned up to award the prizes and I booed him off stage with a large mounted Travelodge poster.  That was an awful year because they confiscated the egg we found and disqualified us from last year's event.

It is true, the annual Upper Lower Tollwoodford Easter Egg Hunt has seen some grim days.  There was the year they brought out Galaxy Truffle eggs.  They were the size of your fist and were heaven in chocolate form.  Turned out it was just another ruse by the Mars company to get our hopes up because they were never heard of again.  The same thing happened with the white chocolate Vienetta, but I have as yet been unable to prove anything.  It doesn't help that I ate all the evidence.

There was also the time the Florist, Draws Dropper Daisy found Miss Bubble's Foster Son dead upon the starting line. It was all a bit fishy and they said it was a botched Mafia killing.  Still when we told her she had won honourary first place she got over herself and managed to crack a smile.  This didn't sit well with Tommy as he was on the cusp of his tenth consecutive victory.  The look on his face when he presented Bubble with the trophy.  He could have killed butter.  The language that he came out with after the match.  Mr. E. Worthing Snr. (the 'E' stands for Enrique) was so embarrassed he took Tommy home and washed his mouth out with religion.  The town was in mourning for three days over the English language.  I thought it was fantastic until the Pete, that was the Foster Son, kept haunting the local football pitch.  We haven't a proper game in years because he kept scarring away the ball.

Right back to work, those eggs won't find themselves and Ewan's just pulled a calf muscle so we're in for the long haul.  I'll let you know how things turn out.

Some Stuff Went Down

It was Tuesday.  Ewan and I were sat behind the shop having a smoke and enjoying the afternoon sunshine.  I'd spent the last six hours trying to work up a rhythm on this old Pringles Can but they don't make them like they used to and the beat was flat.

All of a sudden Mike the Shite runs up.  He gets his nickname because he works down at the dump selling off road kill and stolen electronics.  I'm like, "Chill out you daft shit, what's up?"  He gets all panicky and confers to us the news that some stupid kid fell down the East Street Well.  I look at Ewan and the fear rushes into his eyes.  You see Ewan fell down the same well a few years back.  He never talks about it, when we dragged him out he was delirious and the only words he could utter were, "Ogre and cheeseboard".  So we aren't exactly sure what happened.  It was still enough to frighten him into the sanatorium for a summer.

These were pretty minor thoughts as I was already on my feet following the crowd down to the edge of town.  Not much happens in Lower Upper Tollwoodford, so a boy stuck in a well is a great excuse for a party.  

Mike is head of the local brass band so his Guys were already strutting up and down East Street with their crowns on playing the William Tell Overture and the theme from Quantum Leap.  The Fire Brigade were in the process of lowering a down a rescue attempt when things went wrong.  All of a sudden we heard these screams.  Not, 'I've burnt my thumb on the oven' screams.  These were worse.  Blood curdling screams of horror came thundering up from the bowels of the earth.  This Fireman comes scrambling up the well with his legs all slashed up stinking of Camembert.  It was like something out of a comedy film.

The Fireman turns to us and is like, "It's real, the Cheeseboard is real."  Ewan tears off down the street yelling and that's when it hit us all that things were serious.  The Mayor showed up and decreed that only a Mix Master would have the beats to take down something of this magnitude.  Turns out I was the only one on call, so I dusted down the record collection and bravely descended into the pit.

I'll be honest, I wasn't terrified, but as the warm sound of the Leap faded out of hearing I got a bit nervous, though this was partly because I had left my record deck back in the shop.  Anyway, I got down and found that this well was more like a cavern.  In fact it was a cavern.  From up above Mike yells down that the Eclipse is coming and that if I'm not out in five minutes then I'll get trapped down here forever.

That didn't sound like a good thing and I didn't want anything to kill my buzz so I set up shop on this massive Ogre skeleton and waited.  I start playing Spice World in its entirety to instill a response from the Cheeseboard or whatever it was I was supposed to be doing in this fucking hole when the Kid shows up.  Apparently he was, "Chasing his football and sort of tripped."  I said, "I'll show you a fucking trip, try some of this."  So I pass him a smoke and then we both see the Evil Cheeseboard smirking at us from the shadows.

That gurgling bastard was one mean sack of stench.  Predominantly a strong Cheddar, you know the kind?  The stuff that is so mature it takes like farm.  Well this was worse.  He tried to drown out 'Wannabe', with his roar but I wasn't having any of it.  I launched into, 'Who Do You Think You Are', and that sealed the matter.  There was this bang and the next thing I know there was cheese dripping from the ceiling and bits of wood forcibly embedded into the stalactites.  It seems the Girls had done their job and I was free to become the local town hero.

I dragged that stupid Child and his football out the well just in time.  I had saved the day but it was close.  The Eclipse came shooting over and we all made a wish. Then the cheers broke out.  Miss Bubble took her top off; much to the distress of the neighbourhood and the Mayor decreed that today would be appropriately known as Geri Halliwell Day after the town's favourite Spice Girl.  There was much celebration and drinking.  Mike rummaged out a medal that was presented to me and I was bestowed with the title, 'Supreme Honourary Lord Defender of the Village'.

Ten minutes later the excitement was over and I was back at work.  I flipped over this old oil drum and started composing a beat for the new track.  It sounded a bit like Quantum Leap but then again it didn't.  Who knows, I gave up and decided the day would be best spent sun bathing and trying to cheat Ewan out of Pokemon Cards.

P.S. Ewan found his damn sheep.  The fucker was hiding behind a wall or something. 

Show Me The Way To Go Home

I'm not tired, I don't want to go to bed, Ewan is just being a tasteless prick. After his behaviour during the last twenty four hours I couldn't take another day on the road with him. Reluctantly I turned the van round and headed back south. I know he's my butcher but he can really take things too far.

It all happened yesterday. We got a puncture outside Wales and while we were sat by the road eating jam sandwiches, Ewan had this idea. He'd noticed this dead badger on the side of the road so with more enthusiasm than was natural he rushed over to pick it up. He knows that I have a pure hatred for road kill. It cost me mother and my father, but that doesn't stop him dragging this carcass across the road like some sort of demented taxidermist. The look in his eyes was scary, he was like a kid at Christmas. He couldn't wait to get his hands on that lump of coal.

So he dunks this dead badger in front of me. The flies and insects start to invade my jam sandwich is never a constructive way to get into my good books. I throw away the sandwich and just stare at this corpse. It can't have been dead long. There was blood oozing out of the eye sockets and the whole thing stank of shit. I'm holding back the retch to end all retches then Ewan takes it too far.

He grabs this badger and hugs it around his shoulders and starts playing Bodger and Badger. He's running up and down the road thrusting his junk at all the cars and telling them how he loves to make mash potato. This Elderly Couple slow down to see if we need any help when Ewan suddenly jumps off the roof of their caravan onto their Volvo estate. The Old Lady starts screaming when she sees all this infected blood dripping onto the windscreen. The Bloke puts on the wipers and this just makes things worse. The whole activity spurs Ewan on and he breaks out into tune. He gets a bit bored midway through his tenth rendition of, "He makes them into shapes and east them everyday", before shrinking off into the undergrowth. The Old Couple use the opportunity to do a bunk and floor it off down the road. I could still here the Old Lady's yells of terror halfway down the County.

It all goes quite and I find Ewan has disappeared. Two hours later he comes hobbling back Quasimodo style with this little grey bundle in his hands. Turns out he's hunted down a mouse and hollowed it out with a twig and wants me to play Mousy. I'm stunned. Even I thought this was tasteless. Luckily the police showed up and dealt with things. They dragged Ewan off to hospital and I got left with the task of fixing the flat tyre. Funnily enough it turned out that the tyre was fine and the escaping gas we could hear was coming from the badger we had hit. The burning rubber we incorrectly identified was in fact scorched shit.

It took me a while to track down Ewan. I followed the trail of disgust and outrage until I found him unconscious in the local psych ward. It turns out he had a fever of 110 degrees and had three tabs of acid swimming around his belly. That still doesn't excuse him, even if it was me who slipped the acid into his Thermos.

The tour had to end.  We couldn't go on after this. There was no music playing on the way home, just a sad silence. That man has ruined one of my favourite television shows, an act I deem to be a cardinal sin. It would be like painting a cock on Postman Pat's forehead. Some things just aren't done, and dry humping a Volkswagon Golf Mk5 while wearing a dead badger over your head is one of them.

Ewan can't talk now because he's still under sedation but I would like to publicly apologise to Andy Cunningham and thank him for the years of enjoyment his creations have given the world. I wouldn't have gotten through my thirties without you.

Much Ado About Something

We we're spending the day at Borough Market down in London Bridge when it kicked off. It always seems that this is the case, but there are a lot of legs in the world ergo much kicking is to follow.

It all started when Ewan accidentally shortchanged this Guy by thirty-three pence. A simple mistake after you've just suffered from a stroke and a bout of NHS. Seriously you should see Ewan, he looks like Droopy after a face transplant, and it's so funny. It's great because we keep getting sympathy tips and free chocolate baskets. Anyway, we recount this Guy out his change but he isn't having any of it, so I popped it all in my back pocket for later. I figured I'd spend it on a doughnut to relax my fat muscles before the gig. This just sends the Guy into a spiral of rage. Not only does he now want the change back but he also starts highlighting the cholesterol distress a jam doughnut could have on my stomach. No one needs that especially before a show.

Now at the time I wasn't sure if this Guy was Shakespeare or just a lookalike but he had the outfit on so it could've gone either way. So when he pulled out his rapier and threatened to gut me I joked that we could use him in the van. Since Ewan came out of hospital his slashing has been about as accurate as a drunk pissing on his dignity. Had I been sure of his identity I would have offered him the utmost respect but it turns out this Guy was nothing more than an Impostor.

As I stared at this fool prancing around the fruit stand and Ewan watched him shuffling around by the pies he mutters the word 'Duel'. I'm in a pickle, I haven't picked up a sword since my Aunt Betty's funeral but a crowd was gathering and the performer in me was asking to be freed. What I did was to procure the Imposter's gloves and then slap him with them, which I took to be the customary declaration of a duel. Turns out a simple 'All right', would have done. Now everyone is watching and it gets all quiet. The Impostor raises his sword and is like, 'The fool accepts, let the setting sun proclaim our battle and wash the stalls with accompanying light.' I'm like, 'Cool, six at the Globe, bingo'. It's so on now.

I shoot off to buy myself that doughnut and flog some of Ewan's stroke medicine when I realise that something is amiss. Then it hits me, a stray shard of ice from the fishing counter but it's enough to jolt a thought from my inner workings. The duel is going to clash with my gig that I have lined up at the annual Shakespeare Lookalike Contest. Blast, another pickle. I felt like a man standing in a world full of soup with nothing but a fork, and all the soup is shit.

While musing on this dilemma I get thinking about the big man, Jeremy Beadle, and wonder what he would do in this situation. That's right, he'd play a prank but lacking a joke shop and the mental capacity for such a task I decided to just wing it with some magic. No slight of hand as that wasn't part of Jeremy's teachings, I figured I'd just go for a general atmospheric exuding and see if things would sort themselves out.

So the sun starts to set, Ewan is passed out on the floor of the van and I head off to the gig. I've got all my cassettes and floppy disks and I'm the mood to rock. It was incredible. The sight of five hundred Shakespeare wannabes dancing to my mash up of Fun House and the title track from 'The Road To Eldorado', is a sight that will always be with me because I had my Polaroid handy.

As I'm finishing up my set with the Beadle Mix the Impostor swings onto the stage brandishing his sabre. He does a few cartwheels and gets all acrobatic and shit before bowing low enough for a hefty boot in the face. That's when I went all Zorro on him and chopped off his confidence. This got him all teary eyed so I ended things by smashing a first edition of Midsummer Nights Dream across his brow. The sun set mesmerizingly on my victory applause that was later confirmed as being heard as far abroad as Peckham.

As I was packing up my gear I was greeted by the Lookalike King who granted me the title of Honorary Bard and said I had done them a great service in defeating the Impostor as he had been stealing all the buttons off peoples shoes. He also set me up with a gig at the Annual Coleen Nolan Lookalike Debacle as his wife chairs the quiche committee for them. Should be an easy gig, instead of playing music I'm just going to set up a table loaded with Gin and take things easy with a good book.

How Ewan Dented His Van And His Soul

I'll start from the beginning because the end scares the pants off me.

We were driving to Port Isaac (Portwenn for the fans) so Ewan could kiss Martin Clunes when it all went down. I was asleep in the back of the butchers van when I was woken up by this massive crash. I stumble past the beef burgers to see Ewan sat behind the wheel all jittery and high. Turns out he was trying to make a finger painting and ended up sniffing all the poster paint. While indulging in this sick act he claimed to have knocked down a six foot tall Hedgehog.

So we get out of the van and traipse around the back. I've got this big meat clever in one hand and a pack of matches in the other just in case the hedgehog is real and Ewan hasn't spilled all his brain cells onto his collage.

We get near the back and this muffled groaning comes from down the road so we peak round the bumper and see this old geezer laying the road. Halo off one side, robe covered in shit. It's clear we've run over a Saint but I'm just glad I don't have to face pummel a giant hedgehog. So things are looking up.

We edge over to this Saint and tried everything to get him breathing again. Ewan's finger painting worked for a few minutes but all this guy's guts were hanging out so there wasn't much we could do. I managed to capture his last words on tape which I won't repeat now. I'll save them until I get back to the studio and cook them in with a good beat and some vintage jazz.

After we buried the Saint in the adjacent field we ran into Bill Oddie and his Springwatch crew. They gave us a bit of lip for not wearing wellingtons after dark but after I sucker punched some humour into Oddie they did a bunk off into the woods. I think their sound guy tripped over Ewan's makeshift headstone so he was a bit sad about that. Still, we gave the guy a good send off. Ewan left him the finger painting and the good thing is that because he was a Saint we were automatically forgiven so it all worked out. These things do.

The only problem was that when we got back to the truck we found a massive dent in the front grill. Now, it;s hard to talk about what happened next and I'm still not over it. All of a sudden I feel this gun like object in my back and turn around to see this six foot tall Hedgehog pointing an M16 at my forehead. He demanded we give him my cape because he liked the stitching and any badger meat we had in the van.

I've never been so scarred in my entire life. I tired the matches on him but my hyperventilating kept blowing them out. Then out of nowhere, halo askew, comes the Saint. He proceeds to beat the shit out of the Hedgehog. I mean he went to town on that guy. There was blood and spikes everywhere. Turns out the Hedgehog stole the door off his greenhouse and he wasn't having any of it. He'd been tracking the bitch for six months and finally had him cornered when Ewan twatted them both in the back.

In my eighty years I've never seen anything like this, and I hope I never do again. The look that Saint gave us the before he padded off into the woods was nothing short of sinister. He hiked off saying he had to go sort out Bill Oddie for pinching all the rivets in his submarine.

After he had gone I just passed out and when I came to it was morning. It was as if the nights occurrences had never happened. Pretty spooky, but when I turned on my tape recorder the words, 'Twats, twats, twats', were still clearly audible.

Midget Boy and his Taps

It's late; we'd been gigging it hard all morning so Ewan and I were taking a break. We just wanted some time to ourselves, away from the crowds. So we were sat on this wall on the High Street in Lancaster, eating French fries out of British cardboard when this Midget struts over.

I've seen midgets before but none like this. The guy was wearing a Keira Knightley t-shirt and twirling this umbrella around. He's trying to make eye contact with Ewan which is tricky at the best of times, and indeed the worst, and when their eye balls lock he waddles over and starts trying to be clever.

After his stand up routine failed to get going, he gets all violent and starts claiming that Jesus was a dinosaur and that is why they went extinct. I'm tired and grouchy, Ewan's crying and we both just want to chill and eat our dinner, but this guy won't quit. He then moves onto his views about whales and begins prodding me with his stupid umbrella. So I lose it. I know this has been happening a lot but it goes with the territory. No one has a stress free tour without a bit of bloodshed and awkward questioning.

So, I've lost it. I mean really lost it. I'm livid. So what happens? That's right, slavery. It was the only way the situation would resolve itself. I grab my pocket net out of my boot and throw it over the little bugger. He starts yelling and blaspheming but because he was small he went down quickly. I gave him a rusk and after a few bites he slumped back unconscious.

So the next day, we set him a few tasks. Nothing too strenuous, we aren't cruel. I ask him to get me some new batteries for my Gameboy 'cos I'm having a sweet Tetris run and they come once a lifetime. Not only does he lose all the change I gave him, he gets his head stuck in a drain. Ewan's running around crying again and it's clear this isn't working out. I turn to Ewan who has instantaneously calmed down and is doing some cartwheels and after a quick conference we decide to sell the little guy.

It all went pretty smoothly. Once we got him out of the drain a band of free range plumbers arrived to do a task we had already completed. Luck would have it they were looking for a fundamentalist to read bedtime stories to their taps. So tuppence changed hands and that was that. Me and Ewan got our French fries and a warehouse of taps got a good nights sleep.

Ewan Stole My Jelly Babies

I'm so sick of this damn tour. Sick I tell you. First we get a flat tyre outside reading and Ewan nobbled one of his wooden legs trying to change it so we had to spend three weeks in a hospital waiting room because he wasn't deemed 'Critical'. The Nurse was all like, "Yeah but his brain is functioning, he hasn't lost any blood and he isn't in any pain." I said, "You've been watching to much damn ER and that this isn't Chicago, it's Reading so sort it. And as for the pain." At which point I sucker punched Ewan in his mouth hole and he exploded into a haze of flowers. Although that might have been due to the oxygen I pinched from this old geezer Ralph who has face syphilis, because when I looked down there was blood on my tuxedo.

That's not the worst of it. When we get back to the steak wagon Ewan was so doped up on pain killers and cheese that I had to don the apron and serve up some fresh cuts while he was curled up in the corner having delightful nightmares.

Then out of the blue, Mrs. Bubble turns up wearing a Jeremy Beadle t-shirt, waving a flag saying she is our biggest fan. Now I'm all for groupies but the thought of a naked Bubble shakes the spine. So I tell her to go get me some Jelly Babies and we'll call it quits.

So if the day isn't odd enough to begin with, I finally find Ewan has woken up and is sat out the back on an upturned petrol can reading a gymnastics book. Which is pretty sweet because Ewan has one of those memory things where he can replicate things after seeing them. He shows me how to pull off a mean handstand while he does a few somersaults but because he's still doped up he gets dizzy and throws up all over the gravel.

Now this is where things get fucky. I can't help but notice that amongst the bits of cheese and sick goo there are little jelly heads floating about. I'm like, "WHAT THE FUCK!" He doesn't even have an answer but I can see it in his spaced out eyes what's going on so there is nothing for it and I have to break his jaw again, but this time there aren't any flowers, there's only pain.

I feel so betrayed, and just so you can feel my sympathy let me tell you how much I love Jelly Babies. Right, I LOVE JELLY BABIES! They are awesome, I've been scoffing them for well over twenty five years and they still rock. So when I am promised some Jelly Babies and all I get is a somersault and some sick, I'm getting Hulk on that shit. I can't help it; it's more of a disease than anything. I just see the red musk and by then it's too late. Even still, Ewan knew what would happen. He knows I'd never steal his pickled onion Monster Munch so his jaw was fair game.

So I'm back in the hospital and the Nurse is getting all sarky so I'm keeping an eye out for Ralph and his oxygen tank while Ewan gets his bones replaced. I've had to book an appointment because the other day my face starts aching and I've got a huge rash on my chin. Now I'm no scientist, (Despite the four years I spent at CERN) but I'm pretty sure this is not what happens when you go on a self-pitying Jelly binge. Wait, gotta go Ralph's just staggered in and he's all drunk so I'm just gonna pinch some of his oxygen and play Tetris. It's so cool, I modded up my Gameboy so it can use the Internet as well.

Hospitals aren't so bad really, the Nurse just slipped on some of Ewan's babbling.

Ciao. (That's how you spell it correctly Ewan, you dumb fuck)

Watch Out, Beadle's About, Ooh Yeah

That's right Beadle's About, he's doing some beyond the grave shit. I was checking out the local RSPCA shop for towels and found this old Best of Beadle VHS. So I snapped that up for a mean 25p and rushed back to the studio.

It took me about three weeks but I managed to isolate all the sound waves from the Beadle's About theme and shove them into a brain mix to come up with the most funked up television theme tune remix of all time.

I bitch bummed it onto a CD and took it down to the local carboot sale to try it out. No joke, it went down like a flaming sack of shit. Everyone was tapping their feet until they were alight. Even the guy with the microphone selling the tea towels had to sit down and crack open a pack of his own wet wipes, and I could see Ewan up in his butcher's wagon head banging so hard he smashed up his eyelids on a fresh batch of Cumberland sausages.

There was even this one bloke crying his tears out and getting all nostalgic. I think he was lovers with dear Jeremy at one point. Amidst the blubbing I think he said that the moment he knew it was love was when Jeremy Beadle magicked him up a jelly bean and a long line of handkerchiefs, but at the same time he had to see his gnarly Beadle hand and knew it couldn't be. He blubbed that having foetus fingers was a turn off because it gave him flash backs of the womb where his mum used to smoke on cigarettes and yell the lyrics to 'Going Underground' at him. I've never seen a man so broken and that's without his wheelchair. Which did have a sweet bag for life swung over the back so cock knows what he's crying for.

Anyway, the plan is for me and Ewan to go on tour with the track and rock up some local fetes and the odd planning committee or two. We're gonna use Ewan's butching wagon because it has some sleeping space under the shrimps but mainly because my car bonnet got crushed by some rancid bird shit. Plus the wagon has this sweetnip sound system I installed so we can yell out all the steak offers.

Yeah, so we are going on the road with the Beadle Remix, catch you on the news fans.

This Guy Called Ewan (He's My Butcher)

I was chillin' out with Ewan down at his shop this morning. Nothing interesting, just knocking back a few beers and talking about BBGuns when he tells me about this blog he started. I'm like, 'What the guts is a blog?' Bitch says it's a digital diary. So of course I'm straight down to Mike's so he can hook me up with a stolen laptop and some french fries.

I get back to Ewan's just as he has finished chopping the face off a pig for Mrs. Bubble (it's how she likes it). I strut in with my new laptop and yell at her to leave so Ewan I can get some fucking writing done then BAM!! the laptops on the counter and I'm logging onto the Interweb with some of Ewan's best ham in one hand, and some fries in the other.

So far so good then Ewan tells me that his leg has snapped. It happens all the fucking time. See Ewan has two wooden legs but because he is a 'traditionalist' he won't get metal ones. So every fortnight he has to chisel himself up some new walking sticks, BAM!! I'm shittin' out jokes like a foghorn.

It was a dilemma, after I'd emailed us up an ambulance he asks me to mind the shop. What would you do? I'm like, 'Dude, no can do, I'm trying out this blogging guff.' Then he gets pissy. I mean it's not like he needed a kidney. Again. Fucker's already had both of mine. So I'm trying to write this whatever it's called, a pust or something and simultaneously trying to serve all these jackaninnys who keep getting in the way. That Bitch Bubble is back saying she can still see a bit of snout and I'm like deal with it, I've got some sexy lettering to share with the universe. That put her in her place.

So yeah, Ewan's still down at the NHS carving himself up a new foot and I'm chillin' out with some beers and a couple of dead pigs. Startin' to get the hang of this blogging nonsense. It's pretty cool, pretty neat. It might give me a break from mixing up tunes, I've got my decks out next to the black pudding but I'm not feeling the rhythms today.

Go check out Ewan's blog as well, it's pretty sweet.

http://ewanssexpalace.blogspot.com/

Laterz