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